Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (25 page)

“Hey, I need to leave a note for my parents.” Skye tried to squirm out of his grasp.

He continued to ignore her and shoved her into the back of his squad car.

Skye briefly thanked God that there were no neighbors close enough to see her being taken away by the sheriff like this. She felt her chest tightening. This was mortifying.

Peterson ordered her to buckle her seat belt, then got into the driver’s seat. She leaned forward, threading her fingers through the metal grill separating the front and back, and tried again to ask what was going on.

Peterson cut her off. “Sit still and shut up.” He looked straight ahead until his deputy came out of the house and got into the passenger side of the cruiser. Then he asked, “Anything?”

The deputy shook his head, and the sheriff started the engine and slowly backed out of the long driveway.

What had she done? What was happening? The forty-five-minute ride to Laurel, where the sheriff’s office was located, was excruciating. Skye’s emotions ranged from outrage to fear and back again. The two men didn’t speak, and the radio crackled but was otherwise quiet.

After a while Skye noticed that the back of the sheriff’s vehicle was a lot different from the back of Wally’s squad car. While Wally’s was clean
enough to perform surgery in, the sheriff’s could easily have been mistaken for the city dump.

Fast-food wrappers, newspapers, and cigar butts littered the floor. The seat itself felt sticky, and Skye could only hope it was spilled soda and not some disgusting bodily fluid. Worst of all was the stench, a combination of stale cigarette smoke, urine, and vomit. Since she tended to get motion sick if she rode in the backseat, she was worried she might contribute to both the mess and the odor.

Finally Sheriff Peterson parked in his designated spot in front of the county building and yanked Skye out of the vehicle. Icy fear swept through her as he marched her in silence down the sidewalk and up the stairs. The deputy did not accompany them into the main office; instead he turned off into a hallway on their right.

The sheriff grunted to the dispatcher as they passed by. “Call the jail for a matron.”

Peterson deposited her in a stark room with only a table and two chairs and locked the door behind him. Dread twisted Skye’s heart. Why had she been brought here? What should she do? Who could she call? Would Wally help her? This was bad. This was very bad. She tried to retrieve the anger she had initially felt over her treatment, but she was too scared. This was even worse than she had originally thought.

On the ride over it had dawned on her that they wouldn’t be treating her this way unless they thought she was the murderer. What had made them think that? Skye forced herself to focus, but couldn’t come up with anything except that she’d been the one to find Mrs. Griggs’s body. Surely that wasn’t enough for them to arrest her.

After what felt to Skye like the longest wait of her life, Peterson walked back into the room, a tall woman in a tan uniform following him. The woman wore no makeup and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She sat on the molded plastic chair she had carried into the room and placed in the corner. Her gray eyes held no empathy as she gave Skye a quick once-over.

The sheriff didn’t introduce her; instead he took the remaining seat at the table and scooted close to Skye. The smell of stale tobacco and sour whiskey rolled off him, causing her eyes to water. She twitched her nose, trying not to sneeze in his face.

Suddenly Peterson leaned even closer and shouted, “Why did you kill Alma Griggs? Did she see you kill Cookie Caldwell? Was she trying to blackmail you?”

“What? No! I mean I didn’t kill either one of them,” Skye sputtered. “Are you crazy?”

“We have evidence that links you to the Griggs murder,” the sheriff said, smiling a mean jack-o’-lantern grin.

“That’s impossible. Because I didn’t do it.”

“Which is funny, since we definitely have evidence you did,” the sheriff stated, clearly pleased with himself.

“Oh, my God.” Skye was beginning to feel queasy again, and this time she couldn’t blame motion sickness for her nausea. “I’d better call my attorney.”

Peterson nodded. “That might be a good idea. But if you do, we have to sit here until he arrives. In fact, once you get a lawyer involved, you could end up in jail, waiting to hear about bonds and things.”

Could he really do that? Skye felt a shiver of panic run up her back. Of course he could. This was Stanley County, and Buck Peterson had been sheriff here for nearly thirty years, which meant he could do just about anything he damn well pleased, including searching her room without a warrant and throwing her in jail just for the hell of it. “But I haven’t done anything!” She fought to calm down. “What’s this evidence?”

