Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

by Denise Swanson

  Desperate, she decided to go with the obvious, wishing she had her walkie-talkie and identification card with her. Why hadn’t she thought to bring them? This was a crime scene. The only reason she could come up with for her lapse was waking up before the break of dawn two mornings in a row. Skye’s mind never did work well when she was sleep-deprived.

  Shrugging off the excuses, she said, “Ms. King, I’m the psychological consultant for the Scumble River Police Department. Please put your newspaper down and step away from the Doozier.”

  Skye wasn’t sure if the woman finally noticed that Earl’s relatives could have passed for the cast of The Addams Family or if she was impressed by Skye’s title, but Ms. King stepped back from the little man and turned on Skye. “Are you in charge?” While Skye pondered that question, Ms. King strode over to her and said, “This man is going around offering people money to use their points on his wife’s recipe. And if they refuse he intimates that physical harm will befall them.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard.” Skye nodded. “I’m here to put a stop to it.”

  Earl had been backing away from Skye and Ms. King, but when Skye spoke he stopped and bleated, “Now, Miz Skye. You can’t do that. There ain’t nothin’ in the rules that says I can’t reward people for doin’ a good thing or punish them if they don’t.”

  Skye paused. Why did that sound so familiar?

  “After all, ain’t you been tellin’ me and tellin’ me that’s what I needs to do with the kids?” Earl answered her unspoken question.

  Ms. King glared at Skye and took a step closer. “You told him to do this?”

  All eyes swung toward her. The crowd buzzed with comments, all of them malevolent. Skye cringed. With the Dooziers, ignorance was not a barrier to self-expression.

  As if to prove Skye’s thoughts correct, Glenda pointed her pink acrylic fingernail at Skye. “That’s right. She told us it was okay.”

  Skye gulped. “No. That’s not what I meant.” They were twisting what she had been trying to show them about positive reinforcement. “Earl, you know that wasn’t what I was trying to teach you. Tell them the truth.”

  Earl squirmed under her stare, but then looked at his wife, who waved her frying pan, and at the large woman, who shook her rolled-up newspaper at him. “I’m sorry, Miz Skye, but you did say it.”

  Great, she was about to be torn apart by a mob at a cooking contest because she had tried to teach some parenting techniques to two people who should never have been allowed to breed in the first place. There was some irony in this, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  She swallowed—her throat had gone dry—then raised her voice and tried to explain one more time. “Look, everyone, I’m a school psychologist. I was trying to teach them parenting skills. I certainly did not tell them they could use those methods to try to cheat in this contest.”

  Ms. King glared at Skye. “That’s all fine and good, except how do we know how many people he’s already bribed? My son is entered in this contest, and Butch deserves to win. If he loses to this … this … tramp, it will be on your shoulders.”

  Glenda narrowed her rabbitlike brown eyes. “Who you callin’ a tramp, you old cow?” She raised the cast-iron skillet, but before she could bring it down on the other woman’s head a flash went off.

  Skye whirled around. They had been discovered by the media. Reporters were taking notes, photographers were clicking cameras, and the local TV station was zooming in.

  Briefly, Skye considered throwing her apron over her face and making a run for it. But since several flashes had already gone off and the TV camera had been rolling for who knew how long, what was the use? Besides, those people who ran from the courthouse to their limos with their coats over their heads always looked guiltier than if they had walked erect, maintaining an innocent expression and saying, “No comment.”

  Still, someone should try to do something to mitigate the damage. Grandma Sal and her company had been wonderful to the community for years and years, and this type of media exposure couldn’t be good for the Fine Foods brand. Where were the business’s PR people? Surely they could handle the situation.

  Skye’s gaze searched the crowd as her mind rummaged around for an idea. On her second sweep of the throng, Skye narrowed her eyes and shaded them with her hand. Was that Brandon and JJ standing just beyond the media?

