Murder of a Smart Cookie

by Denise Swanson

  For just a moment, Skye allowed herself the luxury of imagining that her parents had made up.

  Then her mother turned to her and said, “Tell your father that supper will be ready in five minutes, and he’d better be washed up and at the table, or I’m giving it to that precious dog of his.”

  Skye passed on an edited version of her mother’s message before escaping to her bedroom to feed Bingo and clean his litter. She shook her head as she scooped. Things were pretty bad when litter box duty was preferable to time spent with her parents.

  She washed her hands and returned to the kitchen to help put the food on the table.

  Her father was sitting at his usual place, a frown on his face. He muttered something about supper being late, and things went downhill from there.

  Skye made the mistake of attempting conversation during the meal, but any topic she chose turned into a missile that her parents lobbed at each other, using her as their grenade launcher.

  While Skye and her mother did the dishes, Skye made her second error by asking, “Exactly why are you so darn mad at Dad?”

  “Let me see. Where should I start? He’s never home. He goes missing so much I should put his picture on a beer can.” May sighed and wiped her hands on the green terry-cloth towel hanging from the handle of the silverware drawer. “He fixes stuff for everyone but me. And instead of talking to me, or taking me somewhere at night, he falls asleep watching Weakest Link, and only wakes up in time to catch a few minutes of the ten o’clock news before he goes to bed.”

  “But that’s how he’s been for as long as I can remember. I don’t understand what he’s done lately that he hasn’t always done.”

  May gave her a dark look. “Why do you always take his side? He’s not the one who changed your dirty diapers, fed you, and kept your clothes clean.”

  “I know. I’m not taking his side.” Skye tried to put her arm around her mother, but May shrugged it off. “Really, I’m just trying to understand.”

  “Then figure out why he’s spending so much time with that tramp.” For a moment May let her mask slip, and Skye could see the pain and confusion her mother was feeling.

  “Bunny?”

  “How many middle-aged trollops do we have in town?”

  Skye wasn’t touching that question with a ten-foot mascara wand.

  May went on. “Why did Simon ever buy that bowling alley for her? She’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Bunny’s not the problem.” Skye mentally crossed her fingers, hoping she was telling the truth. “She just bought an old car, and Dad is having a good time fixing it up. Remember how much time he spent restoring my Bel Air?”

  “If that hussy isn’t the problem, then find out what is.” May paused at the entrance to the den. “He could have built her a new Cadillac by now.”

  “You need to tell Dad how you feel.”

  “As if he’d care.” May slammed the den door behind her.

  Her mother’s deep unhappiness had shaken Skye, and she decided it was time to talk to Jed. But as May had predicted, he was fast asleep in front of the TV. She tried to wake him by gently shaking his shoulder, but that only succeeded in increasing the volume of his snores.

  After several unsuccessful attempts, and in fear for her eardrums, Skye retreated to her bedroom. An evening of petting Bingo and reading a good mystery sounded like just what she needed.

  At five after nine, Skye called Justin’s parents to see if he had returned. He hadn’t. Mrs. Boward had called the police, and they were going to look for him.

  Feeling as if she had finally accomplished at least one task, Skye decided to go to bed. She had telephoned Simon earlier, and when he hadn’t answered, she’d left a message saying she would talk to him the next day.

  Before washing her face and changing into her nightgown, Skye opened the den door and stuck her head in. “I’m going to sleep, Mom. Good night.”

  May looked up from the newspaper she was reading. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Skye smiled. “You too, Mom.” As if any insect would dare to invade her mother’s spotless house.

  She had already started to close the door when May said, “Shoot. I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Griggs called around four. She wanted you to call her back as soon as you got home.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, just that it was urgent that she talk to you, and she wouldn’t leave her house till you called.” May’s expression was sheepish. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call her right now.”

  “Her number’s on the pad by the kitchen phone.”

  Skye dialed and let it ring until the telephone company’s computer voice told her there was no one answering, and for seventy-five cents they would call her when her party was available.

  May had followed her and stood wringing her hands. “Isn’t she there?”

  “All I got was the recording saying to try later.” Skye checked the clock. It was nine-thirty. Could Mrs. Griggs be asleep? “I guess she doesn’t have an answering machine.” Skye had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Telephone the sheriff’s department and see if she was arrested. You heard it was her pin that killed Cookie?”

  May nodded.

  Skye made the call and was told no arrests had been made. She passed that information on to her mother.

  “Now what?”

  “Guess I’ll take a ride over to Mrs. Griggs’s house and see if she’s okay.”

  “I’ll come along.”

  Skye couldn’t think of a good reason to tell her mother no, so the two women piled into the Bel Air. They drove over in silence, each lost in her own thoughts.

  Mrs. Griggs’s house was north of town, along the west branch of the Scumble River on Brook Lane. There were no streetlights and no other homes along the narrow, twisting road. Skye hadn’t realized how isolated Mrs. Griggs was from the rest of town.

  “The house is dark,” May pointed out as Skye turned into the driveway.

  “Mmm.” Skye got out of the car and May followed. A sense of dread had settled in Skye’s chest.

