Murder of a Pink Elephant (11 page)

A little farther down, Ace Cramer said to his dining companions, “Right now the economy stinks, but Gibson’s plan can bail us all out.”

Skye pursed her lips. What was Gibson’s plan? She put a few chocolate-dipped strawberries and some petits fours on her plate and rejoined her family.

After everyone finished eating, waiters came by with bottles of champagne and trays of glasses. While they were
serving, Moss Gibson stepped back up to the dais and spoke into the mike. “Did everyone enjoy brunch?”

A polite round of applause answered him.

“Good. Now, lean back, sip your bubbly, and enjoy the show. The lights darkened and a screen descended from the ceiling. After a few seconds of blurry gray snow, an image of an amusement park appeared, and the recorded voice of a has-been movie star said, “Welcome to Spudville, located just outside the growing town of Rat Cove, Idaho. At one time, this fine community was in serious financial trouble, but now with the thousands of tourists Spudville attracts to the area, it’s turned into a thriving city.”

Skye watched in appalled silence. From the Mashed Potato Water Ride to the Tater Tot Train, the attractions grew tackier and in worse taste with each one shown. The pièce de résistance was something called the “French Fried Follies”—a
Hee-Haw
-type show that insulted and exploited women at every possible level.

By the time the promotional film ended, Skye wanted to scream. Not only was the whole thing hokey beyond belief, it stereotyped and insulted almost every minority on the planet.

Before she could express her exasperation, Moss Gibson began to speak. “Folks, up until now Spudville has been my pride and joy, but in less than a year, with all of your help, my new vision, Pig-In-A-Poke Land, will outshine Spudville.”

As he paused for breath, Skye noted that most of the crowd looked confused, but some people were already nodding and whispering to their neighbors.

Gibson went on, “Pig-In-A-Poke Land will encompass three hundred acres, including parking and the Farmer-in-the-Dell Hotel. We’ll employ over a thousand people. This doesn’t count the jobs that will become available as support businesses spring up.”

The audience was beginning to split into two groups—the ones sitting with frowns, shaking their heads, and the others smiling and taking notes.

Suddenly two young women in denim bikinis, straw hats, and cowboy boots appeared, pushing a wheeled table between them. A white cloth was draped over the table’s contents. Voices immediately rose.

After the noise died down, Gibson said, “This is a model of Pig-In-A-Poke Land. There are also brochures.” He nodded to the women, who whipped off the cover.

A collective gasp came from the spectators.

Gibson concluded his speech with, “You have probably been wondering why you were invited here today. The reason is simple. You all have an important part to play in revitalizing your town. And you all have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make your fortune.”

This was it, the pitch to invest their money.

Gibson made eye contact with everyone present before saying, “I’ll be making appointments to talk to each and every one of you separately, but just so you know, I want your land, and I’m prepared to pay cash.”

Skye looked at her relatives. May and Minnie were shaking their heads, her father and Uncle Emmett were scowling, but Ginger and Gillian were smiling and whispering to each other.

All around the room, voices were raised and arguments erupted. Two men were already on their feet, fists clenched.

Vince came over, squatted next to Skye’s chair, and said, “Welcome to the new
Family Feud
game, the special Scumble River edition.”

  
CHAPTER 10
  

S
hit! Skye stopped wiggling into her bathing suit and stood with the maillot around her knees. It had just dawned on her that the high school pool would be closed because of the fire. Damn! She needed the exercise, and more importantly, the stress release that swimming provided.

Great. Now she would have to face a Monday without her morning swim. And it would undoubtedly be quite a Monday. She had tried all Sunday night to reach Homer Knapik, but he didn’t answer his phone. Heck, with the threat of Leroy Yoder’s vengeance hanging over Homer’s head and the repercussions of the fire ready to crash down on his shoulders, she’d bet big money that the principal was screening his calls, hiding under his bed, or maybe even back in St. Louis.

Skye used her foot to flip the useless swimsuit into a corner and stomped into the adjoining bath. A hot shower would have to substitute for her missed laps.

After dressing, she downed a quick cup of tea, then drove to the high school. It was still early, but she really needed to catch Homer before the day started.

