The men hopped into pickups, intent on building a new stand while it was still light, since the sheriff had cordoned off the old one. Luckily, most of the items that they were selling had not been left at the old stand overnight, so only a few of the really large pieces were now off-limits.
The women retreated to the kitchen to begin baking for the next day’s sale. Skye’s offer to help was rejected. Her reputation for burnt cookies, fallen cakes, and lead-crusted pies had preceded her.
Skye felt insulted, but also relieved to be dismissed. It was already past six, and the concert in the park was supposed to start at seven. She needed to get over there and make sure that the night’s entertainment, a rock gospel group called the Godly Crüe, was ready to go.
Scumble River Park was a small finger of land that extended into the river for about half a mile. It was accessible by vehicle only from Maryland Street, and that entry point had been shut down because of the yard sale. That left the footbridge that extended from the apex of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court parking lot as the only real entrance, although a few people chose to arrive by boat.
Skye threaded her way through the meandering crowd until she reached the bandstand, located at the farthest tip of land, and she was reassured to see amplifiers scattered around the perimeter and people settling into lawn chairs and spreading blankets.
Skye spotted the musical group’s manager and lead singer, Will Murphy, an angelic-looking young man in his late twenties. “Will, good to see you again. Is everything set for your show?”
“I believe so, Sister Skye.” The singer ran his fingers through his curly blond hair. “We were real sorry to hear about that lady being killed. We weren’t sure if we should perform or not.”
“Sorry. I should have contacted you and let you know that the mayor has decided to keep events going as scheduled.” Skye smiled in encouragement. “You know what they say. The show must go on.”
Murphy nodded halfheartedly, his baby blue eyes troubled. “Let me introduce you to the rest of our group.” He took her arm and propelled her toward three women who were tinkering with instruments. “Everyone, this is Sister Skye Denison, the person who hired us.”
They all said hello.
“Sister Skye, this is Sister Mirabel Elliott on drums, Sister Rosalind Gallen on guitar, and Sister Delilah Forsythe on keyboard.”
Mirabel had a halo of red hair and a sweet smile. Rosalind’s black hair fell like a veil around her shoulders, and she looked as if she should be cradling a baby instead of a guitar. Delilah was the odd woman out in the heavenly quartet. Her long brown hair was scraggly, and acne bloomed on her cheeks and chin.
They all made small talk for a bit, and then Skye excused herself to wander around and check out the crowd. As she strolled, her stomach growled, and she headed toward the Lions Club pork chop supper.
After filling a plate, she looked around for a free seat and heard someone call, “Skye, over here.”
Trixie was sitting alone at one end of the long row of tables.
Skye joined her, plopping her tray down, then climbing over the attached seat. “Hey, what’s up? Where’s Owen?”
“Not much.” Trixie grimaced. “He’s at home. One of the cows is sick. I knew it was a mistake to add livestock to the farm.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to babysit corn or soybeans.” Having grown up on a farm, Skye was well aware of the pitfalls of the occupation.
“It’s almost as if he deliberately bought the animals so we’d be even more tied down.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s not as if I’m asking him to get into life’s fast lane. I just want to occasionally get out of the driveway.”
Skye nodded sympathetically, but she didn’t have any suggestions. Instead, just before taking a big bite of grilled pork chop she asked, “How’s the bed-and-breakfast business going?”
“Not bad. The two couples are great. You’d hardly know they were there, but the single guy, Montgomery Lapp, is a pain in the you-know-where.”
Skye swallowed and asked, “How come?”
“First off, he’s an antiques buyer for a bunch of stores in Chicago—calls himself a picker. Anyway, the first day he’s with us I catch him snooping through the house, making a list.”
“A list?”
“Yeah. Turns out some of the stuff we got when Owen’s mother died is antique.”
“Make sure you check around about prices if you decide to sell,” Skye cautioned, thinking of Mrs. Griggs’s experience with Cookie and her mother’s encounter with Faith. “What else did he do?”
