Murder of a Barbie and Ken

by Denise Swanson

  Skye rocked back on her heels, and her stomach churned. A small voice inside her warned that it was time to leave. She got to her feet and backed away from the balcony. As she turned around, she smacked into what felt like a padded wall. A moist and smelly padded wall.

  Her gaze flew upward. It was Nate Turner. He looked like Bigfoot in a tank top. Rolls of flesh covered with a dense overlay of oily brown hair oozed out of the armholes and from underneath the hem.

  He and Skye stared at each other. She thanked God he was wearing boxer shorts. Being exposed to his package would have scarred her for life.

  Turner growled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Joy asked me to stop by,” Skye offered weakly, hoping he might be drunk enough to believe her, even though she was clearly overdressed for this party. “But I must have gotten the date mixed up. This isn’t the Instant Gourmet demonstration, is it?”

  Turner was blocking her way to the garage stairs, and she didn’t think going down the ones leading to the kitchen would be a wise move. She tried to edge past him, but he refused to budge, and she was forced to back up. Coming in contact with that sweaty, disgusting skin again was not something she was prepared to do.

  “You nosy bitch. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” He lunged for her.

  She danced out of his reach. “I was only trying to do what you asked me to—find out who killed Ken Addison. Let me go, and we’ll keep this between us.”

  Turner made another grab for Skye. She stepped farther back and felt the balcony rail dig into her butt. She was trapped. Too bad she wasn’t Supergirl. Being able to fly right now would come in mighty handy.

  Turner stuck his hand out, and Skye slid to the left. She tried to sound tough. “Did I mention the kick in the groin you’ll be receiving if you touch me?”

  Before Turner could respond, Quentin Kessler appeared at the top of the playroom stairs, dragging Frannie by the arm. “Look what I found.” He smacked his thin lips. “I could go for a sweet young thing right about now.”

  Skye and Turner both rushed into the playroom.

  “I’m not your type.” Frannie shook him off and moved over to stand by Skye. “I’m not inflatable.”

  Quentin grabbed Frannie by the throat, and Skye jumped on his back, clawing at his eyes. “Let her go!”

  Turner peeled the three of them apart. “Are you out of your mind, Kessler?” He glared at the other man.

  Frannie poked her head around his bulk and taunted Quentin, “What’s the matter? Did I step on your poor, little, itty-bitty ego?”

  Skye put her hand over the teenager’s mouth and hissed, “Shut up.”

  “You two better keep quiet about this,” Turner exclaimed, then added over his shoulder, “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been talking about anything you saw tonight. Now that Ken’s out of the way, this will be our last party, and we don’t want anyone else knowing they ever took place. Got it?”

  Skye nodded vigorously.

  “Good. Remember, I know where you live. Now get out of here!”

  He didn’t have to tell Skye twice. She gave him a quick nod and grabbed Frannie’s hand, then they both ran down the stairs and into the garage. “Where’s Justin?” Skye paused at the door to the outside.

  “He sent me to see if you were okay,” Frannie replied. “We unlocked the kitchen patio door when we went inside the first time. The manual says it’s important to plan a second escape route.”

  Skye wondered what instruction booklet the teen had been reading.

  Skye thumbed on her flashlight and swept the garage with its beam. No Justin. “Let’s look for him outside.” She urged Frannie through the door and followed close behind her.

  Justin came sprinting around the corner as Skye stepped through the door. He was pale, his expression worried. He panted, “You two okay?”

  “Yes, but we have to get out of here right now,” Skye said, grabbing hold of his arm.

  Frannie took the other arm, and the three hurried down the driveway toward the road.

  After they had put some distance between them and the Kessler house, Skye slowed the pace. Once Justin caught his breath, she asked, “What happened?”

  “I was about to go in the house when I heard a noise from outside, so I went to check it out. Just as I ran around the garage into the backyard, something disappeared into the trees in the cemetery.”

  “What?” Skye asked.

  “Who?” Frannie chimed in.

