Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery

by Swanson, Denise

  One of her larger second or third cousins on the Leofanti side of the family was guarding the front door, which he opened a crack for her to slip inside. She leaned against the glass for a moment to get her breathing back to normal. The media people were relentless.

  The morning had already started out on a bad note when Skye’s parents had decided to use her as an interpreter, since they were now officially not speaking to each other.

  To add to her woes, Trixie had refused to go home, and sent Skye there to pick up some clothes for her to wear that day. Owen had greeted her with a stoic expression and hadn’t asked about Trixie’s whereabouts. Skye had peeked in the dining room and found the guests eating coffee cake, muffins, and donuts that looked suspiciously like the ones sold in the grocery store’s freezer section.

  The two couples seemed happy enough with the food, chatting about what they were hoping to find at the sale and commenting on the concert the night before, but the man sitting alone at the other end of the table was clearly displeased with the situation and sat crumbling the pastries on his plate rather than eating them.

  When he spotted Skye, he raised his voice and said, “We were promised homemade country cuisine, not grocery store rejects. Everybody does not like Sara Lee.”

  Skye had pretended not to hear him and backed out of the room, thinking that he must be Montgomery Lapp. She wondered how he would handle the predicted ninety-degree heat dressed in a long-sleeve fuchsia silk shirt, black jeans, and an elaborately embroidered vest.

  Skye’s morning had gone further downhill when she dropped off Trixie’s suitcase and reported that Owen had managed to feed their guests. Trixie’s reaction had not been pretty. Comments concerning Lorena Bobbitt’s handling of a badly behaved husband had filled the air, and Skye wondered if she should call Owen and warn him to hide the butcher knives and protect his privates should his wife show up looking for him.

  Now the media were howling at Skye’s door, but not as loudly as Dante was screaming from behind his. Skye escaped into her office before her uncle spotted her, stowed her purse in the desk drawer, and checked her watch. Hard to believe it was only five to eight. It felt more like high noon.

  Her phone rang. She warily picked it up. “Route 66 Yard Sale. May I help you?” She listened for a moment and said, “No comment.”

  After she hung up on the reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times, she noticed that her message light was blinking like a Christmas tree bulb about to burn out. Pulling up the desk chair, she sank into it and pushed PLAY. Only two communications were from someone other than a newspaper reporter or TV station. One was from Frannie, her voice shaky, saying not to bother to call back, she’d catch up to Skye later. The other was from the sheriff, wanting to talk to her immediately.

  Skye sat back and contemplated the ceiling. There really was no contest. She dialed. On the fourth ring a machine picked up and a male voice said, “The Ryans are not available to take your call at this moment. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  She left the required information and added a sketchy idea of where she could be found throughout the day. Skye was worried. Where could Frannie be at eight a.m. on a summer morning?

  Just as Skye picked up the receiver to phone the sheriff, Dante bellowed, “I can hear you in there. Get your ass in here right now.”

  Skye contemplated ignoring her uncle, but knew he would get worse until she took the thorn out of whichever paw was hurting him.

  Dante didn’t look up as she entered his office. He finished shouting into the telephone and banged down the handset. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Skye considered a smart retort, since her day didn’t officially begin until eight, but instead listed her morning’s itinerary, concluding with “Then I risked life and limb to fight my way through the media mob to come here.”

  “We have to stop this.” Dante abruptly stood up, knocking his chair over. “Between those stupid reporters and the idiot cops, they’ll ruin my yard sale.”

  For once her uncle had a point, but Skye wasn’t sure what he expected her to do about it.

  “You know, if my sale is ruined, you don’t get your bonus.”

  “But this isn’t my fault,” Skye protested. She had worked hard for that money, and she needed it or she’d lose her chance to buy the cottage.

  “I didn’t say it was your fault. I said I was going to blame you for it.”

  Skye didn’t normally react well to coercion, but as she watched Dante pace, an idea started to form. She grabbed a legal pad and pen from his desk and plopped down on a nearby chair.

