Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (20 page)

When the sheriff returned from interrogating May, Skye told him about the sword, leaving out the part that this was the sword Cookie had hit her with. No way was she giving him more reason to think she or her family were the killers.

He seemed less than impressed with her brilliant observation, but finally as the grandfather clock in the hall bonged three a.m., he allowed Skye and her mother to go home. They were once again told not to leave town.

Jed was snoring in his chair when they walked in, and there were no messages on the answering machine. It looked as if no one had found out yet about their night’s activities—a stroke of luck Skye was grateful for.

They parted at their bedroom doors. Skye stripped off her damp clothes and struggled into her nightgown, then slid wearily between the sheets.

“Skye, wake up!”

A hand shook her shoulder roughly, and she shot out of bed. “What? What’s happened?”

“You have to do something!” Dante glared at her. “We can’t have people thinking there’s a serial killer loose. The yard sale will be ruined.”

She swept her hair out of her face and squinted at the clock. It was six a.m. She groaned and tried to climb back under the covers.

Dante gripped her upper arm and wouldn’t let her lie down. “No. You have to fix things.”

“Get out of my bedroom or I’ll scream.”

“Jesus H. Christ, I’ve seen you naked.” Dante threw his hands into the air. “Olive used to change your diapers.”

At least he hadn’t claimed he had been the diaper changer. “How did you find out? I thought the sheriff said he would try and keep her murder a secret, let people think she died of natural causes.”

“Your mother called me.”

“Shit!” Skye rubbed her eyes. She should have warned May not to do that, but she’d thought the sheriff’s order to keep their mouths shut would be enough. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“Find the murderer. Keep the media from blowing this out of proportion. And make sure people feel safe.”

“Shall I build a replica of the Taj Mahal while I’m at it? Or maybe part the waters of Scumble River?”

“If you have time, be my guest. But first find out who killed Cookie Caldwell and Alma Griggs. Remember, if the yard sale fails, no bonus.” Dante turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, adding over his shoulder, “Report to me this afternoon with your progress.”

Skye saluted her uncle by putting her thumb to her nose and wiggling her fingers, then lay back down to return to sleep. But the events of the last few days kept gnawing at her. Abruptly it hit her—two people were dead. The tears she had been holding back since discovering Mrs. Griggs’s body flowed.

She pulled the covers over her head, hoping May wouldn’t hear her sobs. Skye didn’t want to be comforted or have to explain her grief. Besides, she knew she’d end up being the one who had to suck up her emotions and comfort her mother. She had always been the strong one in the family, and she doubted things would change anytime soon.

It shocked Skye that she couldn’t stop crying. Cookie’s death had been bad, but it had somehow seemed surreal, either because of the frantic pace of the yard sale or because the woman herself had kept aloof and never chosen to become a part of the town.

But Alma Griggs had been an active member of Scumble River society for more than eighty years. Whoever had killed her had not only taken her life; he or she had robbed the town of a vital part of the community.

Despite the huge difference in their ages, Skye had sensed a connection with Mrs. Griggs. Skye didn’t believe for a minute that she was Mrs. Griggs’s reincarnated daughter, but it hadn’t seemed strange when the older woman had sought out her help. In fact, it had felt right, like Trixie coming to her for a favor.

Well, the favor had just gotten bigger. Skye wiped the tears from her face with the edge of the sheet and threw back the covers. She would find out who had murdered the two women. Not because Dante had ordered her to, or because she would lose the bonus if she didn’t, but because she owed it to Mrs. Griggs. And maybe she owed it to Cookie, too, for not trying harder to understand her.

It was Wednesday—halfway through the yard sale. Only four more days to go. At this point the event was running itself, and except for a couple of inspection tours through the booths during the day, Skye’s work was nearly over. Unless, of course, the media latched on to Mrs. Griggs’s
murder. Then all bets were off. Meanwhile, she would use the time to find the killer.

After Skye had dressed and eaten breakfast, she called Justin’s mother. Mrs. Boward reported that he was still missing, but the police had been out looking for him.

Skye briefly considered calling Wally or joining the search herself, but she reluctantly decided there was nothing she could do. She and Trixie had looked everywhere and talked to everyone they could think of yesterday. She was desperately worried about Justin, but could figure out no way to help.

Instead, Skye headed to the city hall. If she could do nothing for Justin, she wanted to be alone, to sit and think about how to approach the murder investigation. Because whether the sheriff liked it or not, she was going to find out what was going on.

In a way, finding a killer was like a referral she would get in her job as a school psychologist. She needed to figure out the stimulus behind someone’s behavior. What was the cause? Was it something environmental, or a need that hadn’t been fulfilled, or was the person getting some reward from his or her actions?

She settled behind her desk and pulled a legal pad out of the drawer. Where should she start? If this were a case study evaluation she had been assigned at school, she would start with the referral questions. So, what were they?

For several minutes Skye tapped her pen against the paper. Usually the teachers or the parents wrote the questions. She was not routinely involved in this part of the process. Finally she wrote:

1. Who were Cookie’s friends? Did she have a boyfriend?
   
2. How did the murderer get Mrs. Griggs’s pin?
   
3. How did the murderer get the sword from Cookie’s store?
   
4. What does anyone gain from either woman’s death?
   
5.  
   

Skye frowned at the blank after the number five. She knew there was something else she should ask, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Giving up, she drew a huge question mark and went on.

Now that she had the referral questions, she needed to figure out how to answer them. If this were a true case study evaluation, this would be where she decided what tests to give. But she didn’t think even the Rorschach could determine a murderer, no matter what a person said they saw in those inkblots.

She flipped the page over and stared at the fresh yellow sheet. This was not good. She had no idea how to start getting answers. Maybe she needed some caffeine.