  Justin shrugged. “All I saw was a flash of white and silver and some weird tracks in the snow.”

  “Weird, how?” Skye stopped and faced Justin.

  “They weren’t footprints or pawprints.” He paused and thought for a second or two. “They looked sort of like big ovals.”

  Frannie’s eyes widened. “I’ll bet it was an alien.”

  They discussed the possibility of ET arriving in Scumble River as they walked the rest of the way to the cemetery entrance. Frannie had parked her father’s pickup just around a bend in the road.

  Fifteen minutes later Skye followed Frannie as the girl dropped Justin off and drove home. It was nearly midnight when Skye pulled into her own driveway. Her cottage was blessedly quiet and empty.

  She undressed, adjusted the shower to as hot as she could stand, and stood under its cleansing spray until the water turned cold. After drying off and slipping on her nightgown, Skye crawled into bed.

  What had she learned? She ticked the points off in her mind. Ken Addison had been the driving force behind the sex parties. Polly Turner might have been Ken’s last mistress. Barbie was as disliked as her husband. And there appeared to be aliens in Scumble River.

  As Skye was starting to doze, another thought occurred to her. Unless there truly were zombies living in the cemetery and aliens landing in Scumble River, someone was following her—and it was probably the murderer.

  CHAPTER 18

  Over the river and through the wood …

  —Lydia M. Child

  Simon pulled his Lexus in between Vince’s Jeep and Gillian’s minivan, and got out of the car. “Didn’t you once tell me that Thanksgiving was your least favorite holiday?” He walked around to Skye’s side and opened her door.

  Before getting out, she reached into the backseat and retrieved the tray of pâté and bread rounds. “If you recall, my relatives were driving us both crazy when I said that. And since Thanksgiving is the only holiday that both the Denisons and the Leofantis celebrate together, I just meant … Heck, I don’t know what I meant.”

  “Whoa, this is slippery. Be careful.” Simon did a little tap dance to remain upright. Jed had plowed the driveway, but there wasn’t anything he could do about the thin layer of ice. Salt didn’t work on gravel.

  Skye stopped and pointed. “Isn’t that beautiful?” The yard was swathed in a mantle of pure white, with an occasional pawprint decorating its surface.

  “I thought you didn’t like the snow.”

  “As long as I don’t have to hike through it, shovel it, or scrape it off my windshield, I like it just fine.”

  “Those trees are certainly magnificent.” A windbreak of towering evergreens bordered the property on three sides. “How long ago did your dad plant them?”

  “The week my parents moved in.” Skye stopped to calculate. “That would have been nearly thirty-four years ago. Vince was three years old, and I hadn’t been born yet.”

  As Skye and Simon stepped up onto the back patio, she noticed her mother’s concrete goose dressed in a pilgrim costume, complete with hat, buckle shoes, and a tiny musket resting along its wing. She was extremely relieved to see that May had finally changed it out of the wedding dress it had worn the last couple of months.

  She and Simon went into the back door of the redbrick ranch-style house, through the utility room, where they added their coats to those piled across the washer and dryer, and into the large kitchen. Simon waved and said hello to the bustling women but didn’t stop to ch
at. He had learned his lesson the first time Skye brought him for a holiday gathering. The men all sat in the living room while the meal was being prepared.

  Skye greeted everyone, then nodded to the tray she was carrying. “Where shall I put this?”

  Her mother, standing at the sink draining potatoes in a colander, looked around and said, “Put it on the table under the picture window.” May peered suspiciously at the platter. “What is it?”

  “Chicken liver pâté.” Skye kissed her mother’s cheek, and set the dish down.

  May tsked. “What happened to the nice Jell-O salad recipe I gave you?”

  “Nothing. I just thought this might be something a little different.”

  “Different is right.” May sniffed and turned back to the sink.

  Skye’s Aunt Kitty was stirring gravy at the stove, and her grandmother, Cora Denison, had the oven door open and was basting the turkey. She kissed both of them and asked her mother, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Grab an apron and start wrapping the rolls in foil,” May ordered.

