Murder Of A Snake In The Grass (9 page)

“Skye, over here.”

She walked toward the familiar voice. “Trixie, where are you?”

Skye’s best friend, Trixie Frayne, jumped up and down at the edge of the crowd. She was short, with a cap of smooth brown hair and brown eyes that gleamed with good humor and high spirits.

When Trixie had returned to town nine months after Skye had been forced to come back home, both women had agreed it was fate. They had been best friends in high school until Trixie’s family moved away her sophomore year. Being reunited nearly fifteen years later still felt like a gift.

Today Trixie wore white fringed cut-off shorts and a red tank top. She was the antithesis of the stereotypical shy, demure librarian.

“What are you doing here?” Trixie asked as Skye walked up.

“I came to see the race.”

“Bullpucky! You’re normally not up and around this early on a weekend, or if you are, you’re out at the beach swimming.” Trixie grabbed Skye’s arm and whispered in her ear, “Is it about the murder last night?”

“How did you hear about that already?”

“Everybody knows. Between the people with police radios and the ones with relatives on the emergency squad, I’d
say the whole town knew by midnight, two a.m. at the latest.”

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Skye hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “What’s being said?”

“Mmm, let’s see. The victim is Gabriel Scumble, and he was robbed. People are saying it was probably one of the carnival workers, that they steal stuff every time they’re around.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, it’s still early, gossip’s pretty thin on any actual details.”

“I hadn’t thought of the carnival people, but that might make sense. He was posing for pictures among them. Maybe he flashed a big wad of cash or something. Someone better talk to them before they leave town tomorrow night.”

“So, are you investigating? Can I help?” Trixie was skipping around Skye like a hyperactive three-year-old.

“No and no. This is one Scumble River murder that has nothing to do with me.”

“Sure.” Trixie’s look was skeptical. “But something will happen, and you’ll end up in the thick of things. And when you do, I want a piece of the action.”

Skye ignored her friend’s comment and asked, “Did you hear that Frannie Ryan and Justin Boward were the ones who found the body?”

Trixie shook her head. “How awful. I wonder how that escaped the grapevine.”

“Wally kept them out of sight to protect them from being under the microscope, so don’t tell anyone.” Skye paused to emphasize the importance of this point to Trixie, who silently crossed her heart. “They seemed okay last night, but I want to check with them this morning and make sure they’re not feeling any post-traumatic distress.”

“Good thinking. It always amazes me how well kids hide their feelings, at least at first.” Trixie gestured to the crowd. “It doesn’t look like you can talk to them anytime soon.”

“Guess I’ll just hang around until the race is over. Maybe talk to them as they clean up. What are you doing here?”

“The cheerleaders have a team competing.” Trixie was the cheerleading coach.

“Oh.” Skye couldn’t quite picture the cheerleaders eating a pancake that had been on the ground. Or for that matter, running around a track with a spatula, looking silly.

“Stop thinking that,” Trixie said, obviously reading Skye’s mind. “We have a really good group of girls this season. When Zoë and her pack graduated last year, I made sure that the judges at the tryouts counted character as heavily as attractiveness. And since the money made from this event goes to the Morning Star Mission in Joliet to help the homeless, the girls were happy to help out.”

“That’s great. Did Frannie Ryan make the squad this time?”

Trixie’s sunny smile disappeared. “No, I couldn’t convince her to try out again.”

Skye hugged her friend, knowing how badly Trixie felt about the outcome of Frannie’s first attempt to become a cheerleader. “If you’re sure her size won’t be an issue this time, maybe I can convince her to give it one more chance.”

“I promise. She’d be an asset. She dances like a dream.” Trixie glanced at her watch. “Time to line up my team. Have you placed your bets yet?”

“No. Who else is competing?”

Trixie steered Skye over to a large white board placed between the betting booths. On it were the names of the teams and their odds printed in big black letters. “Now, not speaking as a team sponsor, here’s my take,” Trixie said. “The chess club isn’t a good bet because they’ll spend too much time trying to find the most logical way to win. The debate team might stop and try to talk the spectators into thinking they’ve already won. The teachers don’t have any more of a chance against the kids today than they do in the classroom.
And the Future Farmers of America might stop to check the soil for nutrients or the clouds for rain.”