As she rooted through her purse looking for change for the soda machine, the phone rang. She picked it up without thinking and then was sorry she hadn’t let the call go to the answering machine. With her luck it would be a reporter. “Skye Denison. May I help you?”

“Yes. You can tell me why the heck you didn’t call me and tell me about finding Mrs. Griggs dead last night,” Trixie demanded. “Was it old age?”

“Mine or hers?” Skye retorted. Then after swearing her friend to secrecy, she explained what had happened, concluding with, “So, then Dante woke me at the crack of dawn demanding I find out who the murderer is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m approaching it like a school psych referral.” Skye fished out two quarters from the bottom of her purse. “I’ve written out the questions. Now I just have to figure out how to answer them.”

“Read me the questions.”

After Skye had finished, Trixie said, “I know who you should talk to about the first one.”

“Who?”

“My annoying boarder.”

“The antique picker?” Skye asked. “Why?”

“He knew Cookie from the city, and I think he did some business with her here as well.”

“That’s interesting. How do you know?”

“I heard him on the phone.” Trixie’s voice dropped. “He seems to be friends with that guy in charge of the TV program.”

“Nick Jarvis?”

“Yep, that’s the one. I think he knew Cookie, too.”

“Wow. I wonder if the sheriff is aware of any of this.” Skye let the coins slide from her fingers and picked up the pen, writing down the men’s names under the heading “Suspects.” “Is Lapp at your house now?”

“No. He left right after breakfast to go over to Odell and Pontiac. The first morning he was here, he explained at great length his method for handling this type of sale. He said he does two sections a day, and then will do a final sweep on the weekend. He’s convinced people have been saving all their best stuff and will put it out on Saturday.”

“I don’t think my family is saving anything in particular. They’re just putting out things as other merchandise sells and there’s room for it.”

“Well, he’s really paranoid.” Trixie giggled. “He sneaks his buys into the house, and he’s afraid someone will see what he’s purchased.”

“Have you peeked?”

“Not really.” Trixie’s tone was innocent. “But when I was making up his room a couple of days ago, I did
accidentally
pull the blanket off of the pile, and I did notice a few items.”

“What does he collect?”

“Vintage clothes and old jewelry mostly.”

“What kind of old jewelry?” Skye asked.

“Gee, I don’t know.” Trixie paused. “Like you’d see in your grandmother’s jewelry box.”

“Anything else?”

“Some canes and swords.”

Skye’s interest sharpened. If Montgomery Lapp collected both jewelry and swords, maybe there was a connection with the murders. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” She had to talk to him as soon as possible.

“He usually rolls in around three or four and demands Earl Grey tea and homemade cookies.”

“Great. I’ll be there at three. You don’t mind another guest for tea, do you?”

“Would Watson turn down Sherlock Holmes?” Trixie asked. “See you men.”

After hanging up the phone, Skye checked her watch. It was only ten. She couldn’t just sit around and wait for Montgomery Lapp to get back. What should she do?

She glanced down at her notes. Ah, Nick Jarvis. In her excitement about Lapp’s collecting habits, she had almost forgotten that the TV producer might have known Cookie, too. How could she find him?

She closed her eyes and concentrated, then smiled. Of course. She’d simply do her morning inspection tour. She was bound to run into the camera crew, unless they had gone to one of the other sale sites. Skye suddenly frowned. Or unless Nick had left town after murdering Mrs. Griggs.

T
hankfully, there seemed to be only local media interest in Mrs. Griggs’s death. Skye had fielded one call from Kathy Steele, the owner of the
Scumble River Star
, who had heard about Skye’s discovery of the body but not that Mrs. Griggs had been murdered. Skye did not enlighten her.

Now, as she threaded her golf cart through the crowds, no one asked her any questions or thrust any microphones in her face. Still, journalists seemed to be a lot like pimples, popping up when you least expected them, and about as welcome. Sheriff Peterson hadn’t revealed the cause of Mrs. Griggs’s death, and right now few people were even aware it was murder and not just old age, but eventually someone would figure it out.

As Skye passed the corner where the Cookie’s Collectible tables had stood, she was surprised to see activity. It hadn’t occurred to her, although it made sense that someone had to either pack up the booth or run it.

She pulled the golf cart over to the curb and hopped out. Who had taken over Cookie’s business? Skye’s eyes widened as she spotted Kirby Tucker behind the tables. What was the TV writer doing there?

It took a while to make her way through the browsers, but Skye finally reached the front. She motioned for Kirby to come over, then stood waiting for the young man to finish with the customer he was helping.

When Kirby approached her, she said, “Hi. I’m surprised to see you here. What’s up?”

“I have no idea. Nick ordered Jody and me to take turns selling this stuff.”

“That’s odd. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do what the producer tells me to.”

“Do you know where I can find Nick?”

“He might be at the cottage,” Kirby offered. “We were supposed to do a segment at some old lady’s house today, but we got word this morning
that she’d croaked, and I don’t think anything else is scheduled until tonight.”

“Alma Griggs?” Skye demanded. “Was that the woman whose house you were going to?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

Skye ignored his question, her thoughts racing. What was going on here? All of a sudden Nick is taking over Cookie’s business, and the TV crew was supposed to tape at Mrs. Griggs’s. This couldn’t be a coincidence.

After telling Kirby good-bye, Skye returned to the city hall and retrieved her car. It was time to pay Nick Jarvis a visit.

It seemed strange to pull into her own driveway as a guest. Skye felt a flash of annoyance at finding her usual parking spot occupied by Faith’s Porsche. As she rang the bell, she wondered how much damage the celebrity and the TV crew had already inflicted on her poor cottage.