Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (22 page)

Skye slowly got up and walked toward the swearing. She really, really, really didn’t want to have this conversation with her father, but things didn’t seem to be getting any better between her parents, and she felt compelled to try to help.

Chocolate, Jed’s Lab, was curled up asleep in a patch of sunshine on the concrete apron in front of the open double door. He opened one eye when Skye approached, then got up and padded over to her as she stood at her father’s feet.

Jed’s work boots were the only visible part of him as he was lying on a dolly underneath Bunny’s 1984 red Chevy Camaro. Like its owner, it had seen better days, and what had once been a hot ride was now showing signs of age and hard use.

Skye petted the dog and waited until there was a pause in Jed’s cursing before saying, “Got a minute, Dad?” She had been taught as a child not to bother her father when he was working, and even now that she was an adult, it felt wrong to interrupt him.

The sound of metal grinding against metal was followed by Jed’s bellow. “Son of a B!” A moment later he wheeled himself out from under the car and squinted in Skye’s general direction, as she stood haloed in the bright sunshine. He then heaved himself to his feet. “Ma send you?”

“No, but I want to talk to you about her.”

Jed took a rag from his back pocket and started wiping the grease from his hands. “What about her?”

Skye frowned. He wasn’t making this easy. “She’s really upset with you.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Maybe. Do you really want to risk it?”

Jed ignored her question and walked over to an old fridge in the back of the garage. He opened it and took out a bottle of Budweiser. “You want a pop?”

“Sure.” Skye smiled inwardly, wondering what it would take for her father to actually offer her a beer. Not that she liked beer, but his offering it would mean he acknowledged that she had grown up.

He snapped open the top of a Mr. Pibb and handed it to her. Skye frowned at the can. The only person she knew who drank this brand was
Bunny. Even though the garage was technically hers, or at least belonged to the bowling alley, the fridge being stocked with her preferred soda wasn’t a good sign. Skye couldn’t imagine a reason Bunny would spend much time out here if it weren’t for Jed’s company.

Skye’s anxiety increased a notch, and when she noticed a couple of lawn chairs with a small white plastic table between them set up on the side, it went up another degree. Things were looking way too cozy for her comfort level.

She sat in one of the chairs, and after a brief hesitation her father dropped into the other. Chocolate settled at his side, and Jed’s free hand automatically started to scratch behind the canine’s ears.

Jed took a swig of Budweiser and said, “There’s nothing for your ma to get herself in such a state about.”

Skye shrugged. “Maybe not, but she is.”

Jed slowly considered Skye’s answer, then asked, “So, what should I do?”

Skye looked at her father petting his dog and sighed. This was Jed at his happiest—a car that needs fixing, a dog at his feet, and a beer in his hand. How could she tell him he was wrong? She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. She had to tell him; she was afraid he would lose his wife if she didn’t.

“You have to finish up whatever you’re doing and not come back here.” Skye deliberately made her words vague enough to apply to many different states of affairs.

“I’m waiting for a part. Should be here by Friday or Saturday, then I’ll be through.”

Skye wanted to scream or at least shock him with the business end of a cattle prod. He just didn’t realize how serious the problem was, and obviously she was not conveying the urgency of the situation. “What would happen if you just walked away right now, today?”

Jed was silent. He stared at his calloused, oil-stained hands as they dangled between his knees. When he lifted his head, he said, “Wouldn’t be right to leave a job half finished. It’ll be done by Saturday or Sunday.”

Skye nodded, knowing there was nothing more she could say that might change his mind. Once Jed made a commitment, he was as difficult to move as the lid on a jar of caramel sauce.

They both got up. Jed threw his empty bottle into the cut-off oil drum that served as a garbage can. Skye poured the rest of her Mr. Pibb out on the lawn before following suit. The soda was just too sweet for her.

She felt awkward as she stood in the open garage door next to her father, both of them having run out of words. Finally she kissed him on the cheek and said, “See you tonight, Dad.”

“Yep.” He lightly socked her in the arm. “Know what your ma’s cooking for dinner?”

“Your goose if you don’t straighten things out pretty darn soon,” Skye muttered as she started across the alley toward her golf cart.

