Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (4 page)

Skye wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of makeup, sweat, and mold. Up until a few days ago the space had been used as a dressing room for the annual school play, and it housed the drama department’s costumes during the rest of the year.

Uncle Dante must have persuaded Homer to have the room straightened up. The principal would never have thought of doing it on his own. Even the uncomfortable chairs, now arranged in four rows of six, would have been too much of a hassle for him. Homer had mentally retired from his job several years ago; he just hadn’t bothered to turn in the paperwork.

Clearly everyone was beginning to get impatient. Some wiggled in their seats, others paced, and a few muttered about “talking to someone and finding out what’s holding things up.”

Skye hoped that one of the more vocal finalists would
do
something. Normally she would be leading the charge, but this was May’s moment, and Skye had vowed not to ruin it for her mom, who preferred manipulation to confrontation.

To amuse herself, Skye turned her attention to the other contestants, trying to guess their day jobs. An attractive blonde a few years younger than Skye sat alone, her right leg encased in a Velcro brace and propped up on an empty chair. Small wire-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose, and she was reading the side of a prescription bottle.
MONIKA
was embroidered on the bib of her official apron.

This reminded Skye that her own name had been mis-spelled. Scowling, she looked down at the bright red thread reading,
SYKE.
The staff had promised to provide a corrected apron before the actual contest. If they didn’t come through by tomorrow, Skye vowed she would put some sort of pin over the offending error.

Okay, where was she? Right, the blonde.
Mmm
. Either a teacher or a nurse.

Having made her guess, Skye turned her attention to a woman dressed straight out of the 1950s. She wore a wool dress with a full skirt and short matching jacket, high-heeled pumps, and even a little hat perched on her brunette pageboy, its peacock feather dipping over her right eye like an exclamation mark. Her apron sported the name
DIANE.
She sat erect in her chair, holding her handbag in her lap.

This was a tough one, but Skye guessed that Diane was either an executive secretary or the owner of an antique shop.

Next in Skye’s line of vision was a woman built like a linebacker. She had to weigh at least three hundred fifty pounds, and it looked like solid muscle. Nothing jiggled as she paced the length of the small room. Her skin had a blue-black sheen, and her many long braids were pulled back and
fastened at the back of her neck. She wore jeans and a T-shirt that said,
KISS THE COOK.
Her apron read,
JANELLE.

Skye was stumped. Janelle could be anything from a professional wrestler to the owner of a construction company.

Before Skye could come up with a firm guess, the last finalist swept into the room, talking a mile a minute to the young man trailing behind her. “Darling, please don’t forget to call my editor about the cover of
SECRETS OF A HOTEL HEIRESS.
Can you believe they thought green was right for my fabulous book? Clearly it should be pink.” Without waiting for a reply, she went on, “Oh, and I forgot to pick up my new Vera Wang satin sandals. I’ll need them for tomorrow, so call Juanita and have her run into Chicago and get them.”

The woman paused to take a breath, and the guy said, “Gotcha, babe. Those shoes are bitchin’.”

Skye squinted at the woman’s chest and discovered her name was Cherry. Cherry, hmmm … well, she did have red hair, but it was chin-length, with ends flipped up and sticking out all over her head. The style reminded Skye more of a cactus than a fruit. The woman’s floral wrap dress was unmistakably couture, and the cost of her Fendi tote could have paid Skye’s salary for a month. It was hard to tell her age— there were slight creases around her eyes—but such extremely fair skin wrinkled easily. She might be anywhere from her late thirties to early fifties.

What in the world was she doing in a cooking contest, not to mention living in Stanley County? When Skye noticed Cherry staring at her, Skye looked away from the loud couple. It didn’t really matter who her competitors were; Skye was pretty sure they could all beat her, even with one spatula tied behind their backs.

Skye was thinking about how awful her last attempt at the chicken casserole had been when the redhead’s irritating voice penetrated her thoughts for a second time, and she glanced up. Cherry had sat down and was holding a small leather notebook in her left hand and a tiny gold pen in her right. The man, nodding, stood by her side with his hands in the pockets of a pair of long, baggy shorts. He looked like
the quintessential California beach boy—blue eyes, rock-hard body, and deep tan.