  They both mounted the wide front steps and stood on the wraparound porch. Skye rang the bell and they waited. She rang it again and then, after what seemed like an eternity, a third time. There was no answer, and they couldn’t hear anything inside. Skye’s anxiety level shot upward.

  “Maybe we should call Wally,” May suggested.

  “When we crossed Rood Street, we were out of the new city limits, remember?”

  “You’re right. I keep forgetting.” May tapped her chin with her index finger. “I don’t think the sheriff would come out if we called, do you?”

  “Well, he certainly doesn’t like you and me, and now he’s got his eye on Mrs. Griggs as a suspect, so I’d hate to accidentally get her into more trouble.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I’m going to walk around the house and see if there are any lights on in the back.”

  “I’m coming with you.” May grabbed Skye’s arm.

  “Why don’t you wait in the car?”

  “No.” May tightened her hold.

  “But if you were in the car, you could go for help quicker.”

  “Okay, you wait in the car and I’ll go around the back.” May’s expression was a cross between stubborn and guilty. “After all, this is my fault for forgetting to tell you about Mrs. Griggs’s phone call.”

  Skye gave up. There was no way she could persuade her mother differently. Instead she put her hand over May’s where it lay on her arm, and said, “Then we need to stay together.”

  The two women followed the porch as it hugged the side of the house. They stopped and peered into each window they passed, but all the curtains were tightly drawn and they couldn’t see inside at all.

  The porch ended three-quarters of the way around the side of the house, and na
rrow steps led to a cracked sidewalk that wound out of sight. Skye wished she had brought a flashlight and her baseball bat.

  May tsked. “Mrs. Griggs should really get this cement fixed. Someone could fall and break their neck.”

  Skye didn’t answer, trying to concentrate on listening for suspicious sounds. All she could hear was the crickets and an occasional owl hoot.

  The grass on either side of the walkway was brown and scraggly, badly in need of both a sprinkler and a lawn mower. It crunched softly as Skye stepped on it.

  As they rounded the corner, the backyard exuded a sense of benign neglect. At one time it had contained a formal garden, but now the geometrical plots were merging into the general mess of the lawn. Instead of bright patches of color from the flowers, Skye could see bits of litter and tin cans glittering in the moonlight.

  The only item still in good shape was the clothesline, which was white and taut between its two silver-painted poles. A bright yellow cotton pouch of clothespins hung from the center of the line. Mrs. Griggs must have fixed it after it was vandalized.

  Farther back on the property as it sloped toward the river, large trees mingled with their shadows, making it appear almost like a fairy-tale woods. Skye could easily imagine the big bad wolf or the witch from Snow White hiding in the gloom.

  She rubbed the goose bumps on her right arm with her free left hand. The nearly eighty-degree temperature did not stop her from feeling chilled.

  May shivered at exactly the same time and tightened her grip on Skye. Her voice quivered when she asked, “Should we check by the river?”

  “No.” Skye started to walk toward the other side of the house. “I doubt whether Mrs. Griggs would go down there in the dark.”

  There was no way to see inside through the back windows. Shades were fully pulled down, and no light came from around the edges.

  When Skye and May reached the trellis that Mrs. Griggs had mentioned the night she had the intruder, Skye stopped and examined it.

  May tugged on it. “This is sure a funny-looking trellis.” Although it was covered with vines twined through the wrought-iron rungs, it still looked sturdy enough to support a person’s weight.

  “Mrs. Griggs said it was designed to act as a fire escape in an emergency.”

  “That’s odd.” May wrinkled her nose. She did not appreciate creativity.

  Skye looked up at the second-story balcony. The door was ajar, and moonlight glinted off the glass panes. Was Mrs. Griggs peacefully asleep with her door open to catch whatever cooling breezes were available? Or had an intruder once again used that exit as a means of escape?

  May had followed Skye’s line of sight. “Look, the balcony door is open. Do you think she’s up there?”

  “Let’s see.” Skye called out in a loud voice, “Mrs. Griggs. Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Griggs.”

  There was silence except for the rustling of the leaves on the trees.

  The wind had picked up, and Skye could smell rain in the air. She raised her voice and shouted, “Mrs. Griggs, it’s Skye Denison. Are you there?”

  Not to be left out, Skye’s mother added, “It’s May Denison, too.”

  No answer beyond the squeaking of the balcony door, which had begun to swing back and forth in the wind.

  Skye turned to her mom, “Let’s try together, as loud as you can. One. Two. Three.”

  Both women bellowed, “Mrs. Griggs!”

  They waited a moment, but it was evident that there was no one conscious in that house.

  “I don’t mink we have any choice. We really need to call the sheriff’s office,” Skye told May. “Do you have any buddies among the dispatchers there?”

  “Betty, but she’s on vacation.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to call and take our chances, then.” Skye tugged her mother toward the driveway. “Let’s go back to your house.” Skye was beginning to see why people had cell phones. It wasn’t as if Scumble River had a pay phone on every corner, and it was mighty inconvenient to have to run home to use the telephone.

  As soon as May got into the car and closed her door, Skye put the Bel Air into gear and reversed out onto the road. Her tires squealed as she threw the vehicle into DRIVE and stepped on the accelerator.

