Murder of a Smart Cookie

by Denise Swanson

  The Route 66 Yard Sale officially started at eight a.m. Skye was in her office and on the phone by six. Her first calls were to all the other towns participating. No one was officially in charge of the whole sale; each town had its own coordinator, who took care of his or her section, but Dante had been the driving force behind the idea, so keeping an eye on the entire event fell to Skye.

  By seven-fifteen she had talked to the people in charge in Elwood, Wilmington, Braidwood, Godley, Braceville, Gardner, Brooklyn, Dwight, Odell, Pontiac, Chenoa, Lexington, Towanda, and Funks Grove. The larger cities of Joliet and Normal had declined to participate, although their hotels and restaurants were happy to accommodate the people pouring in for the sale.

  When Skye finished her last phone call, she stood and adjusted the official Route 66 Yard Sale black-and-white baseball cap on her head, then tucked the matching T-shirt into her black shorts, made sure her tennis shoes were tied tightly, and clipped her walkie-talkie to her belt.

  Before leaving for the sale’s grand opening, she went next door to the police station to talk to Wally about Alma Griggs and Cookie Caldwell, but she was told Wally was already out patrolling the yard sale. She would have to catch him sometime later in the day.

  During the short golf cart ride to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Skye went over her mental to-do list. After the opening, she wanted to make a circuit of the booths to see that they were having a smooth start. She especially needed to check on the Doozier Petting Zoo. She just knew that lion would cause trouble. Her only hope was that the Dooziers had not made the necessary improvements and the inspector had closed them down.

  As Skye pulled up to the black-and-white-checkered ribbon stretched across Maryland Street at Kinsman, Skye caught her breath. Behind the barricades, as far as she could see, was a wall of people. She looked at her watch. It was only seven-thirty, half an hour before the sale would open. How long had these people been gathering, and what had they done with all their cars?

  Skye had gotten permission from the owner of the out-of-business aerosol can factory on the corner of Scumble River Road and Route 66 to use that site as a parking lot, but would that be enough? And if it wasn’t, what would happen?

  Although the main opening ceremony was to take place in Scumble River, most of the small towns along the route were having their own ribbon cuttings. Skye wondered briefly what kind of crowds had gathered for them, and would consequently be wending their way toward Scumble River later in the day.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the part-time policemen that Wally had called in for the sale. “Ma’am? You’re in charge here, right?”

  “Yes, officer.” Skye smiled at the young man, even though she hated being called “ma’am.” He didn’t look much more than eighteen and seemed extremely uncomfortable in his uniform. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re diverting traffic around Maryland by taking them north on Kinsman, then west on Springfield, and back south on Rosemary Road.”

  Skye nodded, wondering why he was giving her a geography lesson.

  “Well, the sale hasn’t even started yet and traffic is already backed up as far as Brooklyn. The police there just called and asked us to kindly get the galldarn cars moving. What should we do?”

  Skye chewed her lip. She had no idea what to suggest. First of all, her sense of direction was awful, and second, she had not considered this scenario. “Have you checked with the chief?”

  “Yep. He said to see what you wanted to do.”

  Great. Depending how you looked at it, either she had Wally’s full confidence or he was throwing the whole mess in her lap. She made a snap decision. “Okay, instead of diverting them all to the north, have every other car go south on Kinsman, west on Stebler, and take the old bridge over to Rolling Water Road. Then if they want to go on to Dwight they can go south, and if they want to come back toward Scumble River they can go north.”

  The officer looked doubtful. “That old bridge can only take one vehicle at a time.”

  “Yes, I know, but one is better than none.”

  He pulled on his cap. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Before she could reconsider her decision, Dante pulled up in his own golf cart. Beside him, his wife, Olive, sat as if someone had stuck a pole down me back of her dress. Her short ash blond hair was sprayed into a helmet that the NFL would have envied. Her pink shoes and handbag precisely matched the flowers in her dress and the pearls on her ears, throat, and finger.

