Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery

by Swanson, Denise

  Trixie grumbled, “How can you defend men? All they think of is one thing, and once they get that they fall asleep and snore so loud it sounds as if the roof is going to fall in.”

  May added her two cents. “I didn’t raise my daughter to be a traitor to her sex. If you were married, you wouldn’t think men are so terrific.” She jabbed Skye in the chest with her index finger. “You need to get married so you can be fed up like the rest of us.”

  Skye was recoiling from her mother’s pokes when Frannie squealed and leapt up from her chair. The high-pitched screech and the teenager’s sudden movement made Skye jump backward, but there was no place to go. She was already up against the railing. In that instant she felt herself lose her balance and topple over the side of the boat.

  As she hit the water she heard Frannie say, “Crap! I forgot. I’m supposed to be home by six o’clock.”

  Skye bobbed to the surface, chilled and disoriented. Trixie and May were peering down at her. In between giggles they were calling her name and throwing her life preservers, which hit her on the head and bounced away. Frannie had dived into the water to save her and was frantically trying to get her arm around Skye’s throat in the classic lifeguard hold.

  Skye slapped the teenager away and glared up at her mother and best friend. “That was not funny.”

  May gave one more burst of laughter before getting herself somewhat under control. Trixie continued to snicker. Frannie wisely said nothing, paddling beside Skye but safely out of her reach.

  May and Trixie whispered something to each other, then Trixie leaned over the side of the boat and said, “We’ve decided you can’t come back on board until you tell us a problem you have with Simon.”

  May crossed her arms. “Yeah. You take that man too much for granted.”

  Skye sputtered. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” Trixie shook her head. “Tell us something Simon does that bugs you or stay in the water.”

  Ignoring her mother and friend, Skye swam toward the back of the pontoon, but when she attempted to climb up the ladder Trixie pushed her off.

  Skye seethed. What could she tell them? Simon was perfect. Wait a minute. Maybe that was the problem. He was too perfect. Perfection did not encourage passion. There was that word again. When had she started to feel indifferent toward Simon? Okay, she certainly wasn’t sharing any of those thoughts out loud while her mother and a student listened. What else could she say that would satisfy them?

  “Simon is a morning person and thinks that my liking to sleep late is silly.” Skye had started to shiver, and she was close to admitting to anything in order to get back on the boat. “He bought me this darn alarm clock that drives me out of my mind.”

  Trixie and May conferred, then Trixie shouted, “What else?”

  “He thinks punctuality is next to godliness.” Skye ground her teeth as thoughts of revenge against her mom and her best friend danced through her head. “He can’t stand it if I’m even a minute late.”

  May snorted. “That’s nothing. Your father gets into the car fifteen minutes before we’re scheduled to leave and blows the horn until I come out. What else?”

  Skye had had enough. “What do you want me to say, Mom, that Simon eats his young?” she snapped.

  “Simon has kids?” May looked confused, the margaritas and mudslides having taken their toll. “Are they my grandchildren?”

  “Well, they were,” Skye retorted. “Before he ate them, that is.”

  Trixie and Frannie broke up, their laughter loud on the silent river.

  Finally Trixie regained her breath and said, “Come on, Skye, surely you can think of something about Simon that really ticks you off.”

  After a long pause, Skye exploded. “He’s always right! No matter what the subject, if we disagree, he’s always proven right. And I hate that.”

  Trixie looked at May, who nodded, then said, “That wins the prize.” She gestured for Skye to get back on board.

  Frannie followed Skye silently up the ladder.

  As Skye toweled dry, picking off weeds and wiping away green slime, she remembered what had caused her dunking and looked at her wrist. It was bare. “What time is it?”

  May squinted at her watch. “Nearly nine.”

  “Shit!”

  “Watch your language, Missy,” May ordered.

  “That means Frannie’s three hours late. We’ll have to go back ASAP. Xavier will be frantic.”