  What seemed like only minutes later, she noticed a shadow looming over her and looked up.

  Dante was straining to see what she was writing. Finally, he demanded, “What? What? You got an idea?”

  “Maybe.” Skye pursed her lips. “Sit down and let me go through the whole thing before you comment.”

  Dante grumbled, but sat down. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  “There’s nothing much we can do about the deputies, but at least there aren’t many of them, and I bet they’ll mostly be gone after today. The sheriff may stick around, but not for long.” Skye sat forward. “As for the media, I think you should hold a press conference this afternoon. Right now they’re in a feeding frenzy, trying to scoop each other, but if we give them all the information we have, let them take their pictures of you and the crime scene and Cookie’s store, maybe they’ll be satiated. Then tonight we have a little memorial ceremony for Cookie, and that should signal closure to them.” Skye had one last idea. “And if that isn’t enough, we tell them that although we don’t have any more info, maybe they should talk to the sheriff’s department or the deputy coroner.”

  Dante nodded as Skye spoke, and when she finished he said, “I like that. Both the sheriff’s office and the deputy coroner’s are way the hell over in Laurel. It will get them out of here.”

  “I am curious about one thing.” Skye wrinkled her brow. “Why are the media so interested in Cookie’s murder? We’ve had murders here before without this kind of attention.”

  “That’s a good question. Maybe you should ask the sheriff when you tell him about the press conference.”

  “Me!” Skye squeaked. “I mean, I think you should talk to him—head man to head man.”

  “Maybe.” Dante crossed his arms. “But he wants to talk to you anyway, so you’re elected.” He looked at his watch. “You’d better call him right now. Otherwise you’ll be late for your shift at the family farm stand.” He sighed, an expression of martyrdom on his face. “Since you’ll be so busy, I’ll arrange the press conference and memorial myself.”

  “Fine. Don’t forget to invite the Scumble River Star’s owner, Kathy Steele, and Vickie from the Laurel Herald News. We don’t want to insult the local papers.” Skye hoped her school newspaper staff didn’t get wind of the conference, as this wasn’t really an appropriate story for a school paper, but she’d bet good money that either Frannie or Justin or both would show up.

  When Skye went back to her office and called the sheriff’s department, she was told that Sheriff Peterson had set up a temporary office in the Scumble River Police Department, and she was to report to him there immediately.

  She ducked out the back door of the city hall and into the PD’s garage, using that entrance so she wouldn’t have to deal with the throng of reporters waiting out front. One of the part-time dispatchers Skye didn’t know very well was on the phone. She buzzed Skye inside and pointed to the interrogation room.

  Buck Peterson was sitting at the table smoking a cigar, drinking coffee, and reading the Laurel Herald News as she walked in. He looked up and ordered, “Sit down, shut up unless you’re answering a question, and tell the truth.”

  Skye sat, but made no additional promises.

  The sheriff took a last slurp of coffee, folded the paper and pushed it aside, then blew a noxious cloud of smoke in her direction. “You didn’t mention to me yesterday that you had bee
n fired by the victim earlier this summer. Why?”

  “I never thought about it.” Skye coughed out her answer.

  “That’s funny, because I hear it was real bad. That she even struck you with a sword.”

  “Who told you that?” Skye had never mentioned to anyone that Cookie had hit her.

  “An anonymous tip. How bad was it? Did it make you mad enough to want to kill her?”

  “No!” Skye drew in a sharp breath. Did the sheriff really mink she had killed Cookie? “Look, we had a disagreement about business ethics, she fired me, and I got a better-paying job that same afternoon.” Skye calmed down, and reason flowed back into her thinking. “Besides, if I’d been mad enough to do her harm, it would have been eight weeks ago, not yesterday.”

  “Ah, but that same tipster said they saw you talking to Cookie at her table the day before, and she was crying.” The sheriff leaned forward and waved the lighted cigar in Skye’s face. “So, what was that all about?”