  Olive looked around anxiously before getting out of the cart. She had moved to Scumble River from Chicago more than forty years ago when she married Dante, but she still seemed ill at ease among the natives.

  Dante waddled up to Skye, Olive trailing him, and demanded, “Is everything ready?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Uncle Dante.” Skye smiled sweetly. “Yes, it is a lovely day, even if it is a little on the hot side, but we are so lucky it isn’t raining.”

  “So, is everything ready?” Dante repeated, raising his voice.

  Obviously her uncle was not learning from her attempt to model courteous behavior, so Skye tried another behavior-management technique—ignoring him. “And how are you today, Aunt Olive? You look lovely, as always.” Skye leaned forward and kissed her aunt’s soft cheek. Olive smelled of old-fashioned face powder and attar of roses.

  Olive patted Skye’s hand, then cut her eyes at her husband before stammering, “Thank you, dear. I’m fine.”

  Dante gritted his teeth and snarled, “Good morning. Now will you tell me if everything is ready?”

  Skye nodded. “We’re all set.” She guided her aunt and uncle to the small portable platform and helped them onto it, then handed Dante a microphone. She turned and nodded to a high school boy she had recruited from the audiovisual club to run the PA system. He flipped the switch and held up his thumb.

  Skye looked at her watch. The second hand was just sweeping the twelve. It was precisely eight o’clock. She turned to Dante and cued him. “Now.”

  While Dante started with the usual thanking of everyone and their dog for helping, Skye scanned the audience. Faith and her TV crew were in the front row taping the mayor’s welcoming speech. Skye wondered idly how much of his talk would end up on the cutting-room floor. She spotted her parents and brother near the middle, and not too far from them was Trixie. Mrs. Griggs sat off to one side on a lawn chair with several other Scumble River senior citizens.

  Directly behind the seniors was a group of the town’s merchants, including Cookie Caldwell. Skye grimaced and looked around. Several police officers were scattered through the throng, but no sign of the chief. As soon as Dante finished, she really had to find Wally and talk to him about the Cookie/Mrs. Griggs situation.

  Although by a quirk of rezoning Mrs. Griggs now lived outside the city limits, Skye knew she would have better luck persuading Wally, rather than the sheriff, to do something to protect the old woman. Besides her personal relationship with Wally, he regarded the town’s citizens as his people, while Scumble River was only one small part of the sheriff’s kingdom.

  Dante paused and the spectators applauded. He then began his closing. “Route 66 is no longer an official highway, and perhaps because of this, it has gained an aura that attracts hundreds if not thousands of people every year to try and follow it from beginning to end. Much like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean, it is more revered now than when it was ‘alive.’ The legend is more than the reality. The invented past has more meaning to people because it can be anything you want it to be. Because of this, we who live along a small stretch of this magic thoroughfare want to honor it, and we do so today by welcoming you to the First Annual Route 66 Yard Sale. A hundred miles of fun, entertainment, and treasures.”

  The crowd went wild, clapping and whistling. Skye was stunned. The one thing her uncle had not ordered her to write and, in fact, wouldn’t let her see, had been his welcoming speech. She had been sure it would be boring and self-congratulatory, and the first half had lived up
to her expectations, but the closing was amazing. Who knew her uncle had that kind of romantic oratory in him? It was a reminder that she should try to be less judgmental about people.

  Feeling chastised, she went to help her aunt and uncle step down from the platform. Once they were safely on the ground and she had given orders for the dais to be moved away, she hugged Dante and said, “That was a wonderful speech. You brought tears to my eyes.”

  He stiffened in surprise, then hugged her back and said, “Never forget, there’s a fine line between bull’s-eye and bullshit, and I am a master archer.”

  With that, Dante and Olive walked over to the ribbon. Skye handed him a huge pair of gold scissors and stepped aside. He cut the ribbon and welcomed everyone again. Then, before the police moved the sawhorses, he and Olive got into their golf cart, waved, and drove away.