“Well, I’m not sure I should tell you.” He tried to sound coy, but the effect was lessened considerably because he looked like Hulk Hogan’s father.

This was obviously a man who got off on power. Skye played along and begged. “Please?”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt, since you asked so prettily.” He smiled viciously. “It’s not as if you won’t hear it in court at your trial.”

“Trial?” Skye echoed in a small, frightened voice. She could feel herself starting to lose it, and struggled for control. She had to be strong. She was innocent, and there was no way she was going to trial. He was just trying to scare her. Right now she had to find out what this so-called evidence was. After a deep breath, she asked, “What is it?”

“Your earring …” The sheriff watched her closely, then delivered the rest of his bombshell. “… was found at the crime scene.”

“What earring? How do you know it’s mine?” Skye babbled bled questions, then got hold of herself. “Besides, I discovered the body. I must have lost it then.”

The sheriff’s lip curled. “It was an emerald earring, which we discovered had been made especially for you as a Valentine’s gift from your boyfriend.”

Skye frowned. She wore those earrings only on special occasions, and she was certain she hadn’t been wearing them when she climbed Mrs. Griggs’s trellis. She’d been wearing gold hoops with tiny Route 66 signs on them since the yard sale began. But she couldn’t let Buck Peterson
know that. If she hadn’t lost the earring the night she found the body, then it would point to her having been inside Mrs. Griggs’s home another time. And she hadn’t been.

She bluffed, trying to sort things out in her mind. “So I lost an earring the night I found Mrs. Griggs’s body. That doesn’t prove anything.”

The sheriff sighed. “If that’s the case, then how did it get underneath the body?”

Skye felt a flicker of apprehension. “What?”

“It was under Mrs. Griggs, between her and the bed.”

“That can’t be.”

Peterson’s polished-steel eyes shone with victory. “But it is.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Skye felt panic swell in her chest and lodge in her throat.

“Then how did your earring get there?” the sheriff asked. “Tuesday night you stated you had never been in her house before then.”

“That’s true.” Skye’s thoughts raced. How did her earring get there? When was the last time she’d worn those earrings? She couldn’t remember. Finally she asked, “How did you find out the earring was mine?”

“An anonymous tip. Then we checked with the local jeweler, who remembered the special order.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?” Skye seized on the inconsistency. “How did your tipster know you had the earrings? Most people don’t even know Mrs. Griggs was murdered. Most people still think she died of old age.”

Peterson looked momentarily confused, then brightened. “Maybe it’s your accomplice—a falling-out among criminals. Happens all the time.”

“And who would that be?” Skye asked.

“Your mother was with you that night, and she found Cookie Caldwell’s body, too. Maybe it was her.”

“So you think my mother and I killed Mrs. Griggs for some unknown reason, then my mother turned on me and called you to tell you my earring was at the crime scene?”

“Look, try to wiggle out of this any way you can, but the earring is yours.” Buck crossed his arms, clearly unwilling to examine an explanation of which he had grown fond.

Skye straightened her spine and assumed a dignified pose. “Perhaps, but number one, I would hardly wear an expensive emerald earring to climb a trellis in a thunderstorm. Two, even if I did, how would anyone, including an accomplice, know I had lost it? And, three—the important question—why would I kill Mrs. Griggs? I have no motive.”

“Not one we know of.”

In exasperation, Skye blew a curl out of her eyes. “What was the time of death?”

The sheriff scowled, but clearly at least some of Skye’s arguments had made him doubt his case because he got up and went out of the room. He came back a few moments later and said, “Between four and six p.m.”

Skye took her first relaxed breath since he’d accused her of the crime. “I was with Trixie Frayne from four until ten before six. We were riding around the yard sale in an open golf cart, and we talked to several vendors and three or four of our students.” She listed the names. “From six until we found the body I was with my parents. So unless I managed to get to Mrs. Griggs’s house from downtown Scumble

River, kill her, and get back to my parents’ place in ten minutes, no way could I have murdered her.”

The sheriff’s expression was sour. “Give me those names again.”

