Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (2 page)
Read Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery Online
Authors: Denise Swanson
Special hugs to my fellow Deadly Divas, the Windy City Chapter of RWA, and the TeaBuds.
Also, to Mark Dosier, welcome to the family.
In July of 2000, when the first book,
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
, was published in my Scumble River series, it was written in “real time.” It was the year 2000 in Skye’s life as well as mine, but after several books in a series, time becomes a problem. It takes me from seven months to a year to write a book, and then it is usually another year from the time I turn that book into my editor until the reader sees it on a bookstore shelf. This can make the timeline confusing. Different authors handle this matter in different ways. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided that Skye and her friends and family will age more slowly than those of us who don’t live in Scumble River. Although I made this decision while writing the fourth book in the series,
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
, I didn’t realize until now that I needed to share this information with my readers. So to catch everyone up, the following is when the books take place.
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
—August 2000
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
—March 2001
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
—April 2002
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
—August 2002
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
—November 2002
Murder of a Pink Elephant
—February 2003
Murder of a Smart Cookie
—June 2003
The Scumble River short story and novella take place:
“Not a Monster of a Chance” June 2001
“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales” March 2003
Chapter 2: Truth or Consequences
Chapter 7: Mission: Impossible
Chapter 8: Survivor: Scumble River
Chapter 9: Car 54, Where Are You?
Chapter 14: Search for Tomorrow
Chapter 15: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.
Chapter 23: Saturday Night Live
Although there is a vase named
Curtain of the Night,
Curtain of the Dawn
exists only in my imagination.
Scumble River is not a real town. The characters
and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional,
and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.
C
ookie Caldwell died the third Sunday in August, and the Scumble River First Annual Route 66 Yard Sale almost died with her. She had lived in town only a few years, and no one seemed to really know her. This isolation would suggest that no one would have a reason to murder her, but obviously that supposition would be incorrect.
Cookie’s death raised a lot of questions. Two of the most puzzling ones were what was she doing at the Denison/Leofanti booth in the middle of the night, and how did a piece of jewelry manage to kill her?
For the next week, until the crime was solved, these questions were asked over and over again on the TV news, while a picture of Cookie stuffed into Grandma Denison’s old Art Deco liquor cabinet, one hand thrust out as if she had tried to claw her way to freedom, flickered on the screen.
Heartland TV had been on location taping a program about the Route 66 Yard Sale and thus were able to get exclusive footage of the postdiscovery activities. While the other news stations managed to get a shot of Cookie’s body, Heartland’s film clip included a group of locals
who were ignoring the dead woman and arguing amongst themselves. It was not an attractive depiction of the citizens of Scumble River, Illinois. It was an especially unflattering portrayal of its mayor, Dante Leofanti.
Leofanti’s niece, Skye Denison, didn’t look much better. Playing tug-of-war with her uncle over Cookie’s purse was not the image she aspired to project as the town’s school psychologist.
Even though her profession had nothing to do with her involvement in the mess being broadcasted via HTV into homes across the Midwest, the reporters tended to play up her occupation in their stories. That, and the fact that she had solved several of Scumble River’s previous murder cases.
If the journalists had dug a little deeper, they would have discovered that it wasn’t Skye’s full-time job but how she spent her summer vacation that had gotten her into the purse-wrestling predicament. However, the media tended to focus on the here and now, even though the real story had started nearly eight weeks before, after Skye had already lost two summer jobs and been forced to accept a third.
The first loss of employment occurred because of geese with loose bowels and poor toilet habits, and the second because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Too bad that the only job she could hang onto came with a dead body attached to it.
Skye stood next to her new boss, Cookie Caldwell, as the proprietor of Cookie’s Collectibles carefully examined a ceramic vase. When Cookie turned it over, Skye leaned down to see the words inscribed on the bottom: “Curtain of the Dawn.”
Alma Griggs, the elderly woman on the other side of the counter, twisted the cracked handles of her white patent leather handbag while she anxiously watched Cookie inspect every inch of the vase’s surface, then repeat the process with the interior. Finally the old lady offered, “Mr. Griggs bought that for me in Texas on our honeymoon in 1932.”
Skye did a quick calculation—even if Mrs. Griggs was married at eighteen that would make her eighty-nine years old. Skye snuck a peek at the woman. There was no sign of frailty. Mrs. Griggs was nearly the same height as Skye, about five-seven, and even at thirty pounds lighter, she was a solidly built woman. Her white hair was worn in a braided crown on top of her head, and her jewelry consisted of a necklace of red plastic raspberries with matching earrings and bracelet.
Cookie interrupted Skye’s inspection of Mrs. Griggs by placing the vase on the counter and saying, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for it. It is in good shape for its age, but unfortunately there’s not a lot of call for this style around here.”
“Only five hundred?” The older woman’s shoulders slumped under the calico print of her cotton dress. “But Mr. Griggs always told me it was very valuable, and I need at least three thousand to pay the taxes on my house this year.”
Skye impulsively reached out and patted her blue-veined hand. “Maybe he meant sentimental value.”
Cookie nodded approvingly at Skye and ran a fingertip caressingly around the vase’s metal rim. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Griggs, but the market isn’t very strong right now, and I’ll probably have to hold on to the vase for quite a while before I find a buyer.”