  Frannie moaned. “I always ruin everything.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.” Trixie put her arm around the teen’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug, then turned to the steering wheel.

  But before she could start the motor, Frannie yelled, “No! Wait. Dad’s cell phone.” Frannie dug in her tote bag, then waved a small silver rectangle at them. “When Ms. Caldwell was murdered, he gave it to me for emergencies, but I keep forgetting I have it since I can’t use it for anything else.”

  Skye glanced at Trixie, who nodded. “I think this qualifies as an emergency. You’d better call your dad right away.”

  Frannie started to punch the buttons, then stopped. “Could you talk to him, Ms. D? He’ll just yell at me and won’t give me a chance to explain.”

  Skye fought the school psychologist inside of her; she really shouldn’t interfere between Frannie and her father, but her affection for the girl made her say, “Give it to me.”

  When Xavier answered, she moved as far away as she could from the others, not wanting to be distracted. “Hi, Xavier. It’s Skye.” She explained the situation, then listened to his reply.

  He was not happy, but neither was he the screaming ogre Frannie had portrayed. When he finished, Skye said, “Thank you. I really do think it was an honest mistake on her part, and we’ll keep a close eye on her, I promise.”

  Skye listened a bit more and said, “Sure, she’s right here.”

  Skye walked back toward where everyone was huddled and handed Frannie the phone. “Your dad would like a word with you.”

  As Frannie went to the rear of the boat to talk, two pairs of eyes turned to Skye. She gave them a thumbs-up. “Frannie can stay with us as long as she never leaves our sight and is home by midnight.”

  Frannie clicked the phone off and hurried toward Skye, her face a pale oval in the dim light. “Justin called while I was gone.”

  “Is he all right?” Skye asked, her heart pounding painfully.

  Trixie grabbed Frannie, who was swaying slightly, and seated her in a lawn chair. “Take a deep breath.”

  Frannie put her hands on her knees, bent over, and inhaled. “Dad said there was a message from Justin on our machine. He played it for me.”

  “Is Justin home?” Skye couldn’t stop herself from jumping in.

  “No. He said he had found out some stuff that messed him up and he needed to be alone to think about it. But he was okay.”

  “What could he have discovered?” Trixie mused.

  “That I was mad at him?” Frannie asked with the self-absorption of a typical teen.

  Skye put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I think it was probably something a little more …” She struggled for the right word, not wanting to belittle Frannie’s feelings. “… a little more surprising.”

  “Yeah, he knew I was mad. That wasn’t exactly a stop-the-presses kind of discovery.”

  “Stop the presses,” Trixie reiterated thoughtfully. “Mmm, maybe he was investigating a story for the school paper and found out something.”

  “Right.” Skye thought for a moment. “And what’s currently the big story?” She answered herself. “The murder.”

  May had clearly decided she’d been silent long enough. “Which one?”

  “Good point, Mom,” Skye acknowledged. “He would have been investigating Cookie Caldwell’s murder, but maybe hearing about Mrs. Griggs’s death last night was what motivated him to call.”

  Trixie nodded. “Sure. He’s nosing around the first crime and finds out something
that bothers him, something he doesn’t know what to do with, but when he hears about the second killing, he wants to reassure everyone he’s okay.” She turned to Frannie. “Can you remember what his message said exactly?”

  Frannie closed her eyes and recited slowly, obviously struggling to recall the precise words. “‘Hi, Frannie, this is Justin. I’m fine, but I found out some shit that pissed me off, and I need some time alone to figure out some stuff. Tell my parents I’m okay and I’ll be home soon. Hope you’re not still mad at me.”’

  “Call Mr. and Mrs. Boward right now,” Skye directed, feeling guilty because she hadn’t thought of that immediately.

  While Frannie spoke to Justin’s parents, the other three women continued to discuss what his call might have meant.

  Frannie rejoined them. “Mrs. Boward said she’d let the police know.”

  “Good.” Skye was silent for a minute, then asked, “Could you tell by the time he left the message—did he expect you to be home, or was he trying to get your machine so he wouldn’t have to talk to you?”

