Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (18 page)

“Uncle Charlie, have you seen anything out of the ordinary? Maybe an incident that, now that you think about it, might have something to do with the missing girl or the murder?” Skye asked, trying to cover all the bases. Charlie wouldn’t lie to her, but he might not volunteer information. She knew her godfather had his secrets.

“No, can’t say as I have.” Charlie put the cigar down and took a pull on his beer can. “You want a Budweiser?”

“No, thanks, Charlie.” Wally leaned a little closer to the older man. “Sorry to bother you so late, but we have one more question.”

“Oh?” Charlie picked up the cigar again.

“It’s about the twelfth cabin.” Skye leaned forward too. “I thought you told Uncle Dante that it had been rented for four months straight by somebody, and that’s why you couldn’t let the contest people have it.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Charlie said, narrowing his eyes. “What about it?”

“Well, then, why did you let some guy rent it yesterday?”

“I didn’t. I mean, the guy who’s in cabin twelve is the guy who’s rented it since January.” Charlie relaxed. “He got a new haircut and is driving a different kind of car, that’s all.”

Wally and Skye exchanged a long look; then Wally asked, “What’s his name?”

“Brown, Charles Brown.”

Another long look passed between Skye and Wally, but this time she spoke. “How did he pay for the room?”

“Cash on the barrelhead. Thirty dollars a night times one hundred and twenty nights: three thousand, six hundred dollars in hundred-dollar bills.” Charlie smiled in fond remembrance. “Between Mr. Brown and the contest, the Up A Lazy River is going to have a good first quarter.”

“So you didn’t see the guy’s ID?” Wally stated.

“No, why would I need to?”

“And you didn’t think it was a little comical that Charlie Brown was renting your cabin?” Skye asked, exasperated with her godfather’s nonchalance. “Did you check to see if he had Snoopy with him?”

“There’s nothing funny about thirty-six hundred dollars. And you know I don’t allow pets.”

For the second straight day, Skye woke to a buzzing alarm at the appalling hour of five a.m. Once again she hurried through her morning ablutions and choked down a cup of scalding tea—burning her tongue in the process, which added to her bad temper.

Why in the world had she agreed with Wally when he had encouraged Grandma Sal to continue the contest? Right now she could still be curled up under the covers, dreaming that she and Hugh Jackman were dancing cheek-to-cheek on a white sand beach in the Caribbean.

But no. Instead she was standing in the cold wind waiting to be picked up by her mother in order to go cook a dish that had yet to come out of the oven in an edible state. And to top it all off, last night had not ended well.

When she and Wally had left Charlie’s they’d walked over to cabin twelve, which still had a lamp burning in its front window. But as soon as Wally rapped on the door, the
light was snapped off and the drapes drawn. Finally, after half a dozen knocks, each more insistent than the one before, Skye had persuaded Wally to give up.

By then neither had been in the mood for romance, and he had dropped her off at her house with only a quick goodnight kiss. Not exactly how she had expected her Saturday night to end.

Now Sunday morning felt like déjà vu to Skye as she slid into the passenger side of May’s Oldsmobile, slumped back on the seat, and closed her eyes.

At least this time May’s voice wasn’t chirpy when she said good morning.

Skye opened one eye and muttered a greeting.

May drove a mile or so in silence, then said, almost as if she were desperate for a topic, “I didn’t see you in church last night. Did you forget you wouldn’t have time to go this morning?”

Skye nodded, unwilling to go into a full explanation of what had distracted her. “Maybe I can cut cooking practice short and run over for eight-o’clock Mass.”

“If you go to confession God will forgive you for missing Mass, but Grandma Sal won’t forgive your macaroni being rubbery no matter how many prayers you say.”

Skye knew that May was intent on one of her recipes winning the contest, but she had thought that the state of her immortal soul might sway her mother. Clearly May was willing to take a chance that Skye might burn in hell if it meant taking home the gold.

After a few minutes of blessed silence, Skye asked, “How’s Uncle Dante?”

“Fine. They’re letting him out of the hospital this morning, and he’s holding a press conference at city hall to inform everyone that he nearly lost his life while trying to help Scumble River grow.”

“Better tell him to spread the word that he didn’t see his attacker.”

