Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (22 page)

Skye felt drained. There was nothing she could do now. The decision to find Earl rather than save her dish had been made and there was no going back. She only hoped that May wouldn’t be too disappointed in her.

Willing herself to get up off the chair, Skye started to rise just as the ending whistle blew. The contest was officially over.

Seconds later Bunny flew into the workspace. She beamed at Skye and threw a pair of pot holders toward the counter, not appearing to notice when they missed by several inches and dropped to the floor.

Skye picked them up, stalling for time while she tried to think of what to say. Bunny had tried her best, and Skye didn’t want her to feel unappreciated.

But Bunny beat her to the punch, grabbing her by the shoulders and waltzing her around the little cubicle. “We did it! I got it to the officials with ten minutes to spare, and she said it looked scrumptious.”

Skye dug in her heels, forcing the older woman to stop dancing, then squirmed out of her embrace. “I appreciate what you did, Bunny, but you should have waited for me. Without the topping the dish will be disqualified, since it doesn’t match the submitted recipe.”

Bunny frowned. “But—”

Skye cut her off. “It’s okay. I know you were just trying to help, but you need to learn to follow directions.”

“No, I—”

“I said it was okay. Just don’t tell May. I’ll let her think I screwed up. She’s prepared for that, but to come so close and have this happen would send her blood pressure into the stratosphere.”

“Wait.” Bunny stamped her foot. “Listen to me. I put the topping on before I brought it over. You had it all ready, and I saw what you did the other two times. So when you were so late, I just sprinkled on the bread crumbs and browned the whole thing for a few minutes in the oven. You won’t be disqualified.”

Skye opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Had she heard Bunny correctly? Had she really saved the day?

Gradually Skye’s lips began to twitch. Wait until she told her mother that Bunny, May’s archenemy, had salvaged the Chicken Supreme entry.

“That’s great!” Giggling, Skye enveloped Bunny in a bear hug. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Too bad you and Sonny Boy aren’t seeing each other anymore. You could tell him his mama finally did something right.”

Skye swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Bunny a final squeeze before releasing her. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he knows.”

“Good.” Bunny picked up her magazine and purse. “You don’t need my help cleaning up, do you? Charlie offered me a ride home, and I don’t want to keep the darling man waiting.” Without pausing for a reply, she trotted out the doorway.

Skye shook her head. With Bunny it was always one hop forward and two hops back. It would have been nice to have help with the cleanup, but considering everything, doing a few dishes and mopping a floor was the least Skye could do for the woman who had saved her casserole.

She was just putting away the last utensil when May bustled into the cubicle. Her critical stare examined every inch of the workspace. She closed a cupboard door that had been slightly ajar, then ran her finger over the stove’s cooktop.
Impassively she opened the oven door, peered inside, and scraped something off the interior with her fingernail, throwing the debris in the wastebasket before acknowledging her daughter’s presence.

When May straightened, she said, “We can go as soon as you bag the trash.” She held up a white plastic sack closed with a yellow twist tie. “We can throw mine and yours both in the Dumpster on the way out.”

“Don’t they have someone to do that?” Skye took off her apron and grabbed her purse from a drawer.

“Yes. Us.” May stared at Skye, then looked pointedly at the trash bin. “Didn’t you read your rule sheet?”

“Most of it. Why?”

“Because it states that in case of a draw, either in your category or for the grand prize, the cleanliness of your workstation will be the tiebreaking point.”

“I saw that, but I didn’t see where it said it included garbage duty.”

May
tsked
. “Better safe than sorry.”

Words that had been forming in Skye all during the contest threatened to spill out, but she swallowed them. Maybe her mother was right. It would be awful to lose five thousand dollars because of an unemptied sack of garbage.

From what Skye could tell when she and her mother emerged from the cubicle rows, the other finalists seemed to have all left. The judges and photographer remained, as did a large part of the audience, who were milling around tasting the last few dishes.

As Skye and May headed for the back door, Skye said, “Vince told me you borrowed his cell phone to call Wally, because you remembered something that could help catch the murderer. What was it?”

May lowered her voice. “I remembered that the person who helped me with my box was left-handed.”

“How did you notice that?”

“You know how when you reach for something you usually do it with your dominant side? This guy took my tote bag with his left hand; then, when he carried the box, he switched it to his right and had the box in his left hand.”

“That’s great, Mom.” Skye tried to think of anyone involved who was left-handed. She hadn’t really paid attention, but she would now. “Did Wally have anything to say? Anything new in the investigations?”

“I left a message with Thea. She said she hadn’t heard a thing, and that both Wally and Quirk had been in the field the whole day.” May held the door for Skye, then followed her daughter to the Dumpsters.

Skye heaved her bag into the huge black bin, then took her mother’s and did the same.

As they walked toward the car, May stopped and picked up a piece of crumpled paper nearly buried in a footprint in the dirt beside the sidewalk. She looked around but there were no trash cans, so she half turned to go back toward the Dumpsters.

“Just give it to me, Mom.” Skye held out her hand. “I’ll throw it away when I get home.”

May handed it over, and Skye thrust it into her jeans pocket.

They got into the car in silence, both exhausted from cooking for nearly eleven straight hours. Skye rested her head on the seat back and closed her eyes, not opening them until she felt the car turn into her driveway.

May pulled the Olds up to the front walkway and asked, “Do you want Dad and me to pick you up for the square dance and pork-chop supper?”