Cherry continued, “And, Kyle, do tell Larissa to make sure the baby doesn’t nap this afternoon. She claims she doesn’t, but I think she lets him sleep as much as he wants when we’re gone. I’ve told her again and again I need him to be tired by the time I get home.”

Skye sucked in an audible breath and frowned. She had just read an article in the
School Psychologist Journal
about parents who kept their infants up during the day so they could sleep at night. There was a concern that interrupting the natural sleep patterns of the babies could harm their brain development.

Cherry’s gaze fastened on Skye and she glared, then turned back to Kyle and raised her voice. “We seem to have a Nosy Parker eavesdropping on our discussion. Please go over and tell her to mind her own damn business.”

“Babe, that’s totally bogus.” Kyle ran his fingers through his blond curls. “Like, I’m sure no one cares what we’re saying.”

Cherry ignored him and stalked over to Skye. “You, there, Syke, my husband and I are having a private conversation. Back off.”

“Where in this twelve-by-twelve room do you think I could stand and not hear you?” Skye was now completely annoyed. “There are twenty-four of us, which means we are each entitled to about six square feet. Since your
husband
isn’t supposed to be here, you’ll have to share your six feet with him.”

Suddenly Skye felt a tug on her sleeve and looked down into her mother’s angry scowl.

“What in the world is going on?” May whispered. “I turn my back on you for two minutes and you’re already arguing with someone.”

Skye, resuming eye contact with Cherry, said, “Go sit down, Mom. Everything is fine. Cherry and I were just dis-cussing spatial relationships, and the fact that her ego is taking up more than its fair share of the available space.”

May tugged Skye back a couple of steps and hissed in her
ear, “I raised you right. You know better than to say things like that to someone’s face—you only say them behind their back.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?”

“No, I think it’s good manners.”

Before Skye could react, the door swung open and one of Grandma Sal’s staff walked in. “Okay, now that everyone’s here, please follow me onto the stage. Grandma Sal will introduce you; then you can answer some questions for the media.”

The contestants hurriedly gathered their belongings and formed a loose line. Skye noticed that Cherry had managed to get into the number one spot.

Skye was surprised to see nearly every chair on the gym floor occupied and several TV camera crews jostling for position just beyond the footlights. Uncle Dante had been right: This was a major event and a good chance for Scumble River to get some positive PR.

A woman in her late seventies stood center stage. Her gray hair was arranged in a soft halo of curls, and her blue eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a pink flowered dress and a matching hat covered in artificial car-nations.

Smiling at the contestants, she said, “Ladies and gentle-men, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the thirty-fifth annual Grandma Sal’s Soup-to-Nuts Cooking Challenge.” She waited for the applause to die down, then continued, “My name is Sally Fine, and I’m CEO of Fine Foods. Helping me with this contest are my son, Jared; his wife, Tammy; my grandson, JJ; and his brother, Brandon.”

Skye looked over at the middle-aged couple and their handsome sons. Both young men seemed fairly close in age, somewhere in their twenties. JJ resembled Grandma Sal, a little pudgy, with blue eyes and curly blond hair, while Brandon looked more like his mother, athletic with dark hair and eyes. The couple and their sons waved politely, but none of the four looked pleased to be there. Skye remembered hearing that they lived in Chicago and, unlike Grandma Sal, were rarely seen at the Scumble River factory.

Grandma Sal waited for the clapping to die down, then said, “Our judges are Ramona Epstein, food editor for the
Chicago Post
; Alice Gibson, best-selling cookbook author; and Paul Voss, the restaurant critic for Chicago’s leading radio station.”

Skye studied the first judge. Even adding the weight of the gold and diamonds she was wearing, Ramona couldn’t possibly top the scale at a hundred pounds. Skye wondered if the food editor ever actually ate anything.

Next to the tiny raven-haired judge, Alice looked almost hulking, although she probably was no more than a size twelve or fourteen. Skye nodded to herself in approval. If you were going to write cookbooks, you should at least look as if you tasted your own recipes.

