Murder of a Smart Cookie

by Denise Swanson

  Skye turned over and snuggled into her pillow; she could sleep another half hour. She didn’t have to be anywhere until eight today.

  “Meow.” Jed’s departure had woken Bingo, who stood by his food bowl, demanding breakfast.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  Thump. Bingo had jumped on the bed. A few seconds later his cold nose pressed against Skye’s warm one. “Meow.”

  After several more attempts to persuade the cat it wasn’t breakfast time yet, she threw back the sheet and got up. A can of Fancy Feast tuna later, Bingo permitted Skye to leave the room.

  She adjusted the hot water of the shower so it pummeled her back. Moving so the spray could reach her sore derrière — the golf cart seat was not well padded — she sighed and tried to block out the to-do list that was dancing in her head.

  Today she had promised to take shifts at both the Lemonade ShakeUp booth and the family farm stand. Skye wondered if Frannie and Justin were on speaking terms, and decided that since the disputed concert was tonight, they probably weren’t.

  Skye abandoned all thoughts about Scumble River’s teen romance when the bathroom door slammed open and May burst into the room. Even through the fogged-up and water-splashed glass door of the shower, Skye could see that her mother’s face was ashen and her breathing irregular.

  “What’s wrong?” Skye leapt out of the shower and grabbed her mother, who was swaying as if she was about to pass out. Skye looked anxiously for a place to sit May down. She finally closed the toilet seat with her foot and eased her onto it.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Grandma?” Cora Denison was eighty-four, but she was healthy.

  May shook her head, then suddenly vomited into the trash can next to the toilet.

  “Aunt Kitty?” Skye thrust a washcloth at her mother, anxiously trying to remember who was on coffee and donut duty this morning at the family stand. She thought it had been only been her mom, her aunt, and her grandmother.

  “No.” May wiped her mouth and mumbled, “Cookie Caldwell.”

  “What?” Skye nearly screamed the question.

  “She fell on Grandma, but we shoved her back in.” May reached for the trash can and was sick again.

  “Back in where?” Skye demanded.

  “The liquor cabinet.”

  Skye was beginning to feel like maybe she had never woken up, and this was one of those stress dreams where no matter how hard you try, you can’t make sense of what’s happening. After all, she was standing there naked, and nudity was often an element in such nightmares.

  Maybe if she had some clothes on it would all make sense. She grabbed her robe and struggled into it, her wet skin sticking to the cotton, then said, “Are you all right, Mom?”

  May nodded and wiped her mouth again.

  “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  May’s complexion took on a greenish cast, but she only swallowed loudly and said, “Yes. There was blood all over her, and she was stiff as an ironing board.”

  “Oh, my God.” Skye forced down the bile rising in the back of her own throat. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

  “Grandma, Kitty, and I met at the stand a little past six-thirty. Grandma was going to make the donuts, and we were going to make the coffee and do the selling. First we set up the deep fryer, got the coffeepot going, and took the batter out of the ice chest.”

  Skye nodded. It sounded logical to her.

  “Then we went to put out the paper goods and plastic spoons. We had stored that stuff in that old liquor cabinet Grandma’s trying to sell. The shelves are missing, but it has a lock.”

  “So, Grandma had the key?” Skye asked.

  “No. The key was lost before I started dating your father. We’ve been using a hairpin.”

  Skye shook her head at the logic of locking something that could be opened with a hairpin. “So Grandma unlocked the cabinet?”

  “Yes. Kitty and I were standing right next to her.”

  “And Cookie Caldwell fell on Grandma?”

  “Right. Grandma screamed, and Kitty and I shoved Cookie back in and closed the cabinet door.”

  “Then you called the police, right?”

  May’s tone was exasperated. “How could we do that? There’s no phone at the stand.”

  “Where are Grandma and Aunt Kitty now?” Skye didn’t bother to ask about a cell phone. She knew none of the women owned one.

  “They’re at the stand, waiting for you.”