  Frannie’s eyes widened. “That creep! He called when he knew I’d be at my dance lesson. And here I was feeling bad about not being there for him.”

  May patted Frannie’s hand. “Men are like Ziploc bags. They hold everything in, but you can always see right through them.”

  Skye was glad she hadn’t just taken a drink of something, or she would have spewed it all over herself. Trixie was laughing so hard it looked like she was about to pee her pants. And Frannie was giggling, seeming more like her normal self for the first time since she had remembered her curfew and accidentally caused Skye to fall overboard.

  Skye had to admit, a girls’ night out had been just what she needed. All except tumbling into the river and having her mother and best friend torture her until she told them what they wanted to know. She wasn’t forgetting that, and eventually they would be made to pay. It might not be right away, but when they were least expecting it, she would settle the score.

  After getting the good news that Justin was okay, even though not back home, the women had decided to continue pontooning. The rest of the evening, they’d laughed, sung, and bonded over the impossibility of ever understanding men. For a couple of hours they had been able to forget the murders, the yard sale, and, more important, their troubles.

  Skye and the others dropped Frannie off at ten to twelve and watched until she was safely inside. Trixie was next. Skye was surprised to see Owen sitting on the front porch when she turned the car into the driveway. Skye waved, but either he didn’t see her or he was ignoring her.

  Trixie hopped out of the Bel Air in a flurry of hugs and good-byes. As Skye backed the car out onto the street, she wondered what Owen would have to say. His expression was hard to read at the best of times, and in the semidarkness, she couldn’t tell a thing. He could be about to apologize or ask for a divorce, for all Skye could make out.

  Although it was only a few minutes between the Frayne and Denison farms, May was already snoring lightly when Skye parked in front of the garage on her mother’s side.

  May woke up with a start as the car stopped. “What? Oh, we’re home. Good. I’m tired. ‘Night.”

  “‘Night, Mom. Sleep tight.” Skye watched as her mom tottered into the house still half asleep. There was little chance Jed was still awake, which was probably for the best. If Jed and May could only get to the weekend without a fight, and he kept his promise and finished with Bunny’s Camaro, then maybe they could straighten things out between them.

  Skye forced herself to return the cooler and picnic basket to their appointed places in the garage. Then she picked up her tote bag from the car and went inside. Tired as she was, she made sure the back door was locked and the lights were turned out before trudging into her bedroom.

  She peeled off her shorts, T-shirt, and the clammy swim-suit underneath, then tried to figure out where her nightgown was. Had she ever been this exhausted before? She wanted to wash her face and brush her teeth, but the bathroom was just too far away. Still wondering what she had done with her nightgown, she fell into bed. She had a vague impression of Bingo curling up on her back, then nothing until morning, when all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER 19

  Twilight Zone

  It was tough getting up Thursday morning, but Skye finally dragged herself out of bed at eight o’clock. Actually prying her eyes open and then pulling herself together took another hour.

  Upon checking her parents’ answering machine, she discovered that she had once again missed Simon’s nightly call. His message sounded a bit put out, and after stopping to think, Skye realized that the last time she had actually talked to him had been Sunday evening. She had missed him the last four times he had called. He knew nothing of Alma Griggs’s murder or Justin’s disappearance.

  Simon had left a new number for her, saying he had checked out of the hotel and was now staying with his friend Spike. He also said he would phone Thursday at ten p.m. her time and hoped she would be there.

  Skye resolved to be available for the call, even if she had to lock herself and the phone in the bathroom an hour before the appointed time.

  Maybe she should try reaching him right now, since for once she was home alone—her mom had the early-morning duty at the Denison/Leofanti booth, and her dad was working on Bunny’s Camaro. She reached for the receiver but then hesitated. It was only seven a.m. California time, and while Simon was an early riser, that didn’t mean his friend was, too. She’d better wait for his call that night.