“He’s just so darn persnickety. He demanded that his sheets be ironed. He only eats a special kind of cereal, and has to have soy milk. We had to put the cats in the barn because he claims to be allergic, but, you know, if he really was allergic he’d still be sneezing, because cat dander is still all over the house. You can’t get it up even with a thorough cleaning.” Trixie heaved a dramatic sigh. “Worst of all, I’m the one at his beck and call. Owen promised to help if we took in paying guests, but now he’s always too busy.”
“This Lapp guy sounds like a real pill.” Skye took a sip of her lemonade, not commenting about Owen. No way was she getting in the middle of that fight.
Trixie shrugged. “Enough of my problems. What’s the scoop about the murder?” Her brown eyes sparkled with interest; she was not one to wallow for long in her own un-happiness.
Skye swallowed a bite of biscuit. “With Simon out of town and Wally not on the case, I don’t know a thing.”
“But she was found at your family’s farm stand, by your mother.” Trixie twisted a strand of short brown hair around her finger. “You must know something.”
“I don’t even know how she died.” She forked a piece of roasted potato into her mouth. This was heaven. She hadn’t eaten all day.
“Oh, oh!” Trixie bounced in her seat like a drop of water on a hot griddle. “I know. I know.”
“Really? How?”
“How do I know, or how did she die?”
“Both.” Skye made an effort to keep the impatience out of her voice. Trixie was Trixie, and there was no hurrying her.
“Monty, the pain-in-the-butt antique guy, said he heard that she was stabbed to death with a piece of jewelry.”
“How could someone be killed with a piece of jewelry?”
Trixie smiled triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“And?”
“It was an old brooch. A huge, four-inch bar pin in the shape of an arrow with two intertwined hearts in the middle. He said someone stabbed her in the carotid artery with it, and when she pulled it out of herself, she bled to death.”
“How awful.” Skye frowned. Hadn’t she just heard something about a pin? She couldn’t remember. She’d seen and heard about too much junk in the past few days to recall anything in particular.
“They found the brooch clutched in her fist,” Trixie said with a shiver. “It reminds me of an Edgar Allan Poe story. ‘The Tell-Tale Arrow’ instead of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.”’
No longer hungry, Skye pushed her plate away. She didn’t want to imagine Cookie locked in a cabinet and dying alone. It was too distressing. And Skye felt somehow guilty, as if she could have done something. But what?
Cookie had banished Skye from her store, and she deliberately kept herself aloof from the people in Scumble River. Even yesterday afternoon, when she had been crying and Skye had offered her comfort, Cookie had been talking to herself more than to Skye. She hadn’t really shared anything. Still, Skye found it hard to accept that she couldn’t help everyone.
After their meal, Skye and Trixie walked back to the bandstand and listened to the Godly Crüe play.
“They sound pretty good,” Skye commented.
“They do. I wondered what a rock gospel band would be like.”
“So did I, but Dante insisted on squeaky-clean family entertainment, which is a lot harder to find than you might think.”
“It always amazes me that people like Dante can be so sanctimonious and still maintain a straight face.” Trixie’s grin was wicked. “How many coordinators did he sexually harass before the family talked you into taking the job?”
“Five.” Skye didn’t want to discuss Dante’s peccadilloes, so she looked around at the audience. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“Hey, look over there.” Trixie jabbed Skye in the side with her elbow and pointed to an area near the bandstand. “Isn’t that Simon’s mother? But who is she with? He’s young enough to be her son.”
Skye’s gaze followed Trixie’s finger. “Oh, no. That’s the writer from the TV show. This can’t be good.”
“Are you going over there and find out what she’s up to?”
“I’d better not. It’s never smart to talk in front of a writer. You might find yourself in his next script. I’ll have a private chat with Bunny tomorrow.”