“Why?” May’s head jerked toward Skye. “Do you think whoever did it might try again?”

“Duh.” Sometimes Skye forgot that her mother had taken
up permanent residence in the land of denial, and that almost nothing could make her apply for a passport out of that realm. “It’s also why you have to keep quiet about the person who helped you yesterday morning. If anyone asks, you don’t remember a thing.”

“So I’ve been told.” May scowled. “I’m not as dumb as you think, missy.”

Skye bit her lip before something sarcastic slipped out. If her mother didn’t win the contest she’d be looking for someone to blame, and Skye wasn’t about to paint a bright red target on her backside by upsetting May right before she started cooking.

They were both quiet until they pulled into the factory parking lot. Then, as she shut off the car’s engine, May asked, “Do you think any of the contestants will drop out?”

“No.” Skye stepped from the Olds. “In fact, I heard that Grandma Sal offered Cherry’s slot to the runner-up, and that person snapped it up.”

“Anyone we know?” May’s voice came from inside the trunk of the car as she leaned in to get her belongings.

“I didn’t ask.” Skye plucked a box from her mother’s arms as May emerged. “But probably not.” She took a step toward the warehouse, then turned to look at May. “Unless you entered a fifth time.”

May shushed Skye. “Keep your voice down. Are you deliberately trying to get us in trouble?”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “I thought we weren’t doing anything against the rules.”

“We aren’t, but I don’t want them to write any new ones,” May retorted as she hurried through the door.

In the cooking area, Skye put the carton on her mother’s counter. Not surprisingly, they were the first to arrive, but even as Skye headed toward her own space, she heard the door open and a voice she recognized stopped her in her tracks.

“Earl, you are stupider than an idiot. If I didn’t need it for my secret recipe, I’d knock you into Tuesday with my castiron skillet.”

Skye cringed. It couldn’t be. Slowly she turned her head
and looked behind her with slitted eyes.
Shit!
Just what they needed. As if the murder, the missing teenager, Wally’s father, and the contest weren’t enough, standing at Cherry Alexander’s cooking area, dressed as if she were about to sing a duet with Johnny Cash, was Glenda Doozier.

Kneeling at Glenda’s cowgirl-booted feet was Earl Doozier, Glenda’s husband and the patriarch of the Red Raggers. Skye ducked behind a stove and edged away from the pair.

The Red Raggers were hard to explain to anyone who hadn’t grown up in Scumble River. They were the ones your mother meant when she warned you not to go into certain parts of town. They were the ones who were most often complained about in the newspaper’s “Shout Out” column—but only by people who never signed their names, because no one was foolish enough to purposely get the Red Raggers sore at them. In short, they were the ones whose family tree didn’t branch—and that single trunk was full of dry rot.

Skye had a special relationship with the Dooziers. In the past she had protected them from bureaucratic school rules, and they had protected her from her own naïveté, but she didn’t like to press her luck.

While Earl was firmly in her corner, there was no love lost between her and Glenda. Thank goodness they weren’t competing in the same category. Speaking of category, if Glenda was taking Cherry’s place, that meant she was in the Special-Occasion Baking group. What on earth could Glenda produce that would be fit for a special occasion? Possum Pie? Roadkill Jubilee? Or maybe a Squirrel Sundae?

Once Skye reached her cubicle she put the Dooziers out of her mind and began to assemble the ingredients for her recipe. While she worked, more finalists began to appear. They came in all shapes, sizes, and ages, but everyone wore the same determined look.

This was
the
day. Either they’d take home thousands of dollars and bragging rights for the next year, or they’d leave with nothing, and be forced to say over and over again, “Oh, I’m not disappointed I didn’t win. It was just an honor to
make the finals.” Those words might quickly become harder to swallow than Skye’s cooking.

As the warehouse started to fill with the sounds and smells of food being prepared, Skye slid her practice Chicken Supreme into the preheated oven. She set the timer, checked the clock on the wall, and looked at her watch. The dish had to come out in exactly fifty minutes, just as the cheese started to bubble, but before it started to brown. At that point she would sprinkle the top with buttered bread crumbs and then cook it five minutes longer.