  Skye was not altogether surprised to discover that the county sheriff’s department did not share their concern about Mrs. Griggs. The deputy that the county dispatcher connected them with said that he would swing past the Griggs house but couldn’t do anything else. She wouldn’t officially be considered missing for forty-eight hours, and he had to check and see if they could be the ones to file a report since they weren’t relatives.

  Forty-five minutes later, when Skye called back to see what the deputy had discovered, she was told there was no sign of disturbance and nothing more the deputy could do at this time.

  After a heated discussion, Skye and May headed back to Mrs. Griggs’s, equipped this time with flashlights, Vince’s old walkie-talkies, a pitchfork, and a canister of pepper spray. Neither mother nor daughter was happy with the other.

  An hour from when they had gone to use the phone, they pulled into Mrs. Griggs’s driveway again. Everything looked exactly as they had left it.

  When they got out of the car, May said for the fifth time, “I should be the one to climb up the trellis. I’m a lot lighter than you are.”

  It had started to rain, and Skye wiped the drops from her eyes. It took all her self-restraint to refrain from bopping her mother over the head and stashing her in the Bel Air’s roomy trunk to keep her safe. Instead, she silently counted to ten as she walked to the back of the house.

  “I’m in better shape than you, too,” May said, trotting behind her daughter and trying to hold an umbrella over both their heads, which the difference in their heights made impossible.

  Skye stopped when she reached the trellis-cum-ladder and narrowly avoided getting poked in the eye by an umbrella spoke. “You probably are in better shape, but I’m doing it.” She wiped her palms on her shorts to dry them.

  “Are you saying I’m too old?” May shook the pitchfork she was carrying at Skye. “I’ll have you know fifty-nine is not old.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, but I’m still the one who is going inside.” Skye tucked the walkie-talkie into her cleavage and the pepper spray into her shorts pocket. She put her foot on the first rung and heaved herself upward, saying to her mom as she did so, “You wait right here. If you hear anything, go get the police. If anyone comes at you, stab them with the pitchfork and ask questions later.”

  While Skye climbed, she reassured herself that this was not standard gothic heroine foolhardiness. She wasn’t dressed in a negligee and high heels, nor was she walking into a basement after hearing a chain saw start up. She had backup. Granted it was her mother armed with a farm implement, but she wasn’t going into the dark woods all by herself. It did bother her a little that both the little and the big hands of her watch had moved onto the twelve just as she had started her ascent. Somehow the stroke of midnight had a bad connotation to it.

  As she swung onto the balcony, thunder boomed overhead, startling her, and a flash of lightning sizzled in the west, momentarily blinding her. Skye fought to keep her balance. Finally, both feet were on the wooden floor, and after a second to catch her breath she took the pepper spray from her pocket.

  She advanced to the door, which was swinging back and forth. The squeaking had gotten worse, and it screeched loudly when she opened it all the way. Skye tensed, but there was no sound or motion from inside, so she stepped forward into the bedroom. She fumbled for the light switch, and when she flipped it on, a small scream escaped her. Lying in the middle of an antique sleigh bed was Mrs. Griggs, with a sword sticking out of her chest.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.

  Rain slashed at the windows, and thunder shook the glass figurines on the shelves of the étagère in Mrs. Griggs’s front parlor. Skye shivered, convinced that she might never be warm
again. She was trying not to think of what was going on above her head, but while she waited to be questioned by the sheriff, it was hard not to go over and over in her mind her last sight of Mrs. Griggs. Who would do something like that to another human being?

  Skye closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing her thoughts in another direction. Was her mother all right? Was her father worried about their absence? She knew May was similarly isolated in the breakfast room, and neither of them had been allowed to make any phone calls.

  She wished the sheriff would come and ask his questions so she could take her mother home, then crawl into bed and pretend this night had never happened.

  Her fretting was interrupted by the bellow of an angry voice. She listened intently. It was Buck Peterson, and he was reaming out his deputy at the top of his lungs.

  The men were standing in the hall, but the parlor did not have a door, so the sheriff’s words were clear. “You jackass! Why didn’t you do anything when they called you the first time? It would have been the perfect excuse to get into the house and look around. We might have found something else to connect her with the Caldwell woman.”

  The deputy was mumbling, and Skye could only catch a little of what he said: “… drove past … standard operating procedure … didn’t know she was a suspect … what memo?”

  After several more minutes of haranguing, the sheriff’s diatribe finally ended and he stomped into the parlor. Showing his teem in what Skye guessed was supposed to be a smile, he said heartily, “Well, young lady, it looks like you’ve stumbled into another mess.”

  Skye nodded warily. She didn’t trust him farther than she could throw him, and right now she felt too weak to toss a salad.

  Buck flung himself into a delicate Queen Anne armchair, and Skye winced as the antique creaked in protest. “I have to ask myself, why are there Denisons around whenever there’s a murder?”

  She bit back a smart answer and instead said, “Well, really, we’re only there after the murder has taken place.”

  He ignored her and tsked. “You all are turning into regular Typhoon Marys.”