  No way would Skye implicate Mrs. Griggs. Technically the sheriff should already be aware of her problems with Cookie, but if he couldn’t put two and two together, Skye would certainly not be the one to give him a calculator. She thought fast. She would tell the truth, just not the whole truth.

  “Well?”

  Skye met and held his gaze. “I’m the yard sale coordinator. I check on every table, booth, and stand throughout the day. When I got to Cookie’s she was having an argument with someone. By the time I made it through the crowd, whoever she was fighting with was gone and she was in tears.”

  “Who was she fighting with?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “How convenient.”

  Skye shrugged and waited. The sheriff smoked in silence. Finally, she asked, “Do you have any idea why the media are so interested in this murder? We’ve had murders here before, and no one but the local papers paid any attention.”

  Peterson took his time before answering. “Turns out the vic was married to some big-shot politician in Chicago who died in bed with a hooker a few years ago. He was dressed as a nun and the hooker was dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl. The media went wild. Cookie disappeared. Now she turns up murdered in Scumble River using her maiden name.”

  Skye nodded. Yep. That would make the media go crazy, all right. “Was she hiding from something or someone?”

  “Just reporters. Those bastards made her life so miserable she had to leave Chicago in order to get any peace.” Sheriff Peterson shook his head, a look of sympathy on his gruff face. “Her family knew she was here.”

  “Oh.” Skye felt a ripple of guilt. Once again she had judged someone too harshly without knowing the whole story. After Cookie’s awful experience with her husband, no wonder she was aloof and standoffish. Of course, that didn’t excuse her trying to swindle little old ladies out of their assets. “By the way, the mayor wanted me to tell you he’ll be having a press conference this afternoon and a memorial for Cookie tonight.”

  Peterson stalked out of the room without responding, but once he left Skye could hear him screaming. She couldn’t tell whom he was yelling at or what he was saying, but she didn’t think he was complimenting anyone on having done a good job.

  When he came back, he made Skye tell him about being fired again. He kept her for another hour, making her repeat what she had already said several times, then he let her go with the admonition not to leave town. All through the rest of the interrogation she kept wondering who the anonymous tipster could be and how he knew things that only she and Cookie could have known.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jeopardy

  The press conference was a success. Justin hadn’t shown up, but Frannie had, though Skye hadn’t been able to talk to her. The teen kept to the back, and Dante wouldn’t let Skye stray more than a few feet from his side.

  By late afternoon it looked as if the yard sale would continue as planned. Skye was relieved that the event seemed to be saved. She hated to be mercenary, but she really needed the bonus Dante had promised her. If she lost her cottage, she didn’t know what she would do.

  They held the memorial in front of Cookie’s store. She had not attended any of the local churches, so Dante read a passage from the Bible and the president of the Scumble River Merchants Association gave a brief eulogy. The ceremony was well attended, but afterward the crowd broke up quickly, and it was only five to eight when Skye started her drive home.

  She used her key to let herself into her parents’ darkened house. Where was everyone? She walked through the utility room and flipped on the lights in the kitchen. On the counter was a place setting with a note in the middle of the plate:

  Skye, Trixie and I have gone to Joliet for supper at Applebee’s and then we’re going to a movie. There’s fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits in the oven. Coleslaw is in the fridge. This is for you. Don’t give it to your father! Love, Mom and Trixie.

  Skye whistled under her breath. Things really were getting bad between her folks if May had stopped feeding Jed.

  Before having dinner, Skye checked on Bingo, who was curled up asleep in the middle of her bed. She gave him fresh water, cleaned his litter box, and put dry food in his bowl.

  Having taken care of the cat’s needs, Skye checked the answering machine. Simon had phoned a few minutes before she got home and said he would be tied up the rest of the night. He’d talk to her tomorrow.