“Your analysis sounds strangely biased. I suppose you want me to back the cheerleaders,” Skye teased.

“Well, they
are
going to win. But there is one other team that has a chance. They call themselves Great Caesar’s Ghost.”

“Interesting. Point them out to me.”

Trixie twisted around until she spotted them. “There they are, next to Justin and Frannie’s food booth. I think those two are friends with them.”

Skye took a step closer to see better. Interesting—one of the four kids racing as Great Caesar’s Ghost had been a part of the group that Grady and his gang had been tormenting yesterday.

When a shrill whistle blew, Trixie said, “Hey, that’s the warning signal. I’ve got to go get my girls together. See you later.”

Skye waved as her friend hurried off, then moved over into the betting line. She put two dollars on the cheerleaders and two on Great Caesar’s Ghost. If she won, she’d be paid in play money that she could exchange for various items that the community businesses had donated. Clutching her tickets, she looked for a place from which to watch the race.

A smallish ten-year-old boy with a red crew cut ran out of the crowd and skidded to a stop in front of her. “Miz Denison, you by your lonesome?”

Smiling, Skye squatted down to bring her to his eyelevel. “Yes, I am, Junior. How about yourself?”

Junior Doozier and Skye had quite a history. He and his family always seemed to be around when something went wrong. It was never their fault; they just seemed destined to play the role of the Greek chorus and occasional rescue team.

The boy wiped his nose on the back of his arm before
answering. “Nah, Elvira’s baby-sittin’ me and Cletus and Bambi.”

Skye quickly ran the Doozier family tree through her mind. Considering some of the unusual twists to the branches, this was no easy trick. Elvira was Junior’s aunt, but only fifteen years old. Cletus was Junior’s cousin, but lived with the family because his father, Hap, was in jail. And Bambi was Junior’s younger sister.

Once she got everyone straight, Skye asked, “Where’s your mom and dad?”

Junior shrugged bony shoulders under a grimy T-shirt. “Aw, they got loaded last night at the carnival, so this mornin’ they told Elvira to get us out of the house and went back to bed.”

Skye kept her face expressionless. Not that what Junior had said surprised her, but she needed a few seconds to think of an appropriate response. “Well, it’s nice your aunt could bring you, then.”

“They’re payin’ her ten bucks.”

“Did you eat yet?” Skye asked, trying to gain some control over the conversation.

“Nah, I ain’t got no money.”

Skye knew better than to ask about Elvira buying him breakfast. “Are you hungry?”

“Sure, wanna listen to my belly talk?” He lifted his shirt and exposed his midriff.

“No, thanks.” Skye handed him five dollars, which left her with three singles. Definitely time to go to the bank. “Here, I think you still have time to get a plate before the race starts.”

He looked at the bill, then back to her. “Could I use this to bet instead?”

“No! Food only.”

The boy rolled his eyes and scampered off. Skye found a couple of empty seats at a table and sat down.

Junior was back in a few minutes bearing a plate loaded
with pancakes, bacon, sausage, and fruit. He thrust it into her face. “See what I got. They was closin’ the stand down, so they give me the rest of the food.”

“Great, can you eat all that?”

“Sure, Mama says I got a hollow leg ‘cause I eat so much.”

Skye watched the boy attack his plate and wondered for the hundredth time if she should call DCFS about the situation at the Dooziers.

The Department of Children and Family Services was a last-ditch attempt to save children who were being abused or neglected. There were two problems in deciding whether to call them or not: What constituted abuse and neglect? And would DCFS make things better or worse?

The Dooziers seemed to skate by on the edge. Their kids came to school every day, sometimes wearing clothes a little soiled or tight but not over the line. They didn’t look malnourished and she’d never heard that any of them beat the kids—except Hap, and he was in jail. It was one of those issues where she had to separate her middle-class values and morals from her decision. So far, she hadn’t placed the telephone call.

“Your mama sounds like she can be pretty funny,” Skye said, trying to get the boy to talk a little more about his home life.

“Dad says she’s a riot, but he’s usually not smiling when he says that.” Junior paused from inhaling pancakes. “But they were laughin’ last night when they got home.”

“Oh, were you up that late?”