Skye ambushed the principal as he walked into the school
at seven-thirty, cornering him between the teachers’ mailboxes and the front counter. “Homer, I need to talk to you.”

The tufts of hair sticking out from his ears twitched in annoyance. “I’m late for an administrators’ meeting. Can’t this wait?”

“It’ll only take a second.” She outlined her plan to have the homeroom teachers make a brief statement about the fire and announce Skye’s availability to any student who wanted to talk. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Homer edged away from her and slipped through the door of his office. A second later his head popped around the corner like a giant jack-in-the-box. “You better stick around here all day today. I’ll let the other principals know I need you.” He disappeared back into his office without waiting for her assent.

Skye had planned on staying at the high school anyway, but it would have been nice if Homer at least pretended he was asking, rather than issuing an order. She sighed and headed to the photocopy machine. Who was she kidding? Homer thought of her as his lackey, and that was pretty much the reality of her situation.

After putting information about the fire and its aftermath in all the homeroom teachers’ boxes, Skye went in search of Trixie.

She found her friend standing on a stepladder stapling book jackets to the wall. “Hey, what’s up?”

Trixie swung around, swayed, and then hopped off the ladder, making a perfect four-point landing. “I was just changing the display. Valentine’s Day is officially over.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry to see it gone.” Skye followed Trixie to the circulation desk and leaned a hip against the counter. “How’re things with your mother-in-law’s estate?”

“Owen’s meeting with someone today to see if we have enough equity in the farm for a loan.” Trixie changed the
subject without looking up from the stack of books she was processing. “Any news on Frannie?”

“She’s home from the hospital and doing fine. She’ll probably be at school today.”

“I take it we’re canceling the school newspaper meeting after school?” Trixie asked.

“I think we should, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’m busy Tuesday and Wednesday. Can we reschedule for Thursday?”

Skye flipped open her appointment book and checked. “Sure. I’m free that afternoon.”

“Good. I’ll let the kids know.” Trixie started to reshelve books. “How about the fire? Anything on that?”

Skye followed her. “It looks like it was deliberately started.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe to cover up a murder.”

“Do they know who the victim is?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Wally seems a bit … distracted.” Before she could say anything else, the first bell rang. “I’d better get to my office. I told the homeroom teachers they could send any kids who were upset about the fire to see me.” She waved and rushed off.

As Skye hurried down the hallway, she noticed that the students appeared the same as they did most Mondays—some hyper, some sluggish, and some asleep on their feet. During the next hour, only one girl showed up at her office. For the most part, the kids seemed to think the fire had been no big deal. She was puzzled but relieved.

With the exception of gym classes being held in the band room, school went on as if nothing had happened.

At nine o’clock there was a knock on her office door, and Arlen Yoder sidled into the room. He was tall and broad and could easily find work as a body double for the Incredible Hulk. The teenager stopped a few feet past the threshold and
said into his chest, “Really, Ms. Denison. It was an accident.”

So much had happened over the weekend, it took her a moment to remember she had asked to see the boy about the false alarm incident last Friday. “Sit down,” Arlen. You understand that whatever you say to me today is
not
confidential? I’ll be sharing our conversation with school staff and your parents.

He nodded.

“Okay, then, tell me what happened.”

Arlen mumbled, “Someone pushed me and I slammed against the fire alarm, and the flap on my shirt got caught, and when I tried not to fall I moved backwards and accidentally pulled the lever.”

Skye talked to him for nearly half an hour and his story never changed. Finally, she let him go and started to work on a brief report of her meeting with Arlen.

The bell for first lunch had just rung when Opal Hill, the school secretary, buzzed Skye and announced, “Mr. Knapik would like to see you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Skye grabbed a legal pad, pen, and her appointment book, and hurried toward the front office.

Homer’s door was closed when Skye arrived, and she could hear raised voices. She hesitated.

Opal encouraged, “Go ahead in. He’s expecting you.”

“Who’s with him?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Yoder.”

Skye groaned. She knew the day had been going too well. Facing these parents was worse than being a contestant on
Fear Factor
. Heaven only knew what disgusting or dangerous stunt they’d pull.