  Skye exhaled noisily; in truth, she was a bit relieved to have missed his call. She was really beat, and welcomed the silence of the empty house. After a quick shower, she put on her nightgown and robe and sat down to eat.

  Only then did she realize that there was still no sign of her father. She got back up and checked the house, but he wasn’t there. She flipped on the outside lights and walked across the driveway to the detached garage. Jed’s truck was missing and so was he.

  Skye chewed her lip. Where could he be? He rarely left the house on a weeknight. Her best guess was that he was at the tavern having a beer and commiserating with the other men about the women in their lives, or at his brother’s having a beer and commiserating with Wiley about the women in their lives, or at the Moose Lodge in Laurel having a beer and commiserating with his brother Moose about the women in their lives.

  She just hoped he got back before May did. Skye did not want to play marriage counselor tonight, especially after the day she’d had—although she knew that sometime real soon she would have to do just that.

  As she ate supper, she remembered she hadn’t called Mrs. Griggs or talked to Bunny. She really should call them tonight. It was close to nine-thirty, but if she called right now it would still be okay, as ten was the official witching hour in Scumble River.

  Skye sighed, pushed her plate away, and laid her head on the counter. She’d rest for just a second while she figured out what she wanted to say to Bunny and Mrs. Griggs. Then she would call them.

  Two hours later, the doorbell’s harsh chime woke her up. Skye shot off the stool and looked around, dazed and confused. The back of her neck hurt, and it seemed she had taken a nap in her dinner—the left side of her head was encrusted with mashed potatoes.

  The doorbell rang again, and Skye grabbed a dish towel, trying to remove the food caked in her face and hair. In mid-wipe it dawned on her. Where was everyone? A quick glance at the clock informed her that it was past eleven-thirty. Her parents and Trixie should be home, but surely they hadn’t walked past her-snoozing facedown in her supper plate and left her there.

  A third peal of the doorbell sent Skye flying into the utility room. The outside lights were still on from her earlier trip to the garage, so she could clearly see who was standing on the patio—and how hard she was crying.

  For a nanosecond Skye wondered how her parents’ house had turned into Heartbreak Hotel, but she squashed that thought as she flung open the door and drew the weeping girl inside.

  “He’s gone!”

  “What?” Skye guided Frannie into the living room, se
ttled her on the couch, and sat on the coffee table facing her. “Who’s gone?”

  “Justin. We had a huge fight this morning, and I didn’t see him all day, and now his mother called, and he’s gone.”

  Skye felt her chest tighten. She had seen Justin for counseling from the middle of eighth grade until the end of his sophomore year this past June, when she’d dismissed him from services. She was sure he had made sufficient progress with his self-esteem to handle his dysfunctional family and the other problems in his life without her assistance. Had she been wrong?

  Skye patted Frannie’s hand. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened from the beginning.”

  There was a hitch in Frannie’s voice as she started to talk. “When I got home last night from my great-aunt’s birthday party, one of my friends from the paper called and told me she saw Justin and Bitsy making out at the concert.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say they were making out,” Skye murmured before she could stop herself.

  “So, you saw them, too.” Frannie pounced on that detail. “Anyway, this morning Justin showed up at my house and tried to act like nothing had happened.”

  “Maybe nothing did happen.”

  The look Frannie gave Skye could have cooked bacon faster than a microwave. “I couldn’t let him make a fool out of me, so we had a huge fight and I told him to get lost.”

  Skye winced at the girl’s choice of words.

  “I didn’t see him all day, which didn’t surprise me, but about an hour ago the phone rang, and it was his mother. She wanted to know if he was at my house. I said no, she should check with Bitsy, but then I got to thinking, so I sneaked out and drove by Bitsy’s house, and there weren’t any lights on. I don’t think he’s there.” Frannie ended with a sob.

  Skye moved to take the teen in her arms, but stopped. She was alone with an underage girl and had on only a robe—this was one of those situations they warned you about in school psychology classes.