Murder Of A Snake In The Grass (17 page)

She knew right where to start. It was time to pay a visit to the Dooziers and find out exactly what had happened at the Beer Garden the night Gabriel Scumble was killed.

Traffic was still heavy as Skye headed east on Maryland Street. After turning north on Kinsman, she adjusted her speed to exactly thirty-five miles per hour. She knew that the Scumble River police had a habit of parking among the wrecked cars in the junkyard that occupied most of the left side of that stretch of road. They’d sit there and wait for people to speed up as they approached the highway entrance, then give the hapless drivers a ticket.

She almost missed the turn for Cattail Path. The residents always removed the street signs as fast as the city could replace them. To understand the people who lived in this area, it was important to know the story of Scumble River’s more recent history. Not the one shown in the Living History Pageant, but the one passed along by word of mouth.

The best recitation Skye had ever heard came from a man
who spoke to her high school class. He’d said, “The town of Scumble River was originally built in the fork between the two branches of the Scumble River. Since then it has spread along both banks. Some might say overflowed.

“Two groups of people live in an uneasy alliance along the river. A few years ago, people from Chicago discovered Scumble River and decided to build summer cottages and retirement homes along its south bank. While this ‘outside’ interest served to line the pockets of some citizens, it invaded the privacy of others.

“The original group of people who have always lived along the river are known to the locals as Red-Raggers. No one seems sure how this term came into being, but it is definitely disparaging. These are not folks who appreciate uninvited guests.”

Cattail Path was in the heart of Red-Ragger territory, and the Dooziers were Red-Ragger royalty.

Skye had been down this road twice in the past couple of years. The first time was to obtain a reevaluation consent for Junior Doozier, and the second was when Junior and his father had fished her out of the river. She hoped that this previous acquaintance would be enough to get Earl and Glenda to talk to her more freely than they had to the police.

She pulled into the Dooziers’ dirt driveway and slammed on the brakes. Shoot, what was a squad car doing here? Wally had told her that they had already questioned the Dooziers. Great, now what? Getting the heck out of there seemed to be the best choice, but before she could back the big Bel Air out of the narrow lane, Junior came running up to the side of the vehicle yelling, “Miz Denison, Miz Denison, come help us. The cops are fixing to haul away me and Cletus.”

The sun glinted off his red crew cut, giving the brief illusion of a halo, and even though Skye wasn’t fooled, there was no way she could leave without finding out if she could
help. Junior had certainly come to her aid on more than one occasion. She stopped the car and got out.

As Junior led her toward the side door, she examined her surroundings. Weeds lined the cracked sidewalk and choked what little grass showed between the skeletons of junked cars and old appliances littering the yard. The house might have been white at one time, but now the siding resembled sections of faded cardboard with the corrugated layers sliding apart. Long years of neglect made it seem about as stable as a paper dollhouse. The barking of a dog echoed from out of sight, but the odor of the canine’s recent visit to the front lawn hovered in the humid air.

The sound of men shouting made her flinch, but she followed the boy inside. Earl Doozier, heavily tattooed and wearing only boxer shorts, stood toe-to-toe with a uniformed police officer in the entryway. Cletus stood huddled against a wall, a finger up his nose.

Spittle flew from Earl’s semitoothless mouth as he yelled, “That ain’t against the law. You show me where it says younguns can’t make a little money doing favors for people.”

The officer was Otto McCabe, a Stanley County deputy who worked for the Scumble River police department when they needed extra help. Unfortunately, he resembled Barney Fife from the old
Andy Griffith Show
, and not just physically.

His response confirmed this impression. “I don’t have to show you a gosh darn thing, Earl Doozier. Those hell-raisers of yours are coming with me to the station, and we’ll just see if I can’t lock ‘em up.”