The male judge stood a little apart from the women, his unnaturally blue eyes shooting sparks of disdain. Something about him reminded Skye of an evil Santa. She wasn’t sure if it was the red pants, hat, and shoes, the white goatee, or the bowl-full-of-jelly belly.

After the judges came onstage, Grandma Sal turned to the wings and extended her right hand. “Now let’s meet the contestants. First, Mrs. Cherry Alexander, a writer from Laurel Lake who is competing in Special-Occasion Baking.”

Skye smiled. Good. She could avoid Cherry, since they weren’t in the same category. It wasn’t as if Skye would take first in her group and go up against the other three winners for the grand prize.

Several other contestants were introduced before Grandma Sal got to the attractive blonde with the injured leg. “Monika Bradley owns her own accounting firm and comes to us from Brooklyn. She is competing in the Healthy Foods division.”

Dang, a CPA, not a nurse or teacher. So far Skye was zero for one.

A few more finalists had their fifteen seconds of fame; then the 1950s woman stepped forward, and Grandma Sal said, “Diane White is a cookie blogger from Clay Center, Special-Occasion Baking.”

Okay, no one would have guessed cookie blogger for a
profession. Skye’s brows met over her nose in an irritated frown. What was a cookie blogger, and was it even a real occupation? Fine, she had one more chance.

The linebacker was the last contestant to be introduced, and before Grandma Sal could speak, a dozen or so men in the audience stood up, stamped their feet, and whistled. Skye couldn’t see very well past the footlights, but the guys in the cheering section looked mighty big. Maybe the finalist really was on a football team.

Finally the crowd settled down, and Grandma Sal said, “Last but certainly not least is Janelle Carpenter from Granger. Janelle is a prison cook and will be competing in the One-Dish Meals category.”

Yikes
! That was Skye’s group. Could all those men cheering be ex-cons? If so, it was a good thing Skye didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.

What seemed like hours later, Grandma Sal finally finished her welcoming speech, which had included the history of the company and a loving description of every division and every product sold.

As soon as the older woman relinquished the mike, Mayor Leofanti grabbed it. Skye cringed. Dante was less than five-six, and he carried all of his considerable weight in his chest and stomach. With his thick gray hair slicked back, red nose, and black suit, he looked like a penguin, only not as distinguished.

While Dante started, as expected, by thanking everyone and their dog for helping make this event possible, Skye’s stomach growled. She’d had her normal breakfast of an En-glish muffin and tea at eight o’clock, but it was already past noon, and they still had the media questions to face before they would be escorted to the luncheon being held at the Feed Bag, Scumble River’s only sit-down restaurant. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she starved to death at a cooking contest?

Dante paused, then began his closing remarks. “Grandma Sal’s Fine Foods has been a part of Scumble River for close to forty years. Mrs. Fine and her late husband built the
factory here in the nineteen sixties, and pretty near saved this town from dying out. They have employed many of you, your parents, and grandparents, and have always been a good neighbor. Scumble Riverites have been able to depend on Grandma Sal’s for jobs, charitable contributions, and a future. Because of this, we who have reaped their bounty want to thank them by hosting the best ever Soup-to-Nuts Cooking Challenge.”

The crowd clapped and whistled, and Skye smiled at her uncle. He was not a particularly good uncle, and she knew from experience that he was a lousy boss, but he had turned out to be a great mayor. She was truly happy for him and her family that after so many years he had found his niche.

Dante waved, bowed, and then stepped back as Grandma Sal opened the floor to the media. The majority of the questions were addressed to all of the contestants, and anyone could answer. Skye noticed that Cherry usually managed to have the last say on most subjects. Grudgingly Skye acknowledged that the writer had a way with the audience. Her quips generally left them laughing and, more important, scribbling in their notebooks.

They had been standing on the stage for nearly two hours, and Skye was rocking from foot to foot, hungry, bored, and needing to pee, when the owner/reporter of the
Scumble River Star
, Kathryn Steele, asked the group, “What inspired your recipes?”

It took a moment for Skye to realize that her mother had stepped forward and was answering. It took another moment for her to grasp what May was saying.