Murder of a Sleeping Beauty (9 page)

 

 

 

 

M
s. Denison, Ms. Denison.” A high-pitched fake-sounding drawl shot through Skye’s aching head. Her hand was inches from the knob of the office door when she turned. “Yes? May I help you?”

“I’m Priscilla VanHorn, Zoë’s mother. Do you have a minute?” The overblown redhead wore a dress that looked as if it were made out of leftover wallpaper that had been poorly hung.

“Sure. Let’s use the health office.” Skye ushered the woman through the main door and into a small room to the left.

Skye took the seat behind the desk, forcing Mrs. VanHorn to perch on the vinyl cot. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m concerned about my daughter. I understand you were with her when that awful police chief interrogated her?” The woman raised her voice at the end of her statement, making it sound like a question.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t say he interrogated her. He asked her a few questions—mostly trying to get a picture of Lorelei’s last few hours.” Skye wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Well, Zoë was very upset by the whole ordeal.” Mrs.

VanHorn rummaged in her purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed hankie. “Zoë and Lorelei have been best friends forever. They’ve been together in every pageant, play, and performance. They’re in the same clubs and have been cheering together since junior high.”

“I had no idea they were so close.” Skye thought of Zoë’s demeanor during both Wally’s interview and the crisis counseling. “She really covered up her feelings well.”

“Lorelei was like a sister to Zoë and a daughter to me.” Mrs. VanHorn touched the corner of her eye with the handkerchief. “We were closer than her own family.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Her mother was only interested in Lorelei when she was winning a crown. And Linette’s only use for her sister was as a tape measure—to show how much better she was at everything.”

“My, how sad for Lorelei.” Skye frowned, trying to remember what she had heard about the young woman. “She seemed like such a golden adolescent—winning all the school prizes and honors.”

Mrs. VanHorn heaved a big sigh. “So, you can see how being grilled by the police is too upsetting for Zoë?”

“Yes, we’ll try not to let it happen again. And I’ll talk to Zoë myself tomorrow, to make sure she’s okay.” The woman didn’t move. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I just had a thought.” Mrs. VanHorn widened her eyes and fluttered her lashes. “I’m sure the school will go ahead and put on
Sleeping Beauty
. After all, the show must go on. Zoë would be the perfect replacement for Lorelei’s part.” She leaned forward and lowered her fake drawl a notch. “Zoë really should have had the part to begin with. She has a superior voice, and is a much better actress than Lorelei.”

“I really don’t have anything to do with the play.”

Mrs. VanHorn ignored Skye’s statement. “Zoë and I decided to let Lorelei have the part, to get her mother off her back.”

“How . . . nice of you.” This woman was amazing. She must subscribe to the new magazine,
Better Living Through Denial.
Skye tried again. “I don’t have anything to do with casting the musical. You need to see Kent Walker.” Skye forced down a snicker as she pictured Priscilla VanHorn trying to influence Kent’s decision. Skye remembered his endless monologues in the teachers’ lounge as he tried to decide who should get what part. The faculty had learned quickly that suggestions were not welcome.

“He’s still in charge?” The woman looked confused.

“Yes, why wouldn’t he be?” Mrs. VanHorn didn’t answer, so Skye finally asked, “Do you know where his room is?”

“Why, yes I do.” The woman hoisted herself off the cot and picked up her purse. “Now that Lorelei’s gone, you just keep my Zoë in mind for those honors and awards you were talking about.”

Skye waited until Mrs. VanHorn had disappeared down the hall. She looked at her watch. It was nearly four-thirty. She had forgotten to ask Trixie about that cheerleading meeting when she talked to her earlier, and the librarian would have left for home a half hour ago. She needed to speak to Kent, too, but if he weren’t gone, he’d be tied up with Mrs. VanHorn.

Skye left the health room and looked toward Homer’s office. To her surprise, the lights were still on and she could hear voices. This was not a good sign. The principal usually beat the kids out the door when the final bell rang.

It was time to head home before another crisis was dropped in her lap. Her purse was still in the guidance room. She had taken only one step in that direction when a booming voice asked, “Is that you, Skye, honey?”