  “What? Why?” Skye ran out of the bathroom, and across the hall into her bedroom, where she frantically started to throw on clothes. As May trailed behind her, Skye yelled, “Call Wally right now!” She pulled a comb through her wet, tangled hair, wincing at the pain as she jerked at the snarls. “You’re a police dispatcher, for heaven’s sake. You know better than this.”

  “No.” May’s expression was stubborn. “We decided you need to handle this.”

  “Me?” Skye hopped on one foot, trying to tie her tennis shoe. “Why?”

  “You have experience.” May crossed her arms and thrust out her lower lip.

  Skye stopped hopping and limped out of the room in the direction of the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll call Wally.” She knew that expression on her mother’s face, and it meant there was no changing her mind. “But he’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Tell him to meet us at the stand.” May followed her. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Skye watched her mother disappear out the back door. Should she call 911 or use the private line? She decided on the latter and punched in the familiar number. “Thea? This is Skye. I need to talk to Wally. It’s an emergency.”

  Thea was the day dispatcher. “He’s just pulling into the garage. Hold on a sec.”

  The 5th Dimension sang half of “Going Out of My Head” before Wally got on the line. “What’s up?”

  She should have been thinking of what to say instead of listening to the Muzak, no matter how appropriate the song. “Ah, well, it looks like, maybe, Mom, Aunt Kitty, and Grandma Denison have found a body at the family’s farm stand.”

  “That’s at the corner of Scumble River Road across from the old factory, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s out of my jurisdiction. You need to call the Stanley County Sheriff’s Department.” Wally’s voice was troubled. “The county took that area over a few months ago. Remember, I told you about the rezoning when you asked me about Mrs. Griggs?”

  “Couldn’t you call them and say you’ll handle it?” Skye pleaded.

  There was a short silence before Wally said, “No, I’d like to, but I really can’t. Buck Peterson would never let me take over, and my asking would just cause hard feelings. It’s an election year, and he’d be afraid it would make him look bad.”

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” Skye pounded the wall in frustration. Things were going from bad to worse. She forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down. None of this was Wally’s fault. After grabbing a pencil and a pad of paper, she struggled to keep her tone even. “Do you have the sheriff’s number handy?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Name That Tune

  In rural locales, officials don’t arrive at the scene as fast as they do in the city or suburbs. After all, the sheriff’s office can be located anywhere from the neighboring town to forty-five miles away.

  On the other hand, word of mouth travels a lot quicker in the country, and Dante pulled into the parking area in front of the Denison/Leofanti farm stand right behind Skye and her mother.

  Skye wasn’t sure who had informed him. It could have been Wally or Thea, or anyone else who had been around the police station when she made the call. This was big news, and someone would have rushed to notify the mayor.

  Others also turned up almost immediately—some to buy donuts, not knowing that a body had been found; some attracted by the growing crowd; and some who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to scoop the competition—such as Faith Easton’s T
V crew, who had come for breakfast and stayed to film the breaking story.

  At first, Skye tried to keep everyone a good distance away from the stand, especially Dante, who kept poking around and showing things to the TV people, but the crowd grew restless long before the sheriff arrived.

  By the time an ambulance finally drove up to the stand, the lack of siren and lights making it clear that the EMTs had gotten the message that there was no reason to rush, Skye had lost control of the situation. And when the sheriff got there a few seconds later, he was just in time to see Dante and Skye playing tug-of-war with what turned out to be Cookie’s purse.

  Skye had wrapped the straps around her hands and was trying to keep the huge leather tote upright.

  Dante had grabbed the bottom and was yelling, “Give it to me. The TV people want to take a picture of it.”

  Skye shook her head. “We need to wait for the authorities. Quit touching stuff.”

  “I’m in charge here.” Dante gave a mighty yank.

  “What in Sam Hill are you two idiots doing?” Sheriff Peterson thundered, every inch of his six-foot frame quivering with irritation.

  Dante whipped around to face his accuser, leaving Skye literally holding the bag, and blustered, “What took you so long, Buck? We could’ve had a couple more murders here in the time you took.”