  Yes. JJ, the pudgy one with the blond curls, had just joined Brandon, the slim, dark-haired one. She made her way toward them, and when she could speak without having to shout, she said, “JJ, Brandon, you need to do something. This will look awful on the six-o’clock news.”

  Brandon asked, “What happened?”

  Skye explained the Dooziers as well as she could, then described the situation with Ms. King, ending with, “Then the mob turned on me, but Ms. King insulted Glenda Doozier, and that diverted everyone’s attention.”

  JJ bit his thumbnail. “We’d better get Dad and Grandma.”

  Both JJ and Brandon had their cell phones out in a flash.

  Skye opened her mouth to suggest that two grown men should be able to handle the situation on their own, but then realized that both these guys were very young for their age, having led protected and pampered lives. Chronologically they may have been in their late twenties, but emotionally they were probably closer to sixteen or seventeen. Frannie and Justin were more mature than these two.

  As his fingers flew over the tiny buttons, JJ said, “I’m calling Dad; you get Grandma.”

  Brandon nodded, pressing a few numbers.

  JJ and Brandon were still trying to get a signal on their cell phones when a gunshot rang out through the warehouse. Instinctively Skye went into bodyguard mode and tackled the young men, sending them all to the floor in a gigantic heap.

  As Skye worked her way free of tangled arms and legs, having somehow ended up on the bottom of the pile, she heard more screams and shouts. Her first clear view was of running feet and a panicked crowd. Only the thought of her burning casserole motivated her to continue freeing herself rather than pulling JJ and Brandon back over herself like a blanket.

  CHAPTER 15

  Add Nuts

  It had taken Skye several minutes to persuade JJ and Brandon to get off of her. They had been reluctant to stand up, even after they were reassured that there would be no more shooting.

  The situation had disintegrated so quickly, she could hardly blame them for being a bit disinclined to leap into the fray. There had been the gunshot, which caused the audience to charge toward the exit like a tidal wave mowing down anyone and anything in its path. Next there was a dramatic showdown between Hap and the factory security guards, who had appeared just in time to witness Hap twirling his pistol in the air and yelling drunkenly, “Yee-haw! Let’s get this here shindig started.”

  Apparently Skye had been mistaken in her initial assessment—Hap Doozier had been armed after all.

  The guards must have been used to dealing with inebriated counterfeit cowboys, because they snuck up behind Hap and had him roped and tied so fast they would have won the first-prize buckle if Hap-busting had been a rodeo event.

  As they passed her, Skye heard one of the security men shouting into his walkie-talkie, arranging for the police to pick up the errant Jesse James. She smiled in relief when one of the other guards commented that Hap was on his way back to prison, since possession of a firearm was a violation of his parole.

  While the Fines and their PR staff worked on getting the stampeded people back inside and in their seats, Skye finally headed to her workspace. By now her casserole was probably a charcoal briquette, and there wasn’t enough time to make another, but at least no one had gotten hurt. She told herself again and again that that was all that mattered, hoping May would buy into that sentiment when she heard about the incident.

  Earl had been banned from the premises, and the Fines had announced that his Earl dollars were worthless, but Glenda was allowed to remain and compete. She had somehow convinced G
randma Sal that she was an innocent victim of her husband’s stupidity—which was not a far stretch from the truth. It appeared that the only casualty of the Dooziers’ antics might be Skye’s Chicken Supreme.

  Behind the spotlights and inside the cubicles, everything appeared normal. If the contestants had heard the ruckus on the other side of the warehouse, either they had ignored it or taken a look and were already back at their stoves. There were only fifteen minutes left on the clock, and many of the finalists were putting the last-minute touches on their dishes. Those who had finished were cleaning up.

  Skye approached her space with trepidation. She sniffed. No smell of smoke. She checked the floor and partitions. Nothing seemed freshly soaked. Could Bunny have actually come through for her?

  Stepping around the corner, Skye held her breath, then exhaled it loudly. The stove and counter looked just as she had left them, but Bunny was gone. Skye checked the oven. Her casserole was gone, too.