They walked a few steps farther, and then it was Skye’s turn to nudge Trixie in the ribs. “Catch what’s happening over to the right.” She had spotted Justin and his friends. Bitsy was clinging to Justin like the plastic wrap on a cheese slice.
Trixie whistled under her breath. “Frannie will certainly be unhappy if she finds out about this.”
“If?” Skye grimaced. “What do you mean if she finds out? Someone has probably already left her a message on her answering machine. What is Justin thinking?”
“Thinking?” Trixie scowled. “I swear, the entire male intellect is rivaled only by that of garden tools.”
Skye nodded distractedly. Frannie would be destroyed.
CHAPTER 11
Meet the Press
“No, don’t fly back.” Skye was once again lying across her childhood bed, petting Bingo and talking to Simon in California. “There’s no reason for you to come home.”
His smooth tenor was edged with concern. “I should be there for you. You sound pretty stressed out.”
“I’m fine. Sheriff Peterson is being a jerk, so I doubt I’ll be involved in the murder investigation.” Simon didn’t comment, but Skye could feel the disbelief radiating from two thousand miles away, so she reiterated, “I’ll just carry on with the yard sale and let the sheriff take care of the murder.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, just call and I’ll be on the next plane back.”
“I will.” Skye tried to change the subject. “What have you been doing?”
“The usual—attending lectures and having business dinners. Oh, I did get to play the Funeral Director Feud game.”
“What’s that?”
It’s like Family Feud on TV, but the questions are all related to the funeral home business. Like, ‘Name a stupid question the bereaved always asks.’ And, ‘Which hymn will make you gag if you have to hear it again?”’
“That’s awful.” Skye snickered. “Did you win?”
“No, the other team buried us.”
“Ew. That one’s older than dirt.” Skye giggled. “What else have you been doing?”
“Missing you.”
“That’s so sweet. I miss you, too.” After Skye said the words she wondered if they were true. In a way, it had been nice not to worry about fitting Simon into her busy schedule. She quickly suppressed that thought and asked, “Have you given your talk yet?”
“No, my panel is tomorrow.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Nah. Panels are easy. If you have something to say, you can talk. If you don’t, you can let someone else talk.”
“Oh, well, that’s good,” Skye said, before changing the subject again. “It looks like there will definitely be a problem between Frannie and Justin.” She described Bitsy and Justin’s behavior during the concert.
“That’s too bad.” Simon’s tone was somber. “It’s a shame when you can’t appreciate what you already have.”
“True.” Skye felt a twinge, and an image of Wally flickered through her mind. She pushed it away. Simon was a terrific man, and she wasn’t going to throw her relationship with him away just because she had some chemistry with the police chief—okay, not just some, a lot. Still …
Simon’s next question drew her attention back to the conversation. “Any news about Bunny?”
Skye had been putting off telling Simon about his mother. “Sort of. I saw her tonight at the park.”
“And?”
“And she was with one of Faith Easton’s TV crew.”
“Was it a date?” It was no secret that Bunny liked men and they liked her.
“He’s in his twenties, but knowing Bunny, maybe …” Skye trailed off. “Look. Come hell or high water, I’ll definitely speak with her tomorrow.”
“Good.” Simon sighed. “I just have a really bad feeling about this. Bunny and show biz are not a good combination. That lifestyle offers way too much temptation for her.”
Bunny had arrived in Scumble River a few months ago, addicted to the painkillers she had been given when she hurt her back and on probation for trying to forge prescriptions to get more of them. To keep out of jail, she’d had to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings, find work, and establish a permanent address. Simon had helped her with the last two.
Skye agreed to speak with Bunny tomorrow, without fail, and she and Simon their good-byes.
After hanging up the phone, she yawned. Time to go to bed. But first she needed a cold drink. She padded into the dark kitchen, careful not to wake her parents, who had gone to sleep at least two hours ago, although not together. Her mother was in their bedroom, but her father was sleeping on the couch in the living room.