  Skye wondered why she had even bothered asking. This was the only task they ever trusted her with.

  As she started tearing off sheets of Reynolds Wrap, her grandmother asked, “How are things with you and Simon?”

  “Good,” Skye answered cautiously. Too much enthusiasm and the family would start planning the wedding. Too little and they’d start setting her up on blind dates.

  Along a counter bisecting the kitchen from the dinette, her twin cousins, Gillian Tubb and Ginger Allen, sat on stools and rolled silverware into napkins. They were from the Leofanti side of the family.

  “What do you think of his mother?” Gillian asked, then smirked at her sister.

  Ginger snickered.

  Skye could tell they had already heard all about Bunny. “She seems really … really …”—Skye searched for a word and settled for three—”full of life.”

  May rolled her eyes. “She’s full of something, alright. You’ll all get to meet her. Skye invited her to dinner.” May paused for effect. “Charlie’s bringing her.”

  A murmur swept through the kitchen, echoing off the celery-colored walls and the freshly waxed linoleum.

  Ginger said, “But we heard Simon didn’t want to see her. Is that fair to him?”

  Skye tore off another piece of foil. “Ginger, all reports are in: life is officially unfair.”

  That seemed to give the twins something to think about, and they whispered back and forth between themselves for several minutes.

  May finished at the sink and moved the bowl of boiled potatoes to the counter. As she added milk and butter she asked, “Ginger, Gillian, where’re your husbands?”

  Gillian sighed. “They’re defending Scumble River from the threatened invasion of various deer and pheasant.”

  Skye grinned. In other words, hunting.

  The outer door slammed, and footsteps sounded from the utility room. Charlie and Bunny had arrived. Bunny entered first, wearing a royal-blue calf-length sheath. Her makeup was subdued, and her red curls were pulled back into a French twist.

  For a moment Skye was relieved. Then Bunny moved farther into the kitchen. The slit up the front of her dress opened and the keyhole neckline parted.

  Skye’s cousins and aunt stared as Charlie made the introductions. Her grandmother nodded pleasantly.

  May bared her teeth in a fake smile and said, “Charlie, why don’t you take Mrs. Reid into the living room? Dinner will be ready soon.”

  “Bunny, call me Bunny. Mrs. Reid reminds me of my mother-in-law, may she rest in peace.”

  Charlie shot May a sharp look—it was obvious he knew that the women stayed in the kitchen—but put his hand on Bunny’s back and said, “This way, my dear.”

  As Charlie and Bunny left, the women started talking. Skye listened as her female relatives proceeded to tear into the subject of Simon’s mother.

  They stopped abruptly when Bunny reappeared in the doorway. She eyed them all coolly, then grinned. “While I’m always happy to be the only hen in the rooster house, I think the real fun is probably out here.” She walked over and linked arms with May. “So, whose reputation are we trashing?”

  The men were seated at two long folding tables set end to end in the living room. They filled their plates from the food set out on the counter in the kitchen and then sat down. It was Skye’s and her female cousins’ jobs to fetch drinks and disburse the hot rolls and butter. She was not happy with her position as serving wench, but fulfilled her duties in order to keep peace in the family.

  As Skye poured iced tea into her brother’s glass, she whispered in his ear, “Doesn’t this archaic double standard bother you?”

  “You think of it as a problem?”

  Skye hissed, “Yes. I do.”

  “Funny.” Vince grinned. “I think of it as a feature.” He held up an empty basket. “Oh, and when you get a chance, we need more rolls.”

  Skye fought the urge to make Vince wear the breadbasket as a bonnet, and stomped off to the kitchen. When she arrived, the children were going through the food line. They would be seated at card tables in the family room, along with the teens who were supposed to keep an eye on them.

  May thrust a pitcher of milk in Skye’s hands and said, “Hurry up. What’s the matter with you? You’re about as quick as a tortoise on Prozac today.”