She took a deep breath, knocked once, and eased the door open. Homer sat behind his desk. His hair was bristling and his face was the color of cayenne pepper. The Yoders were
seated across from him. Mrs. Yoder was hunched in her chair as if expecting the ceiling to fall in on her. Mr. Yoder was poised at the edge of his seat, clearly ready to spring up at the least provocation.

No one acknowledged her presence. Skye dragged a chair from the back table over by Mrs. Yoder, keeping as far away from
Mr.
Yoder as she could. The man had assaulted her a couple of years ago, and at the time she had listened to Homer and not reported him to the police. This time, if he as much as touched her, she’d have Wally on the phone faster than you could say, “Arrest this man.”

Homer continued to talk. “As I’ve said before, I’m sorry Arlen missed the dance, but I have to follow the school district handbook.”

“Arlen didn’t pull that goddamn alarm!” Mr. Yoder raged. “He was pushed! It was an accident!”

Homer turned to Skye. “Did you speak to Arlen this morning, Ms. Denison?”

“Yes.”

“And your conclusion?”

As Skye started to speak, Mr. Yoder swung his massive head in her direction and pinned her with a simian stare. For a moment she was distracted by his resemblance to a gorilla and forgot what she was about to say.

Homer prompted her, “Ms. Denison, do you have an opinion?”

“Uh, well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think Arlen is telling the truth. He didn’t mean to pull the alarm.”

Homer exhaled noisily, and a look of confusion crossed the Yoders’ hostile faces.

Mr. Yoder said incredulously, “You believe him?”

“Yes,” Skye declared.

“So you’re saying he shouldn’t be suspended?” Mr. Yoder questioned.

“Yes.” Skye was getting worried. Yoder was way too calm.

Suddenly Mr. Yoder sputtered, “Then you people made him miss the dance for nothing and he—”

Without thinking, Skye cut him off. “Considering the fire, maybe missing the dance was a blessing in disguise.” She tensed. Now she was in for it. This was not a man who tolerated interruptions, especially from women.

But Mr. Yoder just nodded. “Maybe.” He stood up and his wife leapt to her feet. As they walked out the door, he added darkly, “And maybe there wouldn’t have been no fire if Arlen was there.”

Skye’s stomach growled, reminding her that she had skipped breakfast and it was past lunchtime. She had forgotten to bring anything to eat, and the cafeteria was closed—darn, she had missed her opportunity to enjoy a meal of mystery meat and tater tots.

After considering her limited options, she decided to try the new sub shop that had recently opened next to Kessler Dry Goods Store. She gathered the papers spread across her desktop and locked them in the top drawer, then grabbed her purse, told Opal she’d be right back, and walked out to her car.

The sub shop was packed. Obviously the citizens of Scumble River were ready for a new culinary adventure. Skye grabbed a number from the dispenser by the door and looked at the menu written on a chalkboard mounted on the wall behind the counter. The odor of salami and pickles filled the air. She was trying to decide between the Italian and the tuna sub when she caught part of the conversation going on behind her. Two men were talking about the fire.

Before she could tune in on the men’s discussion, the girl behind the counter interrupted her eavesdropping by asking
for her order. Skye decided on the Italian club and then focused back on the dialogue behind her.

A male voice intoned, “It was murder.”

Another questioned, “How do you know?”

“I heard it not fifteen minutes ago. I was getting my hair cut, and Wally Boyd came in and arrested Vince Denison.”

Skye whirled around and grabbed the arm of the man who had been speaking. “Did you just say Vince Denison has been arrested?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.” The man tried to back away, but Skye had a good grip and didn’t let go.

“Chief Boyd actually put Vince in the squad car and drove away with him?” Skye demanded. A lot of Scumble River citizens tended to exaggerate, and she wanted to be clear on what had really happened.

“Well, no. He just took him into the back of the shop and talked to him for a while and then left by himself.”

Skye counted to ten, twice. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t slap this man silly, or Wally would come arrest her. Instead, she dug her nails into his arm and said in a firm voice, “If I were you, I’d be mighty careful about the rumors that I spread about Vince Denison. I hear he’s dating some hot shot Chicago lawyer, and I’d hate to see a nice man like you get sued for slander … or is it libel? I can never remember which one it is that the judge takes away your farm for.”