Skye frowned as she adjusted her apron; they still hadn’t gotten her one with the right spelling of her name. She was tempted to take a Magic Marker and make the correction herself, but instead she set off to visit her competition and see what everyone was saying about the murder.

She couldn’t exactly take notes as she chatted, but she did tuck a small spiral pad in her pocket to jot down anything relevant as soon as she was out of a contestant’s sight. She was hoping to overhear discussions, but would start one if there was no alternative.

The first row of six stoves that Skye approached was the Healthy recipe entrants. She noticed that one cooking space was empty. Where was Vince, and how come May hadn’t picked him up and hauled his butt to the six a.m. practice? Skye ground her teeth; Vince had always been their mother’s favorite.

Pushing away her jealousy, she concentrated on what the other five Healthy recipe finalists were saying. The first conversation she tuned in to was between two women cooking next to each other. One of them was the contestant that May had thought she knew when they first gathered on Friday, Imogene Ingersoll.

This time Skye saw what her mother meant; there was something familiar about Imogene, but thick glasses, heavy makeup, and what was obviously a wig made identification difficult.
Hmm
… Skye bit her lip. Maybe Imogene had lost her hair undergoing chemotherapy. A couple of months ago Skye’d given a ride to a student who worked part-time at the
Laurel Oncology Clinic and that might be where she’d seen Imogene.

Skye’s focus was brought back to the two when Imogene said, “After they turned us away at the gate yesterday, I thought for sure they’d cancel the contest, or at least postpone it.” She tied on her apron while continuing to chat. “I didn’t see the message on my cell that the contest was still on until I came home from Mass; then I flew over here.”

Skye recognized the other lady as the one with the injured leg. What was her name? She squinted at the apron pocket. Right, Monika. Now she remembered—Monika Bradley, the CPA from Brooklyn.

As Skye watched, Monika nodded. “Yeah, I was surprised, too. But my husband can never let a phone go unanswered, so I got the news yesterday afternoon.” She slid a pan into her oven, then said, “I guess the show must go on.”

“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t very nice.”

“That’s an understatement. She reminded me of my cousin’s poodle. It was a pretty little thing, all bright eyes and curls, and it would come up and rest against your leg like it wanted to be petted. But the minute you reached down to stroke it, it would bite your fingers clean to the bone.” Monika set the stove’s timer. “Did you hear her yelling in the restaurant? Someone stealing her secret ingredient, my eye. I saw her put that little sack she was carrying on about in the garbage can. She shoved it in way to the bottom.”

“Really? Did you say something to her?”

“Sure.” Monika crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “At first she denied it, but then I threatened to go to Grandma Sal and she admitted she pulled the whole stunt to try to get May Denison kicked out of the contest.”

“No!”

“Yes. Cherry said that May was her biggest competition, and she always tried to get her main rival disqualified.”

Imogene pushed her glasses up. “Why didn’t you turn Cherry in?”

“Because they were going at each other tooth and nail. I was hoping both of them would get kicked out. If Cherry
had ended up winning the grand prize and I had a chance at winning it, I would have turned her in then.” She sniffed. “Instead they let the next runner-up take Cherry’s place. Damn!”

Skye snickered softly and moved on to the Snack recipe row. Here Charlie was holding court, waving a spatula and talking loudly. He wore his usual gray twill pants, white shirt, and red suspenders. His three-hundred-pound bulk took up nearly every inch of space in his cubicle, and made him look like a sumo wrestler squeezed into a pair of size-A panty hose.

Charlie’s booming baritone echoed off the warehouse walls. “If I hear any of you say that again, we’ll be suing you for slander.”

Skye slipped behind a pillar. She wanted to know what he was talking about, but not enough to be drawn into the fray.

“Oh, shut your yap, you old fool.” A birdlike woman marched up to him clutching a whisk. “All I said was that the dead woman had a fight with May Denison. You can’t sue me for stating the facts. I’m not saying May killed her.”

A dignified woman whom Skye recognized as a math teacher from Scumble River High shook her head. “Besides, Mr. Patukas, I think Ms. Alexander had words with at least a dozen or so people. I saw her yelling at Grandma Sal’s son just after we finished dinner.”

The others in the area joined in, and Skye quickly scribbled names and motives in her notebook. It seemed as if Miss Cherry had argued with nearly everyone in the place.