  Skye stood on the sidelines as the crowd was allowed through the barricade and onto the rest of Maryland Street. After the majority of the horde had spread out among the sale tables, Skye got into her own golf cart and started to make the rounds. The Lemonade ShakeUp stand was already doing a brisk business and she waved to Justin, who was manning the window.

  People were three-deep at most of the tables, and the vendors were working frantically to both sell to and keep an eye on the buyers. Skye noticed that Cookie’s table was mobbed and she was working it alone.

  Everything seemed to be running smoothly downtown, so Skye headed over to the bridge to check out the west side of the sale. Her godfather, Charlie Patukas, had allowed the Boy Scouts to use the front part of his motor court parking lot for their booth. Across the road and down a little, Skye’s brother, Vince, had set up a table in front of Great Expectations, his styling salon, and was selling hair care products.

  So far, so good. Skye turned the cart around to go back through town and examine the other side of the sale—the many booths and stands outside the cordoned-off area that were spread from Scumble River Road to Kinsman Street. Included in that group were both the Dooziers’ Petting Zoo and Skye’s own family’s Denison/Leofanti Farm Stand.

  The Dooziers were like a pair of children’s scissors—eye-catching and colorful but not too sharp. When one added Skye’s own family to the mix, many of whom were a beer short of a six-pack, it was clear why she had dubbed this the Wild West, even though geographically it lay east of town. As she crossed the barrier, she felt as if she should strap on a six-shooter and grab her rifle before venturing into such untamed territory. In her head she could hear an ancient warning: Beware! Past this point there be monsters.

  CHAPTER 8

  Survivor: Scumble River

  Skye felt herself relax. Everything seemed fine as she rode through the sale. The fields on either side of the road were full of sellers, and people wandered from table to table, browsing through the merchandise. Many vendors were locals, peddling crafts, homemade and homegrown goodies, and the contents of their barns and attics, but an equal number were professional dealers who had rented space from the landowners.

  Cars were inching forward, many pulling small trailers intended to haul the loot they purchased back home. The yard sale organizers had hoped to attract ten thousand people; if today was any indication, they might double their goal.

  Skye tensed up again as she steered her golf cart around the big curve. On her right was the Doozier Petting Zoo. She knew that family would be up to something. The question was what?

  She squinted, not believing her eyes. Where was the chaos? Where was the commotion?

  Earl Doozier sat at the card table calmly taking money for admission. He was dressed in a respectable pair of shorts and his shirt actually had a collar. He had even combed his hair, although the part was crooked and he had enough hair grease on it to lubricate a semi.

  Everything was in order. This couldn’t be right. But it was. The people coming out of the attraction seemed as happy as those going in. Skye listened intently; there was no screaming or yelling—the scene was almost … bucolic. She frowned. Should she stop and check things out more closely? No. Why press her luck? She waved at Earl and kept going.

  She had just taken a gulp from her water bottle when she approached the Denison/Leofanti Farm Stand. The liquid spewed out of her mouth and down the front of her T-shirt as she saw her mother smash an entire blueberry pie into Faith Easton’s face.

  For an instant Faith froze, blueberries oozing down her cheeks and onto her white silk blouse. Then she wiped the fruit and crust out of her eyes, flinging the mess into the spectators who had crowded around to watch the excitement. There were screams, and people jumped back as if the TV star had hurled acid into their faces.

  Uttering a high-pitched war cry, Faith grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and emptied it over May’s head.

  May’s hair clung to her like a rubber swim cap, and her white tank top was now transparent. She pulled the soaked cotton fabric away from her breasts and turned from side to side, looking for a weapon of mass destruction.

  Skye stomped on the golf cart’s brake and was off and running before the vehicle had come to a complete halt. As she raced toward the food fight, she looked frantically for reinforcements. Someone else from the family should be manning the stand along with May. Her relatives had agreed to work in pairs.