  The sheriff started to answer back, but eyeing the TV crew, he slammed his mouth shut and turned to his deputies. “Get them out of here. Then run the crime tape back about a hundred feet all around the stand.” After the deputies left, the sheriff turned to the EMTs, who had opened the cabinet but not removed the body. “What do you have?”

  “DOA. We called for the deputy coroner.” As the EMTs filed back to the ambulance, the one in charge said, “You’re in luck. He was visiting his mother in Brooklyn, so he should be here any minute.”

  Skye hadn’t thought about it, but with Simon out of town and him being the county coroner, they’d have to send for the next person in line to come to the crime scene. The deputy coroner Simon had appointed was a pediatrician at Laurel Hospital, more used to vaccinating kids than examining dead bodies. But he’d had some training as a forensic pathologist and so was the best choice among a limited field of candidates.

  The sheriff turned his attention back to Dante and said, “You’ll have to wait outside of the taped-off area.”

  Dante protested and cursed, but allowed himself to be led away.

  When the sheriff returned, he said to the women, “Okay, who discovered the body?”

  All eyes turned to Skye. She shrugged and stepped forward. “Sheriff Peterson, I’m Skye Denison. My family is running this stand during the yard sale.”

  “Did you find the body?”

  “No. My grandmother did.” Skye pointed to the older woman, who sat limply on a brightly colored lawn chair. “Cora Denison.”

  “Were you present?”

  “No. Just my mother, May Denison, and my aunt, Kitty Denison.”

  The sheriff took off his hat and scratched his bald head. “Then why in blue blazes am I talking to you?”

  “Uh, my family asked me to speak for them.”

  Buck frowned. “Why? Are you a lawyer?”

  “No. I’m a school psychologist.”

  “A shrink. Even worse.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “I’ve read about you in the paper, haven’t I?”

  “Maybe.” Skye didn’t meet his gaze. She certainly wished that the local newspaper hadn’t done that feature on her, calling her the Scumble River Nancy Drew.

  “Well, listen up. I’m not Wally Boyd, and I won’t have you messing around in my investigation. Do you hear me?”

  Skye nodded, her face flushing with anger. She did not mess around. She helped.

  “Good.” Sheriff Peterson turned, leaving her standing there, and yelled to one of his deputies, “Ed, put these women in separate squad cars.” He pointed to May and Kitty. “And don’t let them talk to each other.” Under his breath he muttered, “At least not any more than they already have.”

  Skye made a move to go to her grandmother, but the sheriff stopped her. “Why did you call the police rather than an ambulance?”

  “My mother said Cookie was dead, not injured.”

  “How did your mother know? Is she a doctor?”

  “No, but she said the body was stiff as a board.”

  Buck nodded to himself. “Ah, rigor Morris.”

  Skye fought desperately to keep her face expressionless. Surely, the sheriff didn’t think Cookie was a dead cat.

  After ordering Skye outside the crime scene tape, the sheriff went over to her grandmother. As he tipped his hat, Skye heard him say, “Ma’am, I need to talk to you about finding the body.”

  When Sheriff Peterson finished with her, Cora walked over to Skye, who was hovering just outside the restricted area. “Did you hear all that?”

  Skye nodded.

  “We’re in big trouble here.” Cora tsked. “Buck Peterson has always been four pennies short of a nickel, and it looks as if he just lost his last cent. With him in charge, I’ll end up in jail before the murderer does.”

  Sheriff Peterson towered over Dante. “You need to close down the Scumble River part of the yard sale.”

  They, along with Skye, were in the mayor’s office in the city hall. Dante was backed up against the front of his desk, while Skye leaned against the wall near the door, ready for a hasty retreat. The sheriff had not been pleased when Dante had insisted on her presence, saying she was his assistant.

  “No way am I doing that, Buck.” Dante angled his head back and glared at the sheriff. “I just talked to the city attorney, and he says we don’t have to.”