  She had just sat down with a cup of coffee—tea just wouldn’t do this morning—when the doorbell started ringing.

  Before she could put her mug down, the ringing bell changed to pounding, accompanied by shouting. “Open up. Sheriff’s Department.”

  Skye choked on the swallow she had just taken, and she was still coughing while she fumbled with the lock. As soon as it clicked, Buck Peterson thrust the door open. The glass rattled as the frame banged into the wall. Her breath caught in her lungs as the sheriff, followed by a deputy, pushed their way into the utility room.

  Peterson spoke brusquely. “Skye Denison, we’ve come to escort you to the sheriff’s office. We have some questions to ask you.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. The pulse in her neck felt as if it was beating at ten times the normal rate. “Wha—?”

  He grabbed her by the upper arm and started to pull her out the door before she could complete the word. “You can either come with us voluntarily or we’ll arrest you and take you in handcuffs,” he snarled.

  A part of her listened to the sheriff, while the other part noticed that the deputy had disappeared down the hallway toward her bedroom.

  “Why?” Skye asked, stalling and trying to figure out what she should do. “Where’s your deputy going?”

  The sheriff ignored her questions and silently marched her out the door.

  “Hey, I need to leave a note for my parents.” Skye tried to squirm out of his grasp.

  He continued to ignore her and shoved her into the back of his squad car.

  Skye briefly thanked God that there were no neighbors close enough to see her being taken away by the sheriff like this. She felt her chest tightening. This was mortifying.

  Peterson ordered her to buckle her seat belt, then got into the driver’s seat. She leaned forward, threading her fingers through the metal grill separating the front and back, and tried again to ask what was going on.

  Peterson cut her off. “Sit still and shut up.” He looked straight ahead until his deputy came out of the house and got into the passenger side of the cruiser. Then he asked, “Anything?”

  The deputy shook his head, and the sheriff started the engine and slowly backed out of the long driveway.

  What had she done? What was happening? The forty-five-minute ride to Laurel, where the sheriff’s office was located, was excruciating. Skye’s emotions ranged from outrage to fear and back again. The two men did
n’t speak, and the radio crackled but was otherwise quiet.

  After a while Skye noticed that the back of the sheriff’s vehicle was a lot different from the back of Wally’s squad car. While Wally’s was clean enough to perform surgery in, the sheriff’s could easily have been mistaken for the city dump.

  Fast-food wrappers, newspapers, and cigar butts littered the floor. The seat itself felt sticky, and Skye could only hope it was spilled soda and not some disgusting bodily fluid. Worst of all was the stench, a combination of stale cigarette smoke, urine, and vomit. Since she tended to get motion sick if she rode in the backseat, she was worried she might contribute to both the mess and the odor.

  Finally Sheriff Peterson parked in his designated spot in front of the county building and yanked Skye out of the vehicle. Icy fear swept through her as he marched her in silence down the sidewalk and up the stairs. The deputy did not accompany them into the main office; instead he turned off into a hallway on their right.

  The sheriff grunted to the dispatcher as they passed by. “Call the jail for a matron.”

  Peterson deposited her in a stark room with only a table and two chairs and locked the door behind him. Dread twisted Skye’s heart. Why had she been brought here? What should she do? Who could she call? Would Wally help her? This was bad. This was very bad. She tried to retrieve the anger she had initially felt over her treatment, but she was too scared. This was even worse than she had originally thought.

  On the ride over it had dawned on her that they wouldn’t be treating her this way unless they thought she was the murderer. What had made them think that? Skye forced herself to focus, but couldn’t come up with anything except that she’d been the one to find Mrs. Griggs’s body. Surely that wasn’t enough for them to arrest her.

  After what felt to Skye like the longest wait of her life, Peterson walked back into the room, a tall woman in a tan uniform following him. The woman wore no makeup and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She sat on the molded plastic chair she had carried into the room and placed in the corner. Her gray eyes held no empathy as she gave Skye a quick once-over.