Even though Earl was stick-thin, except for a small pot belly that hung over the elastic waist of his shorts, Skye feared for the officer’s safety. Everyone in Scumble River knew you didn’t try to take a Doozier out of Red-Raggers’ territory against his free will. You waited until he was away
from home, isolated from the group, before hauling him off to jail. Obviously, no one had told McCabe.

Skye cleared her throat. Both men ignored her.

Junior pushed her forward. “Pa, look, Miz Denison is here. She’ll fix things up.”

Earl spared her only a brief glance, but McCabe seemed stunned by her presence. This was her chance. She took Earl by the arm—and immediately regretted it when her hand met his bare skin. She had forgotten how reptilelike the tattoos made his epidermis feel. Pushing her revulsion aside, she tugged him up the short flight of stairs, across the kitchen, and into a chrome and vinyl chair. McCabe followed, choosing to stand in the doorway.

Skye took a seat between the two warriors. “So, what’s this all about?”

“It isn’t any of your business,” McCabe whined.

“Probably not,” she agreed, “but I’m here, and I’m trained in conflict mediation. How about we give it a try? Who wants to go first?”

A stubborn look settled on the officer’s face. “I can handle this myself.”

“I’m sure you can. But why don’t you humor me? After all, I am a close personal friend of the chief.” Skye wondered what Wally’s reaction to that last statement would be.

McCabe crossed his arms and pouted. “Fine, see if you can make this fool understand.”

Skye turned to Earl. “Okay with you if I step in?”

“I’d be obliged.”

“Great. Officer, you start. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, you know how fast people drive down Kinsman, trying to get to Interstate 55 in such a hurry?”

Skye nodded, wondering where in the heck this was going.

“I got me a great hiding spot to watch for them.”

“Right, the junkyard.”

“You know about that?” McCabe’s tone was full of
disappointment, but he went on. “Anyway, today I’m in my spot, I got my speed gun pointed and ready, but everyone is suddenly going the exact limit.”

“That’s odd. Even though the locals know to slow down, there should’ve been tons of out-of-towners heading home after the bicentennial.”

“That’s what I thought. So I get out of the squad car and investigate, and what do I find?”

“What?” Skye encouraged, caught up in the story.

“These two little brats have set up a business.”

Skye looked at Junior hovering uneasily behind Earl. His cousin Cletus, standing next to him, showed little expression. “A business? I don’t understand.”

McCabe sighed, conveying that her ignorance was nearly too much for him to bear, but explained anyway. “The little one”—he pointed to Cletus—“was stationed about a mile from the junk yard with a big sign that said SPEED TRAP AHEAD. About a hundred yards after the junk yard the redhead had a sign reading TIPS and a bucket at his feet full of money.”

“Oh, my.” Skye put her hand to her mouth to cover her grin. These kids were really clever.

“See Miz Skye,” Earl piped up. “They ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

Skye chewed her lip. What to say? “Officer McCabe, although you and I know the boys shouldn’t have warned oncoming cars of your speed trap, I’m sure Junior and Cletus didn’t realize they were doing anything improper.” She turned and motioned for them to step forward. “Right, guys?”

Both nodded their heads, innocence glowing from their dirty faces. For a moment, Skye could have sworn she saw wings sprouting from their shoulder blades. She squinted. Dang, these kids were quite the little con men. She’d need to have a talk with both of them and keep her eye on them.

“So, do you think you could let them get away with a warning this time?”

McCabe didn’t answer right away, so Skye walked over and whispered in his ear, “You know that as juvenile offenders, nothing much is going to happen to them anyway. Better to let them think you’re giving them a break than let them find out how weak the court system is.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Okay, I’ll let it go this time. But I’m writing this in my log, and all the other officers will be aware that you’ve had your one warning. Do not try this again.”

He stared at the boys. “Understand?”

They both nodded eagerly.

McCabe turned to go but said over his shoulder, “I’ll be watching you two.”

Skye sank into a chair. Phew. That had been tricky.

The short silence was broken by a high-pitched voice reminiscent of someone who had sucked on a helium balloon, screaming, “Do I have to do everything myself? Somebody better come help with these groceries, or I’m giving the stuff to the dog.”

Earl, Junior, and Cletus lit out of the kitchen and down the stairs like an electrical charge had gone through the room. They returned before Skye could figure out what was going on, each toting several plastic sacks of food.

Behind them, carrying only a huge red and orange purse, came Glenda Doozier, the matriarch of the family. From her dirty feet clad in stiletto sling-back sandals, to her do-it-yourself dyed blond hair and watery brown eyes heavily framed in black eyeliner and false lashes, she was the epitome of what the Red-Raggers considered an ideal woman.

She glared at Skye. “What’re you doing here?”

“Actually I came to ask you and Mr. Doozier a couple of questions about what happened the other night at the carnival Beer Garden, but I ended up saving your children from going to jail.” Skye could get along with Earl and the kids just fine, but there was something about this women that
rubbed her the wrong way, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.

“Why should we talk to you? You ain’t no cop.” The woman’s voice became more strident, and the coinlike bangles on her red halter top jingled in tune with her heightened emotions.

Earl and the boys pulled chairs up around the table, obviously ready to enjoy the women’s fight.

Skye swallowed her instinctual dislike of Glenda and said, “That’s exactly why you should talk to me. You can avoid having the police question you again.”

“You saying you’ll sic the cops on us?” She put her face within inches of Skye’s.

Skye took a step back. “No, not at all. I’m trying to save you from that.”

The woman’s eyes darted rapidly around the room. “Why should you care?”

“Because I’m nosy.” Skye watched Glenda process that information.

“Okay, I heard that about you. Ask your questions.”

Skye frowned. People were going around saying she was nosy? Hey, that’s what Ursula had said too.

“So, you gonna ask us something or what?” Tugging at the crotch of her leather jeans, she stared at Skye. “Come on. We ain’t got all day.”

“Sorry.” Skye would worry about her sullied reputation later. “Tell me what happened at the Beer Garden Friday night.”

Earl’s face bunched up. “Could you be more pacific?”

Skye ignored the urge to talk about oceans and said, “I understand that Fayanne Emerick had a disagreement with the bicentennial guest of honor.”

“Yeah, she was hitting on him with a flyswatter.” Glenda snickered.

“Why?”

“I’m not for sure of that.” Earl scratched his butt. “Maybe
she was havin’ a bad day. She punched the mayor in the nose later on.”

“Did she say anything while she was beating on these men?”

“Something about money,” Glenda volunteered. “I moved closer so I could hear her more better, but the old witch saw me and started whispering.”

“Do you think the first guy didn’t pay for his drinks?”

Earl shrugged. “Maybe. I heard her say something about not paying his debts.”

“Could you hear anything when she attacked the mayor?”

“Sounded like something about money and promises.” Glenda lost interest in Skye and zeroed in on Junior, who had grabbed a bag of cookies and was wolfing them down. She shrieked, “You best remember, I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!”

Junior stopped with a cookie halfway in his mouth and mumbled, “Sorry, Ma, but I was starving.”

Glenda grabbed the bag from his hand. “If I told you once, I told you a hundred million times, don’t exaggerate.”

With that insightful suggestion ringing in her ears, Skye made her excuses and hurried away.

W
hat could Fayanne Emerick and Mayor Clapp have to do with money and Gabriel Scumble? Skye tossed this question around as she drove toward her folks’ house. As she retraced her route back down Kinsman to Maryland Street, she noticed that Deputy McCabe was back in place at the junkyard. She hoped Junior and Cletus weren’t planning on returning to the scene of their crime.

Easing around the sharp curve after Webster Drive, she turned right onto County Line Road. Her parents’ farm was a mile or so east off the paved road. She was a little early, but she wanted to make sure she arrived before either Luc or Simon. This meal would be enough of an inquisition for them without giving her relatives a chance at the defendants alone.