It was Charlie standing in Homer’s doorway. She turned and walked back. “Hi, Uncle Charlie. What’s up?”

Homer was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, Charlie guided Skye to a chair and sat opposite her. “Homer was telling me how he handled the parent situation today. That was quick thinking.”

Skye skewered Homer with a look he didn’t see. “Did everything work out all right with the buses?”

Without lifting his head, Homer talked to his desktop. “Yes, all the cars were moved, and most of the parents left.”

“Good.”

Homer stole a peek at Charlie. “Skye was a big help.”

“I’m sure she was. I know she always is to me.” Charlie stared at Homer. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Homer grabbed a file and flipped frantically through its contents. “Well . . . ah . . . things will probably be pretty much back to normal tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

Charlie looked at Skye. “What’s your guess?”

“Until we know for sure what happened to Lorelei, and the police release her body so there can be a funeral, I doubt things will be back to normal.”

“Any idea what we should do?” Charlie asked.

Skye struggled to concentrate and formulate a thoughtful answer. “We need to know where the police are on this. Are they ready to say officially she was murdered? The chief won’t say, but his actions sure point to it. I don’t think he’ll share much information with me this time.”

Charlie took a small spiral notebook and a stubby pencil from the pocket of his white shirt. “I’ll talk to Wally and get back to you before school starts tomorrow.”

“Also, I have a list of about twenty kids who should be talked to again tomorrow, to make sure they’re okay. Can we get one of the co-op social workers back?” Skye’s gaze bounced between Charlie and Homer.

“No.”

“Sure.”

The men’s voices overlapped each other.

“Charlie, we have to pay extra for them,” Homer whined. “We don’t have the budget.”

“Take it out of the fund for administration’s raises if you can’t find the money anywhere else.” Charlie turned back to Skye. “Anything else, sweetheart?”

She tapped the arm of the chair. “One more thing. We ought to be ready for another onslaught of parents.”

“How can we prepare for that?” Homer asked.

“Well, we could call an informational meeting ourselves. Tell them what we know, answer their questions, maybe even persuade Chief Boyd to speak.”

Charlie jumped up. “That’s a good idea. Let’s call it for first thing in the morning. I’ll get the PTO to put the announcement over their phone tree.”

The Parent Teacher Organization always came through, whether they were asked to raise money for a new science lab or spread the word about an early closure.

 

It was after five by the time Skye and Charlie left Homer’s office. They had started toward the front door when Charlie suddenly pulled her into an empty classroom. “Listen, I didn’t want to say this in front of old Homer, but I need your help.”

Skye nodded cautiously. It was easier to agree with Charlie than argue, but his requests usually meant trouble.

“If it turns out that girl was murdered, I need you to find out who did it. Wally’s a good cop, but he’s not part of the school, so he’s bound to miss some of the less obvious clues. Besides, a psychologist should be pretty good at getting at the truth.”

“Uncle Charlie, I really don’t think—”

“You solved Honey’s and Antonia’s murders. And that mystery at the recreational club last summer. I just thought you’d want to help out your old Uncle Charlie.”

“But . . .” she trailed off.

“I remember when I called you in New Orleans to let you know you had a job in Scumble River. You were so happy. You said, ‘If there’s anything I can do to repay you, I’ll do it.’ But I guess that was a long time ago.”

“I’m not sure what I could do,” she said lamely. It really was useless to argue with Charlie.

“I want the school absolved of all responsibility. There is no way I’m letting Al Ingels say it was our fault.” Charlie crossed his arms. “Besides, there’s something funny going on with Al, and I need to keep an eye on him.”

The rivalry between Charlie and Al Ingels was well-known. Mr. Ingels had run against Charlie for the school board—a sin not easily forgiven.

Skye let her weight sag against the teacher’s desk. “What if I do investigate, and we
are
responsible?”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Charlie said. “I have a gut feeling this has nothing to do with the school.”

Skye’s head ached, her stomach growled, and her feet hurt. She wanted to go home. And Charlie was probably right. It would take an insider to uncover all the inner workings of the high school. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll see what I can turn up. But be prepared. Lorelei deserves to have the truth about her death exposed, even if other people’s secrets have to come out, too.”

