Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (21 page)

It sounded familiar. She thought she had issued a similar command during last summer’s hundred-mile yard sale when the goat-cheese guy accused Earl of feeding the guy’s kids—baby goats, not children—to the Doozier’s pet lion.

The order had worked back in August, but this time the woman looked at Skye as if she were a flea, then turned her attention back to Earl. “Bad man, bad man. No cheating. Stop it right now.”

Skye hated having her suggestions ignored. It happened too often in her job as a school psychologist. When parents or administrators disregarded her ideas she could wait them out, as they generally ended up coming back to her for help, but in this situation time was not on her side.

How could she get through to this person? Maybe if Skye blew a dog whistle or offered her a liver treat, the woman would put Earl down. But before Skye could find a muzzle and a leash, Earl wiggled out of the woman’s grasp.

Spittle flew from his semitoothless mouth and spattered on the lady’s chest as he yelled, “I keep telling you, Miz King, I ain’t cheatin’!”

Ms. King bopped Earl again with the newspaper. “What do you call offering people money to assign their points to your wife’s recipe?”

Oh, no
. Skye tensed, sensing impending doom. Everyone in Scumble River knew you didn’t accuse a Doozier of wrongdoing—at least, not to his face and without backup. Clearly this woman was from out of town.

While Skye was trying to figure out what to say or do to defuse the situation, Earl’s wife, Glenda, materialized next to her husband, holding a cast-iron frying pan in a threatening
grip. Glenda was the epitome of the Red Raggers’ ideal woman. She wore a denim miniskirt, the overtaxed material fading to white across her derriere, and a bubble-gum pink halter top that was losing its fight with gravity. She had swept her hair, dyed one shade beyond believability, into a ponytail, and the black roots were an interesting contrast to the rest of the platinum mane.

A movement behind Ms. King dragged Skye’s gaze from Glenda. Sneaking up on the group was Hap, Earl’s brother. Skye flinched. She hadn’t known Hap had been released from prison. He’d been doing a five-year sentence for child abuse and attempted murder—hers. He’d tried to kill Skye when she turned him in for beating his son.

Hap was unarmed, but was scary nonetheless. He was short and skinny like his brother Earl, although not as densely tattooed. While Earl preferred sweatpants and tank tops, Hap liked to dress as if a rodeo might suddenly appear in Scumble River. His tight blue jeans were cinched with a wide leather belt that sported a silver buckle the size of a Frisbee, and his shiny western-style shirt had mother-of-pearl snaps. As he got closer, the stench of his cologne mixed with the alcohol fumes that surrounded him and created an olfactory nightmare.

While Skye had been distracted by Hap’s appearance, Earl’s twin siblings, Elvis and Elvira, had flanked Ms. King. They both preferred to dress in uninterrupted black, including the switchblades they flicked open and held at the ready. Elvis had dropped out of school, but Elvira was still one of Skye’s students. She tried to catch the girl’s gaze, but the teen refused to look at her.

Skye knew she had to do something before someone’s blood was shed, because without a doubt, no matter who else got hurt, her plasma would be mingled with theirs.

Desperate, she decided to go with the obvious, wishing she had her walkie-talkie and identification card with her. Why hadn’t she thought to bring them? This was a crime scene. The only reason she could come up with for her lapse was waking up before the break of dawn two mornings in a
row. Skye’s mind never did work well when she was sleep-deprived.

Shrugging off the excuses, she said, “Ms. King, I’m the psychological consultant for the Scumble River Police Department. Please put your newspaper down and step away from the Doozier.”

Skye wasn’t sure if the woman finally noticed that Earl’s relatives could have passed for the cast of
The Addams Family
or if she was impressed by Skye’s title, but Ms. King stepped back from the little man and turned on Skye. “Are you in charge?” While Skye pondered that question, Ms. King strode over to her and said, “This man is going around offering people money to use their points on his wife’s recipe. And if they refuse he intimates that physical harm will befall them.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Skye nodded. “I’m here to put a stop to it.”