“Are they still having that?” Skye had been certain that the event would have been canceled to show respect for the dead finalist.

“Yes, didn’t you get the flyer?” May rummaged in her purse and handed Skye a sheet of paper, but instead of letting her read it, May continued, “It says that they checked with Cherry’s husband and he said to go ahead. That Cherry wouldn’t want them to call it off.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. Kyle must know Cherry better than anyone else, but Skye’s impression of the author had been more prima donna and less humanitarian.

“Do I have to go?” Skye knew the answer before the words left her lips.

“Dante went to a lot of work organizing this event, and it would be disrespectful to him, Grandma Sal, and the whole community for you not to show up.” May’s lips thinned. “Especially since Dante’s attending, and he only got out of the hospital this morning.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Skye opened her door and slid out.

“You’re a grown woman. I certainly can’t tell you what to do.”

Skye muttered under her breath, “Since when?”

“So, shall we pick you up?”

“No, thanks. I’ll drive myself.” Skye waved at her mom and started to shut the car door. “Thanks for the ride. See you tonight.”

May shouted through the closed window, “It starts at seven. Don’t be late.” Without waiting for a response, she tooted the horn and drove off.

Bingo met Skye as she walked through the front door. His purr-o-meter was turned to high, making his sides vibrate like a bagpipe playing “Amazing Grace.” She scooped him up, rubbing his ears and under his chin.

After thirty-two-point-one seconds of petting, he wiggled out of her arms and trotted toward the kitchen. About halfway down the hall he stopped and looked back to make sure she was following.

Skye had paused to put down her purse and apron, but reassured the feline, “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute. I doubt you’ll starve before I arrive.”

Bingo flicked his tail twice—to show he meant business—then continued toward his food dish.

Skye risked the wrath of the feline by poking her head into the parlor as she passed. The indicator light on her answering machine beamed a steady red. No one had tried to contact her.

Darn.
She was hoping to hear that some progress had been made on the missing teen, the murder, or even the mysterious disappearing father. In any case, as soon as she fed Bingo she’d call Wally. She knew he was busy, but she
needed to update him on all she had heard during the contest.

Bingo was waiting by his food bowls when Skye walked into the kitchen. One bowl held a heaping portion of dry cat food; the other had been licked so clean it looked as if it had just come out of the dishwasher.

According to the vet, Bingo was allowed one small can of wet cat food a day, at the most. He could have as much of the dry as he wished. Unfortunately, what he desired was an unending supply of the canned, and for the dry to disappear in a puff of smoke and never come back.

Most of the time Skye stood firm, parceling out his Fancy Feast a third of a can at a time, once in the morning, once when she got back from work, and the last before bed. But on days like today, when she had no idea what her schedule would be, she gave him the whole can before she left the house, which resulted in a demanding feline when she got home.

She should ignore his plaintive meows, the sad slump of his tail, and the hungry looks—just as she should ignore her own craving for chocolate and cookies. Normally she was about 50 percent successful with either endeavor, but today had been extremely stressful, and she decided both she and Bingo deserved a treat.

After putting half a can of grilled tuna flakes in the cat’s bowl, she grabbed a package of Pepperidge Farm chocolate-chunk cookies from the cupboard and headed upstairs. She shed her clothes in the bedroom, then walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

While she waited for the water to get hot—it had a long way to come from the water heater in the basement to the second floor—she tore open the cookie package and lifted out the little plastic tub containing four cookies.

The nutrition information on the side of the bag claimed a serving size was one cookie. Where did these people come from, Planet of the Barbie Dolls? Obviously a real portion should be what the plastic basket held.

Once she had showered, blown her hair dry, and gotten dressed for the square dance, Skye went downstairs to see if
any calls had come in. There were still no messages, so she phoned the police department.

After exchanging pleasantries with the afternoon-shift dispatcher, Skye asked for Wally. The woman informed her that he was still working and hadn’t taken a break to answer his messages all day.

Skye tried his home number—no one answered, not even a machine—and his cell, which apparently was still broken, since it went immediately to voice mail. Frustrated, she wasn’t sure what to do. Trixie needed to get back from her vacation soon because Skye needed a brainstorming partner badly.

It was six o’clock. She had an hour before she had to show up at the pork-chop supper. What should her next move be? Her gaze wandered to the little antique desk in the corner of the parlor, and an idea came to her almost as if someone had whispered in her ear.

She’d write it all down and drop her notes at the PD. Maybe while she was there she could find out what was going on with both the missing girl and the murder.

T
he police department parking lot was full, which, at nearly six thirty p.m., was surprising. The PD shared a building with the city hall and library, which meant that from nine to five cars prowled the tiny lot looking for an empty space, but in the evening there were usually only two automobiles occupying slots—the dispatcher’s and that of the officer on duty.

Wally must have called everyone in, including the part-timers. What was up? Had there been a break in either one of the cases?

Skye felt a surge of triumph when a young man exited the building and approached a silver Camaro. Skye eased her Bel Air into position and waited for the guy to back out. Instead he rolled down his window and a smoke ring drifted into the night air.

Shoot!
This whole not being able to find a parking spot was starting to make Skye feel like she lived in Chicago rather than Scumble River. Gritting her teeth, she exited the lot and drove down the block until she found a space.

On the walk back she noted that the town was hopping. A steady stream of traffic filled both the road the PD faced and
the street it intersected, which was remarkable for a Sunday night, when most of the Scumble River population was usually at home watching
60 Minutes
and preparing for the workweek ahead.