Skye pulled into Trixie’s driveway at three-thirty, pleased to see a blue BMW X5 with vanity plates reading LAPOLXY. Trixie had said that Montgomery Lapp’s business was called Lapp of Luxury, and that he drove an SUV Beamer, so odds were he was back from his daily foraging.

She took a minute to comb her hair and put on fresh lipstick before getting out of the Bel Air. Trixie’s description of Montgomery Lapp’s personality convinced her that this was not the time to neglect good grooming habits. As an added measure, she sprayed on some Chanel No. 5.

She was glad she had dressed in nice khaki slacks and a black polo shirt with the words “First Annual Route 66 Yard Sale” embroidered in white above her left breast, rather than her usual shorts and T-shirt. Lapp sounded a little intimidating.

Trixie must have been watching for her, because as Skye got out of her car she came running from the backyard, motioning for Skye to follow her.

“I thought it’d be a good idea for you to come in through the kitchen. It’ll seem more casual that way.” Once they were behind the house standing at the back door, Trixie said, “Monty just got back a few minutes ago. He’s in his room cleaning up, but he should be down for refreshments soon.”

“Great.” Skye followed her friend into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively. “Something smells delicious. Have you been baking?”

“I made Snickerdoodles and brownies.” Trixie bustled around assembling a tea tray. “Can you grab the creamer from the fridge?”

Skye wondered if the fact that Trixie had baked Owen’s favorite cookies meant they were getting along better.

Before she could ask, Trixie provided an answer. “Don’t let me forget to give you the rest of the Snickerdoodles before you leave. I want Owen to smell them, but not get any.”

“No progress on that front, huh?”

“No. He’s as stubborn as baked-on grease at the bottom of an old casserole dish, and he refuses to apologize.”

“Have you asked him to?” Skye asked.

“No.”

“Have you told him what you’re mad at yet?”

“No. He should be able to figure that out for himself.” Trixie blew her bangs from her eyes and added the finishing touch to the tray, a small crystal vase containing a few sprays of minature peach gladioli. “Before we decided to run a bed-and-breakfast for the yard sale, we talked about how much work taking people in for this week would be, and he agreed to do his share. But now that we have their money and they’re here, he leaves the whole thing on my shoulders and tells me the cows are more important than I am. He’d have to be pretty dense not to know why I’m mad.” Trixie picked up the tea tray and walked toward the kitchen door.

Skye opened it and followed Trixie through the dining room and down the hall. She had a bad feeling that Owen had no idea what he had done to tick off his wife, and unless someone told him, this was another marriage that might implode over a lack of communication.

She just hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to talk to him. It was bad enough having to have mat kind of conversation with her dad. She couldn’t even picture herself explaining things to Owen. He was an extremely private person, and the whole situation would be beyond awkward.

Skye hurried to catch up with Trixie in the parlor and was just in time to see her set the tea tray on the table in front of a tall, slim man already ensconced on the settee.

He sprawled across the cushions, reminding Skye of a character from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. His shoulder-length black hair flowed over the back of the seat, and his fair skin magnified the navy blue of his eyes. He held his pose for several seconds, then straightened and nodded at Trixie, shooting an inquisitive glance at Skye.

Trixie settled into the wing chair facing the sofa, and after Skye took the matching seat Trixie said, “Monty, this is my friend Skye Denison. Skye, this is Montgomery Lapp, our visitor from Chicago.”

Skye stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Monty. I hope you’re enjoying our sale.”

“Yes, I am.” He limply squeezed three of her fingers. “I’ve found some really yummy things. I had no idea you people had so many treasures down here.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice dramatically. “In fact, I was led to believe there was only schlock.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “People from the city often underestimate us. Appearances can be deceiving.”

Monty nodded, his expression droll. “That’s so true. I was driving up I-57 from Missouri and came across a town called Arcola, then a
community named Tuscola. I was sure the next one would be Coca-Cola, but instead I got Champaign.”

Skye laughed politely at his witticism, then said to Trixie, while continuing to focus on Monty, “Shall I be Mother?” Trixie looked confused, and Skye explained. “I mean, shall I pour the tea?”

Trixie nodded.

“Lemon or milk?” Skye asked. She had deliberately used the British expression, figuring Monty to be an Anglophile. Her ex-fiancé’s mother had been fond of that affectation, and she wanted to emphasize to Monty that Scumble River was not the backwater he obviously thought it was.

After the tea and sweets had been handed round, the threesome settled back to chat.

Skye asked, “How were today’s pickings?”

“Not bad.” Monty smiled enigmatically. “I don’t like to discuss my finds.”

Trixie shot Skye a look that said, “I told you so.”

“I understand. It’s always best to be cautious,” Skye said. “Until I became yard sale coordinator, I hadn’t been around many collectors, but since the sale started I’ve seen some really appalling behavior.”

“You’re the coordinator?” Monty’s look sharpened. “I’ll bet you know where all the good stuff is hidden away.”

“Well …” Skye didn’t, but she thought it might be a smart idea to let Monty think she did.

“You can tell me. I can keep a secret. No one would ever have to know you told me.”

As he talked, an idea occurred to her. “Sorry to say, most of the really good stuff isn’t even being displayed. It’s still in the old folks’ houses.” Skye held her breath. Would he bite?

Trixie cringed slightly, but didn’t say anything.

Monty took a sip of his tea and agreed. “Isn’t that the truth.”

“It’s too bad I couldn’t convince some of them to set up a table.”

“What a shame.” Monty shook his head. “Especially the really old ones with no family. It’s not as if they have anyone to leave their antiques to. The state will just auction them off when they die.”

Skye decided to go a little farther. “In fact, I knew one lady in her eighties who had a houseful of valuables and needed the money, and I still couldn’t get her to show the stuff.”

“I heard about someone like mat in Scumble River. Was her name Griggs?

“Yes.” Skye feigned surprise. “Who told you about Mrs. Griggs?”

“Cook—” He broke off abruptly and a flush crept up his cheeks.

“Cookie Caldwell?” Skye closed in for the kill. “You knew Cookie?”

Trixie had been watching the action as if she was at a play, but now she joined in the conversation. “I wondered why you were so interested in her murder.”

“Interested? Me?” Suddenly there were sweat stains under the arms of Monty’s silk shirt.

“You always knew little tidbits of information about the case before they became general knowledge,” Trixie added. “How did you do that?”

“One hears things, as one is out among the sellers.” Monty took a gulp of tea and choked, dribbling the brown liquid down his elaborately embroidered vest. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Trixie replied. “I’m asking you how you knew that Cookie was murdered with a piece of jewelry before the sheriff released that information to the public.”

“I told you, I heard people talking.” His manner of speaking had lost much of its haughty inflection.

“Who?” Trixie asked.

“How am I supposed to know? They were probably locals. How would I know their names?” He looked to Skye for help, but she kept her face expressionless.

“What were they selling?” Trixie wasn’t letting him off the hook.

“I don’t remember.”

“Really?” Disbelief was thick in Trixie’s voice. “I thought you told me that after the first day you had the whole sale mapped out in your mind, that you had a photographic memory. Or did you forget to take the lens cap off?”

“I … uh … well, that is …”

Skye watched him struggle for a few minutes, then said, “Maybe you don’t remember what they were selling because they weren’t vendors.”

“That’s it. I must have heard the bits about Cookie’s murder from someone who wasn’t selling anything.” He shot Trixie a triumphant look.

“Right,” Skye said, enjoying her role as good cop. “In fact, I’ll bet they didn’t have anything to do with the sale at all.”

“Uh, maybe.” Monty’s expression was half smile, half frown.

“You know who I think you heard the information from?” Skye asked in a deceptively pleasant tone.

“No.” His voice quavered the tiniest bit.

“I think you heard it from one of the TV people.” Skye closed in for the kill.

He flinched. “Well, I suppose—”

Skye interrupted him. “You heard it from Nick Jarvis, didn’t you?”

A strange look crossed Monty’s face, and he quickly said, “No, you’re wrong. I didn’t hear it from Nick.” Monty straightened, and his manner became more confident. “Like I told you two ladies several times before, I don’t remember whom I heard the information from. It was just a bit of gossip, not that important to me.” He rose from the settee. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for my evening engagement.”