Murder of a Sleeping Beauty (28 page)

The most interesting items were tucked away in the “secret” compartment that everyone knows about. There Skye found a very interesting picture of Lorna Ingels dressed in nothing but a teddy and high heels. Aha, here was her proof. Kent was having an affair with a married woman. A woman whose daughter had died under mysterious circumstances.

Where had the photo been taken? Skye squinted. It wasn’t Kent’s apartment. The setting didn’t look like any of Charlie’s cabins, either, but it did have a motel-like look. Must be the Holiday Inn near the highway in Laurel.

What a sleaze. Imagine having sex with your student’s married mom. She tried to stuff the picture back where she had found it, but it wouldn’t go all the way in. Something was in the way.

She dug her fingers into the leather fold and pulled out a much creased piece of pink paper. Skye read:

Yech! Kent was slimier than she’d thought. He had taken advantage of not only the mother, but the daughter, too. The thought of him having sex with one of his students made Skye want to shoot him, or herself, for ever having dated him.

Skye took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself and decide what to do. Should she confront him? No. That could be dangerous. It was clear Kent could be the father of Lorelei’s baby.

Finally, she decided she would keep everything, and tomorrow morning she would make photocopies, then turn it all over to Wally. Kent was going to pay for his sins.

Right now she had to give the man back his pants, pretend she didn’t know he was lower than a worm’s belly, and break up with him. An awkward situation at best.

 

“So, Kent, as I was saying, considering everything, it would be best if we didn’t see each other anymore.” Skye tried to get her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s attention long enough to dump him.

He nodded, seemingly mesmerized by the TV screen.

“That means no more dating.” Her eyes strayed to the program that held him enthralled. Three men and a woman sat in a semicircle talking about e-trades, on-line this, and instant that. It sounded like Swahili to Skye.

Skye had emerged from the utility room with Kent’s pants to find him sitting in front of her TV, engrossed in some Channel 11 special about stocks, bonds, and the Internet.

Kent nodded again, and said, “Fine. Good. Just let me catch the end of this.”

She stepped in front of the set and snapped it off.

His head jerked as if she had slapped him and he leaped up from the chair. “What did you do that for?”

“Because I just broke up with you and I want you out of my house. Now.”

“What do you mean? You can’t break up with me. I do the breaking up.”

“Sorry, too late.” Skye grabbed his arm and pulled him to the foyer. She flung open the front door, pushed him outside, and threw his pants after him.

She dusted her hands together. “Good riddance, to bad rubbish.”

 

 

 

 

I
t was a typical Monday morning. Skye had been late getting to the pool, late finishing her swim, and now she was going to be late for her first appointment.
Damned panty hose
. Skye had already tried to put on two pairs of nylons and managed to run both of them. She knew it was because she was in a hurry. Inanimate objects could sense her need for speed, and once that happened, they refused to cooperate. She had one more pair of hose, which she kept in her desk drawer for emergencies, but she’d have to get dressed before she could retrieve them.

She had rushed to school determined to use the copier before anyone else arrived. She’d made copies of the picture and letter from Kent’s wallet, secured them in the Bel Air’s trunk, and dropped the originals off at the police station—all before her morning swim. Now, if her panty hose would just cooperate.

She finished buttoning her lime silk blouse and was still zipping the navy skirt as she hurried into the hall. The teacher’s bell had rung, and staff scurried up and down the corridor as she unlocked the guidance office. A quick check to make sure that Coach was not anywhere in sight, and Skye slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

The panty hose was still in its original package, and she carefully opened the cellophane. Inching her hand down the leg to the toe, she bunched up the nylon as she went. Skye placed her foot inside and eased the material on up. One leg on, one to go.

A knock on her door startled her, but she kept calm and answered, “Just a minute please.”

She had started to repeat the process for the other leg when the door burst open. Homer took one look at her and stood with his mouth open. Skye froze with the nylon half up her calf, her skirt bunched around her waist, and her foot resting on the seat of the chair. Neither one of them seemed capable of speech.

Finally, Homer spoke, sounding as if he were strangling, “Skye, ah, Ms. Denison, ah heck.”

“Homer . . . ah . . . could you give me a minute?”

The man didn’t move.

Skye tried again, louder. “Homer, step out of the office for a minute.”

“Ah . . .” The principal complied as if he were coming out of suspended animation.

She finished donning her panty hose and straightened her clothing, then let Homer back into the office. “Sorry. I had a run. Should have used the ladies’ room.”

Homer’s face was still red, but he managed to say, “Never mind. We’ve got real trouble.”

“What now?”

“The police have arrested Kent Walker for Lorelei’s murder.”

“Oh.” She had figured they might when she gave Lorelei’s letter and Lorna’s picture to the dispatcher to give to the chief.

“It gets worse.” The hair in Homer’s ears quivered. “They found all kinds of smutty letters and pictures of him with her.”

“Oh, my.” Skye tried to act surprised.

“And to top things off, he’s asked to speak to you. You’re his one phone call. The police dispatcher is on hold.”

“Wonderful.”

As Homer slammed out of the office, Skye sat down at her desk and reached for the receiver. She punched the blinking light and said, “Skye Denison. May I help you?”

“Skye, honey, this is Thea from down at the police station. Your friend Kent is in a heap of trouble, and he’s asking for you. Can you come right away?”

“Can’t I just talk to him on the phone?”

“Well . . . you could, I guess, but Wally and the others have him in the interrogation room, and things are sounding pretty ugly.” The daytime dispatcher was a grandmotherly type who wanted everyone, even the police and criminals, to play nice.

“But if I’m his one phone call, they have to let him talk to me.”