  “People are trampling all over my crime scene.”

  Skye offered, “Sheriff, you’ve closed down the farm stand, and it’s pretty isolated. The only tiling near it is the parking area across the street. The petting zoo and the guy selling goat cheese are half a mile down the road.”

  “Fine.” Buck shook his head. “But you got a fox running around in a whole henhouse full of chickens. You’ll feel mighty bad when he kills the next one.”

  Skye bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh. The sheriff was certainly sure this was fowl play. “Why are you so certain there’ll be a next one?”

  The sheriff frowned. “I’m not. But I don’t want to take the chance.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you think there won’t be?”

  “It seems like a crime of passion to me. Someone kills her in the heat of an argument, then stuffs her in the nearest available hidey-hole.” For a moment Alma Griggs’s face flashed into Skye’s mind—she certainly had been mad at Cookie—but Skye pushed that thought aside. No way would such a nice old lady kill someone.

  Buck harrumphed and turned back to Dante. “It’s on your head if someone else gets hurt.”

  Dante stared the sheriff down. “No. It will be my fault if Scumble River loses all the money it’s invested in the Route 66 Yard Sale. It will be your fault if you don’t find Cookie Caldwell’s murderer and he kills again.”

  Skye gave her uncle a thumbs-up. Dante kept surprising her.

  Buck’s face turned so red that Skye almost expected steam to come out of his ears like on a cartoon. He spun on his heel and stomped out the door, saying over his shoulder, “In that case, I’d better take a good look at your kin, since the victim was found at your stand, by your relatives.”

  Skye shot Dante an inquiring look. Their family didn’t have anything to hide, did they? He shrugged. Who knew?

  *

  After the sheriff left, Dante ordered Skye to field calls from the media about Cookie’s death. The phone stopped ringing by noon, so he allowed her to take her afternoon shift at the Lemonade ShakeUp booth, as planned. The stream of people ordering drinks was endless—if she never saw another lemon it would be too soon.

  While working the lemonade stand, Skye had received a message about a family meeting being held at her
folks’ house at four. When she pulled into their driveway a few minutes past the hour, her parents’ garage was already full of her aunts, uncles, and cousins, all engrossed in several animated conversations. The men clutched cans of beer, and the women sipped iced tea from clear plastic cups.

  An ancient black fan rotated on the top of her father’s tool bench, trying unsuccessfully to cool the overheated building. A hot breeze fluttered the striped curtains on the small windows, and the yellow walls glared brightly. An old refrigerator hummed in a corner next to a shiny white freezer, and Jed’s collection of toy tractors festooned the shelves that ran along three of the four walls.

  Skye found an empty lawn chair and sat, half listening to her relatives argue, too tired to join any of the discussions. Not surprisingly, her parents were on opposite sides. Her brow puckered. She really had to do something about that soon.

  Her brother, Vince, dropped into the seat beside her. “What do you think? Should we forget it or find another location to set up the stand?”

  “Well, the whole family did put in a lot of work gathering the stuff from basements and attics to sell, not to mention growing and canning the extra produce.”

  “True. But isn’t it a little disrespectful to go on as if nothing has happened?”

  “Maybe, but none of us really knew Cookie.” Skye paused to listen to her mother and father bicker. “That reminds me, since your hair salon is gossip central, did you hear who in town was close to Cookie?”

  “Nobody.” Vince shrugged. “She got her hair done at my shop, but she never talked about anything personal—mostly just her tennis game and her business.”

  “And no one else talked about her?”

  “No.” Vince screwed up his face in thought. “It was almost as if she was a ghost or something. The people in town just sort of ignored her.”

  “How odd.” Skye considered how hard it was to fly under the radar in Scumble River. She had tried—and failed almost immediately. It took a lot of effort not to be noticed. Had Cookie been hiding something?

  Vince and Skye sat in companionable silence while their families argued toward a verdict. They knew none of their uncles or aunts would listen to them. No one under the age of fifty got a vote.