Earl had been backing away from Skye and Ms. King, but when Skye spoke he stopped and bleated, “Now, Miz Skye. You can’t do that. There ain’t nothin’ in the rules that says I can’t reward people for doin’ a good thing or punish them if they don’t.”

Skye paused. Why did that sound so familiar?

“After all, ain’t you been tellin’ me and tellin’ me that’s what I needs to do with the kids?” Earl answered her unspoken question.

Ms. King glared at Skye and took a step closer. “You told him to do this?”

All eyes swung toward her. The crowd buzzed with comments, all of them malevolent. Skye cringed. With the Dooziers, ignorance was not a barrier to self-expression.

As if to prove Skye’s thoughts correct, Glenda pointed her pink acrylic fingernail at Skye. “That’s right. She told us it was okay.”

Skye gulped. “No. That’s not what I meant.” They were twisting what she had been trying to show them about positive reinforcement. “Earl, you know that wasn’t what I was trying to teach you. Tell them the truth.”

Earl squirmed under her stare, but then looked at his
wife, who waved her frying pan, and at the large woman, who shook her rolled-up newspaper at him. “I’m sorry, Miz Skye, but you did say it.”

Great, she was about to be torn apart by a mob at a cooking contest because she had tried to teach some parenting techniques to two people who should never have been allowed to breed in the first place. There was some irony in this, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She swallowed—her throat had gone dry—then raised her voice and tried to explain one more time. “Look, everyone, I’m a school psychologist. I was trying to teach them parenting skills. I certainly did not tell them they could use those methods to try to cheat in this contest.”

Ms. King glared at Skye. “That’s all fine and good, except how do we know how many people he’s already bribed? My son is entered in this contest, and Butch deserves to win. If he loses to this … this … tramp, it will be on your shoulders.”

Glenda narrowed her rabbitlike brown eyes. “Who you callin’ a tramp, you old cow?” She raised the cast-iron skillet, but before she could bring it down on the other woman’s head a flash went off.

Skye whirled around. They had been discovered by the media. Reporters were taking notes, photographers were clicking cameras, and the local TV station was zooming in.

Briefly, Skye considered throwing her apron over her face and making a run for it. But since several flashes had already gone off and the TV camera had been rolling for who knew how long, what was the use? Besides, those people who ran from the courthouse to their limos with their coats over their heads always looked guiltier than if they had walked erect, maintaining an innocent expression and saying, “No comment.”

Still, someone should try to do something to mitigate the damage. Grandma Sal and her company had been wonderful to the community for years and years, and this type of media exposure couldn’t be good for the Fine Foods brand. Where were the business’s PR people? Surely they could handle the situation.

Skye’s gaze searched the crowd as her mind rummaged around for an idea. On her second sweep of the throng, Skye narrowed her eyes and shaded them with her hand. Was that Brandon and JJ standing just beyond the media?

Yes. JJ, the pudgy one with the blond curls, had just joined Brandon, the slim, dark-haired one. She made her way toward them, and when she could speak without having to shout, she said, “JJ, Brandon, you need to do something. This will look awful on the six-o’clock news.”

Brandon asked, “What happened?”

Skye explained the Dooziers as well as she could, then described the situation with Ms. King, ending with, “Then the mob turned on me, but Ms. King insulted Glenda Doozier, and that diverted everyone’s attention.”

JJ bit his thumbnail. “We’d better get Dad and Grandma.”

Both JJ and Brandon had their cell phones out in a flash.

Skye opened her mouth to suggest that two grown men should be able to handle the situation on their own, but then realized that both these guys were very young for their age, having led protected and pampered lives. Chronologically they may have been in their late twenties, but emotionally they were probably closer to sixteen or seventeen. Frannie and Justin were more mature than these two.