“Whatever you say. All I ask is that you tell me first.”

They started out of the classroom. “Homer won’t be too happy about me poking around,” Skye said.

“You don’t have to worry about Homer. The wheel’s spinning, but the hamster’s dead. He won’t even notice what you’re doing.”

The principal’s blue Taurus was pulling out of the lot when Charlie and Skye emerged from the building. A storm front had passed through, prematurely darkening the sky. The outdoor lights shed an eerie green gleam on the two remaining cars. Charlie and Skye headed toward the white Seville with the bumper sticker that read: AT MY AGE I’VE SEEN IT ALL, DONE IT ALL, HEARD IT ALL . . . I JUST CAN’T REMEMBER IT ALL. But before they reached the Cadillac, the other vehicle started up and headed in their direction.

It stopped a few feet in front of them and Kent Walker slid out of the driver’s side. “Good evening, Mr. Patukas.”

“Hey.” Charlie’s halfhearted greeting conveyed his opinion of Kent.

“Need a ride home?” Kent asked Skye.

“Thanks. Charlie’s going to drop me.”

“I thought we could get a bite to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m really tired.”

“You’ve got to eat. We’ll just go to the Feedbag.”

Skye frowned. She was hungry, and as usual, her refrigerator was bare. “Okay.” She turned to Charlie. “Why don’t you join us?”

Both men scowled. Charlie answered, “No, I’ve got to get home. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make.”

Skye kissed Charlie good-bye and squeezed into Kent’s car. The Acura NSX was slung so low that one practically had to know how to levitate to get in and out of it.

Kent shoved the gearshift into drive, and they roared out of the parking lot. “Why doesn’t Charlie like me?”

“You’re not from town. He’ll warm up eventually.”

“He likes Simon, and he’s not from Scumble River.” Kent turned to look at Skye, and the NSX veered sharply to the right, narrowly missing a parked car.

She bit her tongue to stop from screaming at him to keep his eyes on the road. “Simon’s got roots here. That gives him an in.”

“There’s more to it than that.” Kent screeched into a parking space directly in front of the restaurant.

“Maybe it’s your accent. He just needs time to get used to you.” Skye levered herself out of the low seat. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. He doesn’t influence my opinions.”

Kent ushered her through the glass doors. “Yeah, but he does control a lot of what happens in Scumble River.”

“I see.” Skye wondered, not for the first time, if Kent was dating her because he liked her or because he wanted to get in good with Charlie. Their relationship had started out nicely. Kent was a great conversationalist. He could discuss literature and travel, and some of his quips about Scumble River citizens were hilarious. But lately Skye had begun to notice his flaws. He was too much like her ex-fiancé—shallow and snobbish. It was probably time to end it before they got in any deeper.

The restaurant owner showed them to a table. Mauve upholstery and walls intermixed with wooden tables and brass accents. Neither the decor nor the food had changed in the two years she’d been home. Skye didn’t need to look at a menu to know what she wanted.

The waitress approached them. “What can I get you?”

“Is your fish fresh or frozen?” Kent asked, studying his menu.

Skye stiffened. They went through this every time they ate here. She could recite the server’s part from memory.

“Gee, let me check.” The waitress hurried away.

“Why do you do that?” Skye asked.

“What?”

“You always ask stuff like that, and I’ve explained that you can’t do that in Scumble River. Believe me, it’s frozen. Nothing on the menu is fresh. Everything is frozen here.”

A stubborn look settled on Kent’s features. “I’ve spoken to the owner. He said he’d think about changing that.”

“Never mind.” Skye didn’t want to argue about seafood. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to eat with him tonight. She had just about made up her mind to stop seeing Kent. The relationship wasn’t working for either of them. Still, the realistic part of her had argued that she needed to talk to him about Mrs. VanHorn and about the rehearsal Lorelei was supposed to attend. It felt a little mean, but the practical part of her won out. “Did Priscilla VanHorn find you this afternoon?” she asked.