  Skye spotted one of her cousins backed as far away from the fracas as possible. At first she wasn’t sure which identical twin it was, but since Gillian had just had a baby in the spring and still carried a little extra weight, Skye was pretty sure the coward deserting May in her time of need was Ginger.

  Just before she reached the melee, someone grabbed her arm and said, “Hold on there. You don’t want to mess up our shot, do you?”

  For the first time, Skye noticed that the TV crew was taping the scuffle. Nick Jarvis, Faith’s producer/director, gave her a half-smile.

  “Yes, I do,” she stated, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “If you show this on TV, my family will—”

  “Sue us? Just try.”

  She gave him a mocking look. “City people sue. Here in Scumble River we like our revenge a little more personal. Every man has a shotgun and knows where all the abandoned mine shafts are. We won’t sue you, we’ll just make you disappear.”

  Nick dropped her arm as if it had turned into a python and backed away, yelling, “Cut!” to the cameraman.

  By the time Skye had elbowed her way to the table, the two women had come to a standoff. Each held her chosen missile, a coconut cream pie for May and a double fudge rum cake for Faith. Skye knew she had to say something quickly before the desserts became airborne.

  She yelled, “Put down your weapons and no one will get hurt.” Neither combatant paid the least attention to her. She tried again. “Come on, now. You don’t want to do this.” Not a flicker of an eyelash from either warrior. Skye played her trump card. “Faith, you do realize that your crew is taping this and you look absolutely ridiculous?”

  The TV star risked a glance to her side, and when she saw the camera she shrieked, “I’m going to murder that swine!”

  Faith lowered the cake and May followed suit, but Skye felt it would still be a good idea to separate the two. She had just stepped between them when May said, “I don’t see how she ever got on TV. She’s about as bright as a twenty-watt lightbulb and as pretty as a dust bunny.”

  Faith glared. “Is that right? Well, you people seem to think that the four major food groups consist of beer, chips, sugar, and Jell-O salad with marshmallows.”

  Skye closed her eyes. Trust her mother to snatch controversy from the jaws of compromise. Suddenly she realized her own ill-advised position and her eyes flew open, but it was too late. The desserts had already been launched and Skye became a casualty of friendly fire as her mother’s pie hit her full in the face.

  After Faith’s entourage finally pulled the TV star away, Skye turned to her mother and demanded, “What in God’s green earth were you thinking? Do you realize they were filming you? You’re lucky if you
don’t end up on America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

  May paused in scooping ice out of her cleavage. “That woman has been bugging the crap out of me since she got here.”

  Skye raised an eyebrow. “She’s only been here for one day. When did you see her?”

  “She was here yesterday morning while we were setting up the booth. She kept trying to buy things before we could even get the stuff on the tables. She wrestled a marble-topped table right out of your Uncle Wiley’s hands. For a tiny little thing she’s strong as an ox.”

  “Oh.” Skye had thought Faith had arrived in Scumble River in the afternoon. Now she wondered when exactly the TV star had entered the town.

  “And she was trying to cheat us.” May finished de-icing her chest and started to towel-dry her hair. “I looked all the really old stuff up, just like you told me to, and made a list of what it should sell for. She offered us five dollars for all those silk pillow shams your grandpa got in World War II, and according to that Antiques Roadshow book, they’re worth from fifty to a hundred bucks a piece.”

  Skye soothed. “I warned you that everyone’s going to try and get a bargain.”

  May’s expression was mulish. “Well, we told her no and then I found her here nosing around this morning before the yard sale even opened up. She was trying to convince your cousin Ginger to let her have a whole box of salt and pepper shakers for ten dollars, and I know each pair is worth more than that.”

  “Mmm.” Skye knew May would never get mad enough to throw baked goods over mere money. “What did she really do to tick you off?”

  “She said my piecrust wasn’t flaky.” May’s lower lip thrust out. “And she said it in front of everyone.”