After Skye listed everyone she could remember having spoken to that late afternoon, Peterson said to the matron, “Keep an eye on her. Do not let her talk to anyone. If she has to go to the bathroom, watch her pee.”

Skye’s relief was so great she felt giddy, but after Peterson left, as she sat staring at an Abe Lincoln—shaped coffee stain on the table, she sobered up. How had her earring gotten under Mrs. Griggs? Who was the anonymous tipster? It had to be the murderer. Why was he or she trying to frame her?

The dispatcher’s voice talking to the matron penetrated Skye’s thoughts. “The sheriff says for you to bring her up to his office.”

When Skye entered his domain, Peterson was slouched in his chair, looking peeved. “That will be all for now,” he told the matron.

Skye fought to keep her voice neutral. “So, do my alibis check out?” She wasn’t sure if he was in a bad mood because he had cleared her or because he had found more reason to think she was guilty.

“Yes. Lucky for you, you and Mrs. Frayne seem to be quite memorable.”

“Can I go?” Skye asked, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms. She felt chilled, and she didn’t think it was just from the air-conditioning.

“In a minute.” Peterson leaned forward, attempting an avuncular smile. “I spoke to Chief Boyd, and he said that you’ve probably been snooping and might have some relevant information, so since I may have been a little rough on you before, I’ll give you a chance to come clean. I promise not to press charges for interfering in an ongoing investigation.”

“And what do I get out of this exchange? I know you’re not really going to arrest me for interfering, since I haven’t done anything illegal.”

“This is your chance to fill me in on anything you’ve discovered that you think I should know,
and
it’s your chance to ask me one question.”

She raised an eyebrow. “In other words, you’ve come up against a blank wall, and you want to see if I can give you a lead.”

“Now, little lady, that’s not very nice of you to say.”

“I’ll try being nicer, if you try being smarter.”

He visibly struggled to retain his amiability, but there was a distinct tightening of his jaw. “Well, if you haven’t found out anything …”

Skye hated having to cooperate with such an obnoxious man, especially when she knew she was right about his motives, but she reminded herself you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar—although why anyone wanted flies, except to squash them, was beyond her. Nevertheless, she smiled and said, “Two questions.”

He frowned, but nodded his agreement.

“Here’s what I want to know. Did you find any usable fingerprints connected with Cookie’s murder, and what was in the bag the lion found?”

“I’ll give you a copy of the official list and tell you about the fingerprints
if
you have any useful information to give me.”

“Okay. Let’s see, what have I found out? Cookie’s brother-in-law has already reopened her stand and is selling off everything.”

“But he doesn’t get the money.”

“No. But he’s in charge of his nephew’s trust, and the boy is mentally challenged, so Jarvis
could
siphon funds without much difficulty.”

“Interesting.” The sheriff grunted and made a note. “Anything else?”

“Were you aware that Montgomery Lapp, an antique picker staying in town for the festival, collects both old jewelry and swords?” Not waiting for a response, Skye went on. “Also, he knew Cookie, he somehow knew about details of her murder before you released the news to the press, and he knew that Mrs. Griggs had a houseful of valuable items that she was not allowing the pickers or dealers to see.” Skye crossed her legs. “If you add that to the fact that someone broke into Mrs. Griggs’s house and stole the pin that was used to murder Cookie, I think Lapp is an extremely likely suspect.”

“How did you find out all that?”

“I hear a lot of stuff just by being around and available. Scumble River has no other mental health professional within miles, so people talk to me. They tell me things.” Skye narrowed her eyes. “Which is why maybe Wally isn’t such a fool to include me in his investigations after all.”

“Civilians should never be allowed to participate in official police business.” Peterson crossed his arms and scooted his chair back.

“Fine. Then you don’t want to hear the other thing I found out?”

The sheriff heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Sure, go ahead. I might as well.”

“Did you know that the TV crew that’s filming the yard sale was supposed to do a segment at Mrs. Griggs’s house the day after she died?”

“So?” Peterson looked confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Mrs. Griggs told me that she wouldn’t allow anyone in her house until she had the appraiser come, and he couldn’t get there until the Monday after the yard sale.”