  It looked as if Bunny had actually taken the dish from the oven and brought it to the contest staff. Hope flared in Skye’s chest until she remembered that the casserole needed the bread-crumb topping to be complete. Without it she’d be disqualified.

  She sank onto the chair and pushed Bunny’s abandoned magazine off the seat, watching the shiny pages slither to the ground. Shit! If only Bunny had followed instructions and just taken the dish from the oven, Skye could have still gotten it topped and into the contest official’s hands in time.

  But that was Bunny’s curse. She always meant well, but things never turned out right for her. It was hard to understand how she remained such an optimist.

  Simon would have said it was because most of the trouble his mother caused was for other people. Nevertheless, no one ended up on the shady side of fifty, managing a bowling alley in a small town, dependent on the goodwill of a son she was estranged from, and with a daughter she had met only a few months ago, without making some really bad choices.

  Skye felt drained. There was nothing she could do now. The decision to find Earl rather than save her dish had been made and there was no going back. She only hoped that May wouldn’t be too disappointed in her.

  Willing herself to get up off the chair, Skye started to rise just as the ending whistle blew. The contest was officially over.

  Seconds later Bunny flew into the workspace. She beamed at Skye and threw a pair of pot holders toward the counter, not appearing to notice when they missed by several inches and dropped to the floor.

  Skye picked them up, stalling for time while she tried to think of what to say. Bunny had tried her best, and Skye didn’t want her to feel unappreciated.

  But Bunny beat her to the punch, grabbing her by the shoulders and waltzing her around the little cubicle. “We did it! I got it to the officials with ten minutes to spare, and she said it looked scrumptious.”

  Skye dug in her heels, forcing the older woman to stop dancing, then squirmed out of her embrace. “I appreciate what you did, Bunny, but you should have waited for me. Without the topping the dish will be disqualified, since it doesn’t match the submitted recipe.”

  Bunny frowned. “But—”

  Skye cut her off. “It’s okay. I know you were just trying to help, but you need to learn to follow directions.”

  “No, I—”

  “I said it was okay. Just don’t tell May. I’ll let her think I screwed up. She’s prepared for that, but to come so close and have this happen would send her blood pressure into the stratosphere.”

  “Wait.” Bunny stamped her foot. “Listen to me. I put the topping on before I brought it over. You had it all ready, and I saw what you did the other two times. So when you were so late, I just sprinkled on the bread crumbs and browned the whole thing for a few minutes in the oven. You won’t be disqualified.”

  Skye opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Had she heard Bunny correctly? Had she really saved the day?

  Gradually Skye’s lips began to twitch. Wait until she told her mother that Bunny, May’s archenemy, had salvaged the Chicken Supreme entry.

  “That’s great!” Giggling, Skye enveloped Bunny in a bear hug. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Too bad you and Sonny Boy aren’t seeing each other anymore. You could tell him his mama finally did something right.”

  Skye swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Bunny a final squeeze before releasing her. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he knows.”

  “Good.” Bunny picked up her magazine and purse. “You don’t need my help cleaning up, do you? Charlie offered me a ride home, and I don’t want to keep the darling man waiting.” Without pausing for a reply, she trotted out the doorway.

  Skye shook her head. With Bunny it was always one hop forward and two hops back. It would have been nice to have help with the cleanup, but considering everything, doing a few dishes and mopping a floor was the least Skye could do for the woman who had saved her casserole.

  She was just putting away the last utensil when May bustled into the cubicle. Her critical stare examined every inch of the workspace. She closed a cupboard door that had been slightly ajar, then ran her finger over the stove’s cooktop. Impassively she opened the oven door, peered inside, and scraped something off the interior with her fingernail, throwing the debris in the wastebasket before acknowledging her daughter’s presence.

