Murder of a Sleeping Beauty (19 page)

Neva straightened the sleeve of her flax-colored suit and leaned forward. “I don’t like it.”

Skye’s heart jumped, but she forced an unperturbed look on her face. “What?”

“The way the co-op coordinator has thrust his work onto us.”

“You mean the annual reviews?” Skye hazarded a guess.

“Yes, that’s
his
job.”

“That’s what I said, but the superintendent backed him up.”

“The old boys’ network, no doubt.” Neva tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the desktop.

“Probably, but to be fair, the coordinator is assigned to three other school districts.”

Neva ignored Skye’s comment. “So now we have to do all the paperwork, make the appointments, and run the meetings?”

“That’s what I was ordered to do. I was told to pick the dates with the special-education teachers, fill out the forms, send them to the co-op, where the secretary would type them and put together the file. Ursula would receive the packages and call the parents. If they couldn’t make the appointment, the whole process would start over.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Neva stood up. “I’ll look into it.”

Skye rose, too. “You might mention that since I have to do a ton of reevals, write the reports, and attend all the annual reviews, I’ll have to stop the counseling sessions at the end of this month, instead of continuing until the end of the year.”

Neva frowned as they walked out the door together. “That isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t, and I’ll have to do it in all three schools.” Skye started down the hall, but stopped and said over her shoulder, “We really need a social worker. The board’s got to raise the beginning salary so we can attract one. I can’t do my real job the way it should be done because I’m always trying to make up for missing staff members.”

The morning went quickly. Most kids were very cooperative when tested. A lot even seemed to like the one-on-one attention and praise. One of the last tasks Skye had the student attempt was a written language sample that consisted of a short essay. During this time, Skye usually started to score the measures already administered, but today she was distracted and let her gaze wander over her office. She remembered the fight it had taken to obtain this space, when she had first come to work for Scumble River Junior High.

The room had originally been a janitor’s closet, and on damp days she could still smell the peculiar combination of bleach and mildew. Skye had covered the egg-yolk yellow walls with travel posters. Since she had no window, she had created a faux one using old curtains and a poster of a forest scene.

Her battered desk doubled as a testing table because the office was too small to accommodate both. She sat on a metal folding chair, and when she brought in a second chair for a student to use, there was no way to get to the door without crawling over something or somebody.

Still, it was her own space. She didn’t have to share it or beg for a room every time she came to the building. Many school psychologists would see that as a luxury.

Her student finished writing and pushed the form toward Skye. “It’s not very good.”

“Did you do the best you could?” Skye found this to be a better response than a meaningless “I’m sure it’s fine.”

The boy nodded.

“Well, I know you worked hard for me this morning, and I really appreciate your effort and concentration.” Skye reached into her drawer and pulled out a fistful of pencils and pens with team logos. “You may choose one for doing such a good job.”

The student hesitated, then selected a pen with the Chicago Bulls insignia. “Thanks. Will I see you again?”

“No, we finished everything this morning.” Skye filled out a pass and handed it over. “You can go back to class now. Bye.”

After the boy left, Skye straightened everything up, grabbed her PPS binder, and headed for the rest room. One of the first lessons she had learned as an intern was never to enter a meeting with a full bladder.

 

Skye reached the high school at twelve-fifteen and caught Trixie just as she was on her way to lunch. Skye grabbed a salad from the cafeteria, while Trixie fetched two sodas from the machine in the teachers’ lounge. They settled in the guidance office to eat and catch up.

“What did you think of that pageant last Saturday?” Trixie asked, biting into an Italian beef sandwich that she had brought from home.

“Interesting. But I hear this coming Saturday’s will be even more so.” Skye forked a piece of lettuce into her mouth. “It’s for the older girls. The one Lorelei would have competed in.”

“Mmm.” Trixie swallowed another huge bite. “Speaking of Lorelei, have you found out anything new?”

“Not really.” Skye was extremely tempted to tell Trixie about Lorelei’s pregnancy, but decided it wasn’t either ethical or smart to share that information—considering how Skye had come across it. “But that reminds me, I wanted to ask you about the cheerleader meeting last Wednesday, the day of Lorelei’s death.”

“We all got together to discuss replacing a girl who had moved.”

“Did you pick someone?”

“No, we couldn’t agree.” Trixie frowned. “We all have an equal vote, and it’s too much power for the girls to have.”

“I heard what happened to Frannie Ryan.” Skye was curious as to Trixie’s view of that incident.

“That was a disgrace. I’m going to change the selection process next year.” Trixie was silent as she crunched on potato chips. She finally asked, “What are you doing about it? The murder, I mean.”

“Wally’s blocking me, and Simon won’t help, so I’m talking to the kids and trying to find excuses to nose around.” Skye pushed away her barely eaten salad. The lettuce tasted slimy. “I need a reason to hang around Lorelei’s group on an informal basis.”

“Like cheerleading practice?” Trixie took a Ding Dong from her bag and peeled back the foil.

“Like cheerleading practice.” Skye eyed the chocolate cake and Trixie’s size-four figure. Life was not fair, Skye decided, as she settled for the saltines that had come with her salad. “Need an assistant coach?”

“Know anything about cheerleading?” Trixie licked frosting from her upper lip.

“Nope.”

“Perfect. We meet tomorrow after school.” Trixie got up and threw away her trash. “Wear sweats or a leotard.”

“Really?” Skye rose and dumped her garbage, too. “I have to dress? This sounds suspiciously like gym. I hated gym.”