“I need to think about it.” Mrs. Griggs packed the vase back into its box. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here tomorrow, but I’ll leave a check with my assistant.” Cookie walked the older lady to the door and watched it shut behind her before returning to where Skye stood. “If she doesn’t come back by closing tomorrow, I want you to call her and persuade her to sell that vase to me.”
“Me? Why? I’ve only worked here for two weeks,” Skye stammered. “You didn’t seem all that interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested, alright.” Cookie smiled thinly and smoothed her ash blond chignon. “I just don’t want her to know that I’m interested.”
Skye frowned. “You’ve offered Mrs. Griggs a fair price, haven’t you?”
Cookie shrugged. “‘Fair’ is such a relative word.” She toyed with the sapphire ring on her left hand. “Anyway, that’s not your concern.”
“But why do you want me to call? Wouldn’t it be better for you to talk to her? I’m not sure what to say.”
“You are a psychologist, aren’t you?” The store owner narrowed her cool blue eyes. “I’m sure you’ll think of something soothing to tell our Mrs. Griggs. I don’t care if you have to hypnotize her. Just get that vase.”
Skye cringed. Too many folks seemed to think her degree in school psychology gave her magic powers. If that were the case, would she still be working for the Scumble River School District? And would she have to take a summer job as a shop assistant to make ends meet?
Before Skye could explain the limits of a school psychologist’s abilities, Cookie glanced at her watch and said, “It’s nearly noon.” She made an impatient face. “I have to attend that luncheon for local business owners at city hall. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Last winter the new mayor, Skye’s uncle Dante Leofanti, had come up with a scheme to get people off the highway and onto the state roads, thus bringing tourists—and their dollars—through Scumble River rather than allowing them to bypass the town while zooming by on Interstate 55. He
had convinced the officials of other Illinois communities also situated along the famous Route 66 to co-sponsor a hundred-mile-long yard sale. The sale was now less than eight weeks away, and the purpose of the business lunch Cookie would attend was to bring the movers and shakers up to speed on the current status of plans for the event.
After her boss left, Skye stood behind the counter of the empty store and looked around. Unlike many antique or collectible shops in the area, this one was beautifully arranged, with the merchandise grouped into inviting tableaux. There was plenty of room to walk around, and everything was bright and clean.
Growing bored with the inside of the store, Skye turned her attention to the front window. The early-June sun glinted off the windshields of cars parked along Basin Street, Scumble River’s main drag. Other than the empty road, there wasn’t much to see. Her view was limited to Ye Olde Junque Emporium, on the opposite corner from Cookie’s Collectibles, which didn’t seem to be doing much business either. Or maybe it wasn’t open. Much of downtown had taken to closing on Mondays due to the lack of customers.
Skye was glad her boss hadn’t decided to follow that trend. Not that she enjoyed standing around, bored out of her mind, but she needed the money, especially now that the owners of her rental cottage had decided to sell it. Skye had to either come up with an offer to buy or move out.
All in all, this was not turning out to be a good summer. Skye had lost her usual summer job because of goose poop. The Scumble River Recreation Club, where she had worked the past few years as a lifeguard, had been forced to shut down its beach when an invasion of geese polluted the swimming area. Who knew that bird shit could be so toxic?
As she stood idle, Skye’s thoughts returned to Alma Griggs. She had felt an immediate kinship with the older woman, almost a sense of déjà vu, as if they’d had a relationship in another life. That connection, and something about Cookie’s desire for Mrs. Griggs’s vase, nagged at her. Skye wondered how much it was really worth. She checked her watch. It was only twelve-thirty; her boss wouldn’t be back for at least another ninety minutes, maybe more.
Skye moved closer to the window and looked both ways down the sidewalk. The coast was clear. She spun around and headed toward Cookie’s office. It was small but exquisitely decorated in a style that reminded Skye of a Victorian lady’s parlor. An ornately carved walnut settee, upholstered in moss green velvet, faced a delicate porcelain-inlaid writing table that served as a desk.
A bookcase full of reference books stood against the far wall. Skye moved a gilt chair out of her way and scanned the shelves. She selected a couple of volumes on ceramics and quickly returned to the sales counter.
Half an hour later, Skye was still trying to find an example of Mrs. Griggs’s vase. Since she didn’t know what to look under, the index was useless, and she was forced to go through the book page by page.
She finally found the vase in the section on art pottery. It was one of a series made by Frank Klepper, a Dallas-based artist who worked in ceramics during the early 1930s. A similar vase,
Curtain of the Night
, had been sold at auction a couple of years ago for eight thousand dollars.
Before Skye could assimilate the fact that her boss was about to cheat a little old lady out of thousands of dollars, the bell above the front door tinkled and a high, thin voice called out, “I’m back.”
Skye’s heart stopped for a quarter second, until she recognized the returnee as Mrs. Griggs, not Cookie. Then her pulse started to pound at double speed when she realized she had to decide immediately whether or not to tell the woman about Cookie’s deception.
Mrs. Griggs came up to the counter and asked, “Could I see Miss Caldwell, please?”