  When May straightened, she said, “We can go as soon as you bag the trash.” She held up a white plastic sack closed with a yellow twist tie. “We can throw mine and yours both in the Dumpster on the way out.”

  “Don’t they have someone to do that?” Skye took off her apron and grabbed her purse from a drawer.

  “Yes. Us.” May stared at Skye, then looked pointedly at the trash bin. “Didn’t you read your rule sheet?”

  “Most of it. Why?”

  “Because it states that in case of a draw, either in your category or for the grand prize, the cleanliness of your workstation will be the tiebreaking point.”

  “I saw that, but I didn’t see where it said it included garbage duty.”

  May tsked. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Words that had been forming in Skye all during the contest threatened to spill out, but she swallowed them. Maybe her mother was right. It would be awful to lose five thousand dollars because of an unemptied sack of garbage.

  From what Skye could tell when she and her mother emerged from the cubicle rows, the other finalists seemed to have all left. The judges and photographer remained, as did a large part of the audience, who were milling around tasting the last few dishes.

  As Skye and May headed for the back door, Skye said, “Vince told me you borrowed his cell phone to call Wally, because you remembered something that could help catch the murderer. What was it?”

  May lowered her voice. “I remembered that the person who helped me with my box was left-handed.”

  “How did you notice that?”

  “You know how when you reach for something you usually do it with your dominant side? This guy took my tote bag with his left hand; then, when he carried the box, he switched it to his right and had the box in his left hand.”

  “That’s great, Mom.” Skye tried to think of anyone involved who was left-handed. She hadn’t really paid attention, but she would now. “Did Wally have anything to say? Anything new in the investigations?”

  “I left a message with Thea. She said she hadn’t heard a thing, and that both Wally and Quirk had been in the field the whole day.” May held the door for Skye, then followed her daughter to the Dumpsters.

  Skye heaved her bag into the huge black bin, then took her mother’s and did the same.

  As they walked toward the car, May stopped and picked up a piece of crumpled paper nearly buried in a footprint in the dirt beside the sidewalk. She looked around but there were no trash cans, so she half turned to go back toward the Dumpsters.

  “Just give it to me, Mom.” Skye held out her hand. “I’ll thr
ow it away when I get home.”

  May handed it over, and Skye thrust it into her jeans pocket.

  They got into the car in silence, both exhausted from cooking for nearly eleven straight hours. Skye rested her head on the seat back and closed her eyes, not opening them until she felt the car turn into her driveway.

  May pulled the Olds up to the front walkway and asked, “Do you want Dad and me to pick you up for the square dance and pork-chop supper?”

  “Are they still having that?” Skye had been certain that the event would have been canceled to show respect for the dead finalist.

  “Yes, didn’t you get the flyer?” May rummaged in her purse and handed Skye a sheet of paper, but instead of letting her read it, May continued, “It says that they checked with Cherry’s husband and he said to go ahead. That Cherry wouldn’t want them to call it off.”

  Skye raised an eyebrow. Kyle must know Cherry better than anyone else, but Skye’s impression of the author had been more prima donna and less humanitarian.

  “Do I have to go?” Skye knew the answer before the words left her lips.

  “Dante went to a lot of work organizing this event, and it would be disrespectful to him, Grandma Sal, and the whole community for you not to show up.” May’s lips thinned. “Especially since Dante’s attending, and he only got out of the hospital this morning.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Skye opened her door and slid out.

  “You’re a grown woman. I certainly can’t tell you what to do.”

  Skye muttered under her breath, “Since when?”

  “So, shall we pick you up?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll drive myself.” Skye waved at her mom and started to shut the car door. “Thanks for the ride. See you tonight.”

  May shouted through the closed window, “It starts at seven. Don’t be late.” Without waiting for a response, she tooted the horn and drove off.

  Bingo met Skye as she walked through the front door. His purr-o-meter was turned to high, making his sides vibrate like a bagpipe playing “Amazing Grace.” She scooped him up, rubbing his ears and under his chin.