“Nah, but they woke me up, so I sneaked out of bed and listened to them. They was talking about a fight at the Beer Garden. The crazy old lady that owns the liquor store was using a flyswatter on a guy dressed up like Davy Crockett.”

“Really, did they say anything else about the fight?” Why had Fayanne been hitting what sounded like Gabriel
Scumble dressed in his buckskins, and did the police know about it?

“Said the lady just went ape-shit and started beatin’ on the poor guy for no reason. He ran out of the tent when his nose started to bleed.” Junior stuffed a whole sausage in his mouth and mumbled something more.

“What?”

“The race is starting. Here, save this. I want to see them run.” The boy thrust his nearly empty plate in her hand and dashed off.

Skye stayed seated, only half watching the runners with their spatulas go round the track. Fayanne Emerick and Gabriel Scumble. Could there have been a romance that went wrong? Fayanne
was
the one in charge of getting him to Scumble River.

Junior trotted back and grabbed his plate, picked up his fork, and started shoveling fruit into his mouth. “I think the cheerleaders are gonna win.”

“Who’s second?”

“Those weirdos wearin’ funny glasses and fake noses.”

Skye got up. “I’ll be right back. I want to see this.”

“Me too.” Junior left his empty plate on the table and jumped up.

“First, throw your trash away.”

Junior stuck out his lip but grabbed his garbage and tossed it in a nearby can. “We don’t gotta do that at home.”

“You should try it some time, surprise your mama,” Skye said over her shoulder as she hurried toward the track.

Junior had been right. There was a team wearing Groucho Marx glasses and noses. She’d bet anything they were Great Caesar’s Ghost, and they had taken the lead.

The cheerleaders, dressed in short shorts and tight tank tops, were clearly the crowd’s favorites, but the other team was picking up support. More and more people were shouting encouragement. The team had been the underdogs as far as the odds went, so if they won, the people who bet on them
would make a tidy profit. At thirty to one, Skye would make sixty dollars on her two-dollar bet.

“Miz Denison, the weirdos won, they won!” Junior cried, tugging on Skye’s arm.

“You must have brought me luck. I bet on them.” Skye gave the boy a quick hug.

“Go get your money, quick.”

Skye and Junior made their way to the betting booths, where the winners were already lined up.

Just before it was Skye’s turn to cash in, a teenage girl walked up dressed in low-riding denim shorts and a cropped tank top. Her bleached two-tone hair fell to the middle of her back, and her navel was pierced. “Junior Doozier, where have you been? I been lookin’ all over for you. We’re leavin’.”

“Hi, Elvira. Sorry. Junior’s been with me,” Skye told the teen.

“Oh, hi, Miz D., that’s okay. But we gotta go.”

“Sure. Bye, Junior, bye, Elvira.” Skye waved them away. A truly fascinating family.

After exchanging her tickets for the fake money, she went to the prize tent where she quickly selected a couple of CDs—prices were extremely inflated—and then went in search of Frannie and Justin. It would be just her luck to hang around all this time and then miss them.

She found them taking down their food booth. “Hi, did you make a lot of money for the mission?”

Justin peered up at her from under his bangs. “Pretty much, maybe two hundred dollars.”

“That’s terrific. I’m really proud of you guys for volunteering.”

Frannie wiped the sweat from her forehead with a napkin. “Well, some of our friends were racing so we thought, what the he—”

Skye interrupted her, not wanting to have to chastise the
girl for swearing but not able to let it pass either. “Were your friends the winners?”

“Uh huh, surprised everyone.”

“Not me. I bet on them.”

“Cool.”

Justin broke into the girl talk. “Did you hear anything more about the dead guy?”

“Not much. Anybody saying anything to you guys?”

Both shook their heads. Frannie said, “Not to us, but we hear things. Understand?”

Skye nodded. “Anything important?”

“No, they mostly get it wrong.” Frannie made a face. “It’s tempting to tell them what really happened.”

“But probably better if you don’t,” Skye said.

“Oh, we agreed not to talk about it to anyone but you, Simon, or the chief,” Justin assured her.

“That’s a smart decision.” Skye paused. “Did you want to talk about it some more now?”

The teens looked at each other, silent communication evident in their expressions. Frannie answered for them both, “Yeah, let’s get a pop and sit under the big tree with the bench. I’m zonked.”