  Skye gritted her teeth, and trailed the children to their tables. She had tried to change how things were done several times in the past, but May’s silent treatment and the other women’s scorn had worn her down. Now she did as she was told, and bit her tongue.

  After everyone else had been fed, the women were allowed to eat. They crowded around the dinette table. Skye found herself wedged between her mother and her grandmother, with her back against the wall. Until the people around her left, the only way to get up from the table would be to crawl underneath it.

  Skye cut into her turkey and savored the flavor. She had been lucky and nabbed a piece with crispy brown skin. Okay, she had hidden it before anyone else went through the buffet line. She counted this as the one advantage of being chained to the kitchen. The food was wonderful, and she intended to enjoy every bite.

  May leaned toward Skye just as she forked sausage stuffing into her mouth. “I thought you were going to try and get into shape.”

  Skye swallowed, determined not to let her mother ruin this meal. “I am in shape. Round is a shape.”

  May pursed her lips and turned to talk to her sister, Minnie Overby.

  Skye looked around. The twins were chatting with her cousin Kevin’s wife. Skye turned to her grandmother and asked, “Do you think it bothers Ginger and Gillian that their husbands never attend any of the family get-togethers? Flip and Irvin always seem to be either hunting or fishing. The only time they show up is for funerals.”

  “Irvin and Flip may not be the sharpest hooks in the tackle box, but they’re hardworking and loyal,” Cora replied, buttering a roll. “For a lot of women, that’s enough.”

  “It wouldn’t be for me.”

  “Me either.”

  Skye knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t resist. “What do you think of Simon’s mother?”

  “There’s a lot of hurting going on behind those false eye-lashes and that flashy dress.” Cora took a sip from her coffee cup. “It’d be best all around if you could help Simon and her make their peace.”

  “I know. But he doesn’t want to hear that.”

  “You’ve just got to convince him that living well is the best revenge.” Cora’s wrinkled face took on a faraway expression. “You tell him that being miserable because of something bad someone did to him in the past just might mean the other person was in the right all along.”

  Skye pondered her grandmother’s words, not sure she was willing to repeat them to Simon, and not even sure she knew what her grandmother meant.

  Bunny’s voice rose above the others, talking to one of the Leofanti re
latives. “Honey, women may not admit their age, but men don’t act it.”

  Skye fought a grin. Bunny’s view of life was certainly unique.

  After dinner, the women cleaned up and did the dishes, while the men watched football on TV, played cards, and napped.

  The afternoon drifted by. Little groups would form, chat, then drift into other clusters. Skye noticed her cousins were eating the pâté she had brought, but her aunts and uncles never touched it. Next year, she’d stick to Jell-O salad and save the pâté for romantic evenings with Simon.

  Once Charlie and Bunny left, Skye felt it was safe for her and Simon to leave. She liberated him from her Uncle Dante, who was extolling the virtues of John Deere versus International Harvester tractors, and they said their good-byes.

  As they were driving to Skye’s cottage, Simon said, “Well, that wasn’t too bad. Bunny didn’t do anything too embarrassing.”

  “She was fine. Grandma Denison gave me some advice about her.”

  Simon didn’t ask what. Instead he said, “I guess I’m just not used to so many relatives. There really was just Dad and me most of the time.”

  “Families are like fudge,” Skye said with a smile. “Mostly sweet, with a few nuts.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Rumour is a pipe

  Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.

  —Shakespeare

  The next morning, Skye eased the Bel Air to a stop next to her parents’ house. Before she could unfasten her seat belt, May zipped out the back door, hopped in the car, and said, “You’re late. I thought you’d had an accident.”

  Skye checked her watch. “Sorry, I hit the red light at Basin and Kinsman.” There was no use debating the issue. She had said she’d pick May up around eight and it was a minute after. To her mother, anything other than a quarter hour early was late and cause for alarm.

  May nodded, accepting the apology as her due. “Where are we going?”

  “Wherever you want.” Skye was busy backing the huge vehicle out the narrow lane. Her father would never forgive her if she hit either of the white posts at the end of the driveway.