Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry by Denise Swanson Read Free Book Online

wasn’t quite small enough for the entire population to fit inside the Feed Bag, particularly since the maximum-seating-capacity sign read seventy-six. Still, it looked as if the residents had given it the old college try. When Skye entered the only way she could get to her table was by edging sideways and holding her purse above her head.
    Once seated, Skye noticed that Tomi Johnson, the owner of the Feed Bag, was not her usual cool and in-control self. May reported to Skye that when Tomi had been introduced to Grandma Sal, the restaurateur had practically kissed the food manufacturer’s ring. Now Tomi was rushing around bringing Grandma Sal bites of this, samples of that, and hanging on the CEO’s every tidbit of praise.
    In fact, Skye noted that a lot of Scumble River’s citizens were acting out of character. They seemed more impressed by Grandma Sal and the contestants than they had been in the past by TV stars and supermodels. Why was that? Could it be that at some level the townspeople knew that nourishment was more important than glamour? Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that Grandma Sal’s picture was plastered on nearly every product her company sold, and many people saw her face at least three times a day.
    The contestants were seated at four tables of six. Skye observed that Vince and Charlie had elected to sit separately, each the only rooster among five hens. Both men had self-satisfied looks on their faces that Skye’s palm itched to slap off. She restrained herself, reasoning that once the cooking started and they burned their entries, those smug expressions would be erased with the first wisp of smoke.
    Grandma Sal’s staff had its own table, as did the judges and the media, which claimed the three back booths. The other diners were all locals, most of whom appeared to be more interested in catching a glimpse of Grandma Sal and the contestants than they did in eating. Skye was happy tosee that Tomi had clipped an index card to the menus that read, MINIMUM ORDER PER PERSON $5.00. NO SHARING. NO DOGGIE BAGS. The restaurant owner deserved to make a profit from all this hullabaloo.
    Skye had just bitten into her BLT when Butch King, their table’s token male, tipped his head toward May and remarked, “So, both you and your daughter are from Scumble River?”
    May nodded. “I grew up in Brooklyn, but ever since I got married I’ve lived here.” Skye saw her mother peek at the man’s left ring finger, which was bare, and flinched when she added, “I think a woman should live where her husband’s work is, as long as it’s not too far from her mother.”
    The man looked amused. He winked at Skye and said to May, “You sound like my mom. She was so happy when I tied the knot and moved into the apartment next to her.”
    “How wonderful.”
    Skye did not like the expression that had settled on her mother’s face. She could tell that May was already picturing a house next to hers in the adjoining cornfield.
    Hastily swallowing, Skye jumped into the conversation before her mother started drawing up the blueprints. “Where are
you
from, Butch?”
    “Laurel.” Butch cut a piece of his chicken-fried steak and forked it into his mouth.
    “I was surprised that the contest was open only to Stanley County.” Skye took a sip of her Diet Coke. “I had heard that Fine Foods has been enlarging its market.”
    Another contestant joined the conversation. “The scuttlebutt around cooking-contest circles is that this will be the last year there’s a local contest. Fine Foods used to be strictly a Midwestern company, but the last couple of years it’s been expanding to Southern and Western markets. There’s a rumor that Grandma Sal is in negotiations with some big food conglomerate. If that company buys Fine Foods, the products will go nationwide and so will the contest.”
    “I wonder if that will affect the factory here.” Skye worriedthat a lot of locals could be out of jobs if the company was