“If you want to hang out with the girls and get them comfortable enough to talk in front of you, you’ll have to make the sacrifice.”

“Wonderful.” Skye thought of how attractive she looked in sweats. A leotard was out of the question.

“Deal with it,” Trixie said, and shot out the door.

Skye checked her watch. She had just enough time to talk with Homer before she ran home and changed for the wake. Charlie’s note had said it was being held from two to four and six to eight.

Homer was in his office surrounded by stacks of test papers. He waved Skye inside. “Yeah?”

“Just wanted to ask you about Lorelei’s funeral and wake. What is the school doing?”

Homer eyed her as if she were posing a trick question. “We sent flowers,” he answered cautiously.

“Good. But are we allowing students to leave school? Are we offering transportation to the funeral home?

“Well, I didn’t find out about the wake until late last night. The parents didn’t notify us. Surprise, surprise. So, we’ll let kids with notes from their parents go today.”

“How about if tomorrow we provide a bus to the funeral?” Skye held out her hand like a traffic cop. “There are a lot of good reasons to do this. For one, we can control the amount of time the kids are gone from school. Doing it my way, they’ll be gone for a couple of hours, max.”

“But more will go if we make it too convenient.”

“Maybe. Does it matter? Teachers can’t really move ahead in the curriculum anyway with half the kids gone.”

“Okay. You write the note and make sure it goes home with all the kids tonight. Anyone wanting to go to the funeral has to have it signed to get on the bus tomorrow.” Homer looked mournfully at the piles of work on his desk. “I’ve got to get these Iowa Achievement tests sorted and in the mail today.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Skye stood in the doorway. “I’ll give the letter to Opal to type, make copies, and hand them out. Then I’ve got to go home and change, if you want me to attend the wake this afternoon. It starts in less than forty-five minutes.”

Homer nodded, but didn’t look up from the instruction sheet he was reading.

Skye tugged on her skirt. The hem barely brushed the top of her knees. She hesitated in the funeral-home foyer halfway up the steps and stared at herself in the mirrored wall. The black suit jacket skimmed her hips, and the shorter hem showed off her shapely calves and ankles. She had vowed not to drape herself in yards of polyester and hide just because she weighed more than
Cosmo
said she should, but every once in a while she lost her nerve. Especially when she was fairly certain she’d have to face an old boyfriend or two before the day was over.

If she got really lucky, all three of her latest emotional disasters would show up today—the two who had recently become angry at her all over again and the third she hadn’t quite got around to formally breaking up with yet.

Clutching her tiny black handbag, Skye made herself walk through the double glass doors. The smell of flowers hit her full force, and she took a step backward, sneezing. Once she recovered, she signed the guest book and joined the short line of people waiting to pay their respects.

It was slightly after two, and the visitation had just begun. From her place in the back of the line, Skye studied the Ingels. Today Lorna looked every one of her fortysomething years. The faint lines that earlier had been well hidden by makeup now bracketed her mouth and furrowed her forehead. Her lips, no longer moist with lipstick, were cracked and dry. There could be no question that Lorna’s grief was genuine and devastating.

Allen stood next to his wife, sober in a charcoal gray Armani suit. His face revealed no emotion, but Skye noticed an occasional tic near his left eye and the constant clenching of his right fist.

Linette stood apart from both her parents and her sister’s casket, half-hidden by a huge floral arrangement. Skye was trying to interpret the ten-year-old’s expression when she noticed she was next in line.

“Mrs. Ingels, you have my deepest sympathy.”

Lorelei’s mother nodded, tears leaking from her red-rimmed eyes. “How could she do this to me?”

Skye thought fast. Was this the stage of grief where the survivor became angry at the one who died? “I’m sure she didn’t want to leave you.”

Before his wife could respond, Allen took Skye’s arm and propelled her down the line, saying, “Thank you for coming.”

Skye found herself facing Linette as the girl stepped deeper into the flowers. She tried smiling at the girl. Linette took another step back, a look of cold arrogance on her face.

If she ever decided to get her doctorate, Skye decided she’d use this family for her dissertation. Their reactions were totally out of the norm.

Skye looked around. Troy Yates was slouched on a chair in one corner. How convenient. She’d wanted to talk to him today at school, but hadn’t had time. “Hi.” Skye slid into the seat next to him.

Troy sat up straighter. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Troy pulled at his necktie. “It’s just that people don’t really understand.”

“Oh?” Skye scooted closer so she could lower her voice. “In what way?”

“Lorelei and I had pretty much broken up. We just hadn’t told everyone yet. We were going to wait until after the prom.”

“Why?” Skye asked. “You both could certainly have found other dates.”

“She already had.”

“What?” Skye was confused.

Troy’s fair skin reddened. “Well, the thing was, she was already seeing someone, but he couldn’t take her to the prom because we were up for king and queen. You know, senior couple. Lorelei really wanted to win.”

“She told you she was dating some other guy and you still planned to take her to the prom? That seems above and beyond the call of niceness.”

The teen squirmed. “Well, ah, she never actually told me. Zoë let me in on the big secret.”

“Secret? Who was this guy?”

Troy shrugged and didn’t respond.

Skye could tell she’d never get an answer to that question, so she tried another. “When did you guys really stop being together?”

“Valentine’s Day.” Troy studied his hands. “I bought her a big heart-shaped box of candy, and she got real mad at me.”

Skye was confused. “Was she hoping for something else?”

“No, but she accused me of trying to make her fat, so no one else would want her.”

“That is one of life’s mysteries, you know,” Skye said, trying for some humor.