As his fingers flew over the tiny buttons, JJ said, “I’m calling Dad; you get Grandma.”

Brandon nodded, pressing a few numbers.

JJ and Brandon were still trying to get a signal on their cell phones when a gunshot rang out through the warehouse. Instinctively Skye went into bodyguard mode and tackled the young men, sending them all to the floor in a gigantic heap.

As Skye worked her way free of tangled arms and legs, having somehow ended up on the bottom of the pile, she heard more screams and shouts. Her first clear view was of running feet and a panicked crowd. Only the thought of her burning casserole motivated her to continue freeing herself rather than pulling JJ and Brandon back over herself like a blanket.

I
t had taken Skye several minutes to persuade JJ and Brandon to get off of her. They had been reluctant to stand up, even after they were reassured that there would be no more shooting.

The situation had disintegrated so quickly, she could hardly blame them for being a bit disinclined to leap into the fray. There had been the gunshot, which caused the audience to charge toward the exit like a tidal wave mowing down anyone and anything in its path. Next there was a dramatic showdown between Hap and the factory security guards, who had appeared just in time to witness Hap twirling his pistol in the air and yelling drunkenly, “Yee-haw! Let’s get this here shindig started.”

Apparently Skye had been mistaken in her initial assessment—Hap Doozier had been armed after all.

The guards must have been used to dealing with inebriated counterfeit cowboys, because they snuck up behind Hap and had him roped and tied so fast they would have won the first-prize buckle if Hap-busting had been a rodeo event.

As they passed her, Skye heard one of the security men shouting into his walkie-talkie, arranging for the police to pick up the errant Jesse James. She smiled in relief when
one of the other guards commented that Hap was on his way back to prison, since possession of a firearm was a violation of his parole.

While the Fines and their PR staff worked on getting the stampeded people back inside and in their seats, Skye finally headed to her workspace. By now her casserole was probably a charcoal briquette, and there wasn’t enough time to make another, but at least no one had gotten hurt. She told herself again and again that that was all that mattered, hoping May would buy into that sentiment when she heard about the incident.

Earl had been banned from the premises, and the Fines had announced that his Earl dollars were worthless, but Glenda was allowed to remain and compete. She had somehow convinced Grandma Sal that she was an innocent victim of her husband’s stupidity—which was not a far stretch from the truth. It appeared that the only casualty of the Dooziers’ antics might be Skye’s Chicken Supreme.

Behind the spotlights and inside the cubicles, everything appeared normal. If the contestants had heard the ruckus on the other side of the warehouse, either they had ignored it or taken a look and were already back at their stoves. There were only fifteen minutes left on the clock, and many of the finalists were putting the last-minute touches on their dishes. Those who had finished were cleaning up.

Skye approached her space with trepidation. She sniffed. No smell of smoke. She checked the floor and partitions. Nothing seemed freshly soaked. Could Bunny have actually come through for her?

Stepping around the corner, Skye held her breath, then exhaled it loudly. The stove and counter looked just as she had left them, but Bunny was gone. Skye checked the oven. Her casserole was gone, too.

It looked as if Bunny had actually taken the dish from the oven and brought it to the contest staff. Hope flared in Skye’s chest until she remembered that the casserole needed the bread-crumb topping to be complete. Without it she’d be disqualified.

She sank onto the chair and pushed Bunny’s abandoned
magazine off the seat, watching the shiny pages slither to the ground.
Shit!
If only Bunny had followed instructions and just taken the dish from the oven, Skye could have still gotten it topped and into the contest official’s hands in time.

But that was Bunny’s curse. She always meant well, but things never turned out right for her. It was hard to understand how she remained such an optimist.

Simon would have said it was because most of the trouble his mother caused was for other people. Nevertheless, no one ended up on the shady side of fifty, managing a bowling alley in a small town, dependent on the goodwill of a son she was estranged from, and with a daughter she had met only a few months ago, without making some really bad choices.