Skye frowned. She had better find out what was going on with them and do something before the situation got worse. Neither of her folks was very good at apologizing. May was able to pout longer than it took the state to repair a pothole, and Jed figured it would all go away if no one talked about it.
As Skye was taking a glass from the cupboard, she heard a noise from the utility room and stiffened. She stuck her head around the swinging doors. Nothing but the washing machine, dryer, and furnace lined up on one side and the bench and coatrack on the other. She was about to turn back to the kitchen when she heard the sound again. Her gaze flew to the back door. Peering through the glass was a triangular white face. Alongside it was a finger tapping the windowpane.
Skye flipped on the yard light and stared. Trixie stood on the back patio, dressed only in lime green baby doll pajamas and flamingo pink flip-flops.
Skye threw open the door, and Trixie said, “All men are idiots, and I married their king.”
Without answering, Skye hustled her friend inside, through the kitchen, down the hall, and into her bedroom, closing the door behind them. The last thing she needed was to wake up her mother, who would make things worse by agreeing with Trixie’s assessment of men.
Trixie threw herself across Skye’s bed.
“Okay, what happened?” Skye asked.
“I told Owen to do one thing to help out before I left for the concert tonight.” Trixie wiped away a tear edging its way down her cheek. “One thing! And did he do it? No!”
Skye was amazed that Trixie was able to shout at the volume of a whisper. “What did you ask him to do?”
“I’m making these special muffins and coffee cakes for breakfast tomorrow, and you have to add this liquid ‘starter’ to the batter every four hours for twenty-four hours before you make them. I asked him to add the seven o’clock portion.” Trixie sat up and hugged her knees. “When I got home at nine, I went to check, and he hadn’t done it. The whole batch is ruined!”
“Oh, no.”
“And I have nothing else to give the people for breakfast unless I toast some Wonder Bread.”
“Mom probably has something in the freezer you could use,” Skye offered.
“No, thanks.” Trixie stretched Out, her head pillowed on her arms. “It’s not my problem anymore.”
“Really?”
“Really. When I confro
nted Owen, he shrugged it off like it was too trivial to bother with. Said he couldn’t leave a sick cow because of a recipe.”
Skye winced. What had that man been thinking? “What did you do?”
“At first I just walked out of the barn and went to bed. But then I kept thinking how everyone would be looking at me tomorrow during breakfast. Like I was a failure. So, I got up, wrote Owen a note saying he could be the one to face our hungry guests in the morning, and left.”
“Wow.” Skye wondered how long it would take Owen to A—find the note, B—figure out where Trixie had gone, and C—come banging on Skye’s parents’ door asking for her. “So, you want to stay here with me?”
Trixie nodded like a little girl. “Is that okay?”
“Sure. There’s one empty sofa left.” It was actually a love seat, but Trixie was short.
“Point me to it. I’m exhausted.” Trixie trailed Skye to the den.
Skye gave her a fresh set of bed linens and a pillow, hugged her good night, and went back to her room. After she had slid between the sheets, Bingo edged his way out of the closet, where he had been hiding since Trixie’s emotional entrance, and jumped up on the bed.
Skye scratched him behind the ears, making a mental list of her chores for Monday with each stroke of her fingernails. Talk to Bunny. Find out why her parents were fighting. Work her shift at the family’s stand. And check on Mrs. Griggs. She’d been okay Saturday when Skye had phoned, even though she had called Skye Sterling, but Skye hadn’t had a chance to phone the older woman on Sunday and she was worried about Mrs. Griggs’s reaction to Cookie’s death.
But the best-laid plans of cats and women rarely work out. As Skye fell asleep, she never dreamed what she’d really be doing the next morning, or that she would only accomplish only one of the tasks on her list.
“No comment,” Skye repeated for the hundredth time as she fought her way from the parking lot to the entrance of the city hall. Another microphone was shoved in her face, and she batted it away, snarling, “Put that thing in my face again, and you’ll draw back a bloody stump.”
Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery Page 10