“See, they haven’t arrested him, they’re just questioning him, so they don’t have to give him a phone call yet.” Thea hesitated before adding, “The thing is, he was yelling he wanted to call you, so I called you for him. The chief doesn’t know I did it. But your friend was already bleeding. Looked like he hit his head . . . or something.”

“I see. I’ll be right there.” The last thing she wanted to do was rescue the slimeball, but it wasn’t right for the police to beat him up. She wouldn’t actually help him, just go and check things out.

She stopped at the office on her way out and told Opal where she was going.

During the short ride to the police station, she wondered why she was doing this. Kent was no longer her boyfriend. And after reading that letter from Lorelei she knew he’d had an affair with her. So, why was she going? Was it because he was a teacher in her school, and she was afraid of the scandal? Charlie would certainly have a fit.

Or maybe deep down inside, although she knew Kent was a jerk, she didn’t believe he was a killer. Feelings were running high in town, and she was afraid that something would happen to Kent before he ever got to trial. Not that Wally would do anything to harm him, but she didn’t trust the other officers.

Thea greeted her with a wink as she entered the station. “Skye, what are you doing here?”

Skye went along with the charade and raised her voice. “A little bird told me you had someone here who might need my help.”

“You can’t go in there,” Thea said as she pushed the button to let Skye through the door.

Skye lowered her voice. “So what happened?”

Thea spoke just above a whisper. “Late last night, someone called Wally at home and said they knew who killed Lorelei Ingels. The woman said the murderer was Kent Walker, and that if they searched his apartment, they’d find proof that Kent and Lorelei were lovers.”

“Oh, my.”

“Wally finally got hold of the judge this morning and got a warrant. He’d already seen the picture and letter you dropped off at six. About seven-thirty the chief, Roy Quirk, and a couple of guys from county went to your friend’s apartment and searched it.” Thea’s eyes widened. “They found dirty pictures and love letters from Lorelei
and
her mother.”

“Can I see the stuff they confiscated?”

“You’re in luck. Your friend was making such a fuss when they brought him in, Wally just threw the folder on top of the cabinet.” Thea disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with a large manila envelope and handed it to Skye.

Skye emptied the envelope onto the counter and began to look through the material. The pictures were similar to the photo in his wallet—Mrs. Ingels in various stages of undress in motel-room settings. She didn’t read the letters. She was already too disgusted.

When the dispatcher finished with her call, Skye handed her the envelope. “Thanks. What a scumbag. I should just let him face the music.”

“Innocent until proven guilty. And he was bleeding,” Thea said softly as she left to replace the envelope.

When the older woman returned, Skye said, “Can I talk to Wally?”

“He doesn’t want to be disturbed.” She shrugged helplessly.

“What do you think would happen if I forced my way into the interrogation room?”

“They’d throw you out.”

Skye chewed on a fingernail. “At least I don’t hear any shouting coming from in there.” She inclined her head toward the closed door. “What did he say, exactly, when he asked for me?”

Thea closed her eyes and screwed up her face. “He said, ‘I want to make a phone call.’ And when they said no, he said, ‘Tell Skye Denison I need to talk to her.’ ”

“Is that all?” Why had he thought she’d help him? Skye made up her mind. Time to turn the problem over to someone who could be neutral. “Can I use the phone?”

Thea shoved the instrument toward her. “Dial nine first.”

Skye rummaged through her tote bag until she found her address book. She flipped to the S section, ran her finger down the page, then punched in the number. “Loretta Steiner, please. Skye Denison calling.”

A few seconds later a throaty voice reverberated from the receiver. “Denison, what’s up? I just heard of a great new restaurant.”

Loretta was a sorority sister of Skye’s, and one of the best criminal lawyers in Chicago. She had defended Vince a year and a half ago, when Skye’s brother was accused of murder. Since then the two women had gotten together for lunch every time Skye went into the city.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call. I need to hire you again.”

“Who’s dead this time?”

After Skye explained, Loretta said, “Okay, if the roads are clear I’ll see you in ninety minutes, and if they aren’t, who knows?” Illinois had only two seasons—winter and construction. Winter was officially over. The first orange traffic cone had been spotted.

Before Skye could hang up, Loretta asked, “Do you think he killed her?”

“No, but I don’t have a good reason for thinking that, except I don’t want to have an ex-boyfriend who’s a killer. It’s bad enough that he slept with a married woman and her daughter while we were dating.”

“Did you take precautions?” Loretta demanded.

“No.”

Loretta drew in a sharp breath.

“Because I didn’t sleep with him,” Skye finished.

“Oh . . . ah . . . that’s good. Great.” Loretta fumbled for a comment. “See you soon.”

A tiny smile played on Skye’s lips as she hung up the phone. She had never heard her friend at such a loss for words.

Then she frowned.
Wait a minute. Am I the only thirty-something woman who’s not sleeping with every man she dates?

 

Skye sat on the vinyl couch in the police-station entry-way as she waited for Loretta. She had written Kent a note, telling him a lawyer was on her way, but she doubted Wally had given it to him.

She shifted in her seat and grabbed her tote bag, hoping that she had put her current mystery into it before leaving that morning. Her questing hand didn’t feel the hard edge of a book, but did come across the sheaf of papers she had taken from her mailbox on both Thursday and Friday. She had sorted out the phone messages at school and returned most of the calls, but she hadn’t looked at the rest of the documents.

Her eyes automatically scanned the memos before tossing them into the wastebasket. Most had nothing to do with her, but one stopped her automatic crumple reflex. It was from Homer, calling a meeting to discuss their school’s low grade on the state report card. Their achievement scores did not stack up well against those of other, wealthier school districts. The last paragraph read: