Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery by Denise Swanson Page B

vendors were locals, peddling crafts, homemade and homegrown goodies, and the contents of their barns and attics, but an equal number were professional dealers who had rented space from the landowners.
    Cars were inching forward, many pulling small trailers intended to haul the loot they purchased back home. The yard sale organizers had hoped to attract ten thousand people; if today was any indication, they might double their goal.
    Skye tensed up again as she steered her golf cart around the big curve. On her right was the Doozier Petting Zoo. She knew that family would be up to something. The question was what?
    She squinted, not believing her eyes. Where was the chaos? Where was the commotion?
    Earl Doozier sat at the card table calmly taking money for admission. He was dressed in a respectable pair of shorts and his shirt actually had a collar. He had even combed his hair, although the part was crooked and he had enough hair grease on it to lubricate a semi.
    Everything was in order. This couldn’t be right. But it was. The people coming out of the attraction seemed as happy as those going in. Skye listened intently; there was no screaming or yelling—the scene was almost … bucolic. She frowned. Should she stop and check things out more closely? No. Why press her luck? She waved at Earl and kept going.
    She had just taken a gulp from her water bottle when she approached the Denison/Leofanti Farm Stand. The liquid spewed out of her mouth and down the front of her T-shirt as she saw her mother smash an entire blueberry pie into Faith Easton’s face.
    For an instant Faith froze, blueberries oozing down her cheeks and onto her white silk blouse. Then she wiped the fruit and crust out of her eyes, flinging the mess into the spectators who had crowded around to watch the excitement. There were screams, and people jumped back as if the TV star had hurled acid into their faces.
    Uttering a high-pitched war cry, Faith grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and emptied it over May’s head.
    May’s hair clung to her like a rubber swim cap, and her white tank top was now transparent. She pulled the soaked cotton fabric away from her breasts and turned from side to side, looking for a weapon of mass destruction.
    Skye stomped on the golf cart’s brake and was off and running before the vehicle had come to a complete halt. As she raced toward the food fight, she looked frantically for reinforcements. Someone else from the family should be manning the stand along with May. Her relatives had agreed to work in pairs.
    Skye spotted one of her cousins backed as far away from the fracas as possible. At first she wasn’t sure which identical twin it was, but since Gillian had just had a baby in the spring and still carried a little extra weight, Skye was pretty sure the coward deserting May in her time of need was Ginger.
    Just before she reached the melee, someone grabbed her arm and said, “Hold on there. You don’t want to mess up our shot, do you?”
    For the first time, Skye noticed that the TV crew was taping the scuffle. Nick Jarvis, Faith’s producer/director, gave her a half-smile.
    “Yes, I do,” she stated, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “If you show this on TV, my family will—”
    “Sue us? Just try.”
    She gave him a mocking look. “City people sue. Here in Scumble River we like our revenge a little more personal. Every man has a shotgun and knows where all the abandoned mine shafts are. We won’t sue you, we’ll just make you disappear.”
    Nick dropped her arm as if it had turned into a python and backed away, yelling, “Cut!” to the cameraman.
    By the time Skye had elbowed her way to the table, the two women had come to a standoff. Each held her chosen missile, a coconut cream pie for May and a double fudge rum cake for Faith. Skye knew she had to say something quickly before the desserts became airborne.
    She yelled, “Put down your weapons and no one will get hurt.” Neither combatant paid the least