Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (17 page)

Wally shrugged and clicked on the TV. As they watched the news, Skye noticed his eyelids drooping more and more. At the end of the local weather forecast,
she switched off the television, tugged Wally to his feet, and led him upstairs. She had barely pulled back the covers when he sank into the mattress, and he was fast asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Skye changed into her nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and moisturized her face before joining him. Her last thought before drifting off was that at least Mrs. Griggs allowed them to share a bed.

The next morning when they were sitting down to breakfast it occurred to Skye that she hadn’t told Wally about the twins’ visit the day before. What else had she forgotten to share with him?

She scrunched up her forehead, trying to remember what she had and hadn’t communicated.
Shoot!
Had she mentioned Spike’s story?

Before she could gather her thoughts, Wally asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Skye smiled at the concern in Wally’s voice. He really was the sweetest guy. “But I just realized that I haven’t mentioned a couple of things.”

“Like?”

“First, I don’t think I ever told you what Bunny’s daughter, Spike, is doing in Illinois.”

“Then I take it she wasn’t in Scumble River just to visit her mother?”

“In Scumble River, yes, but she’s in the area investigating a story.” Skye took a sip of tea, relishing the smooth Earl Grey, then explained Spike’s new job and the local government corruption lead she was following. Skye ended with, “So thank God it isn’t Uncle Dante who’s embezzling.” She paused and twisted her lips to one side. “At least as far as we know.”

“You said a couple of things,” Wally reminded her. “Is there something else?”

Skye played with her spoon. “The Sechrest sisters visited me yesterday afternoon.”

“What did they want?” Wally’s tone was curious. “They’re both so tiny and elderly, after their initial interview I pretty much crossed them off my suspect list. Was that a mistake?”

“Probably not. I doubt they killed Alexis over an insult, even one about a cat.” She ate a spoonful of Special K, then said, “But they did have an interesting bit of information about Fawn Irving.”

“Oh?” Wally poured Cap’n Crunch into a bowl and added milk.

Skye hid her grin. He had recently confided his love for the sugary corn and oat squares and she now kept a supply for him, but she still found it funny that a macho guy like Wally ate a kid’s cereal.

“Did you know that not too long ago Fawn’s husband disappeared?”

“No.” He put down his spoon and frowned. “When did that happen?”

“I’m not sure. But shortly afterward, Fawn attempted suicide.” Skye’s expression grew sad. She hated hearing that anyone had been so despondent that they felt their only option was to end their life. “I don’t have the exact dates, but Fawn was on the psychiatric floor of Saint Joe’s up until a little while before the cat show.”

“She certainly didn’t volunteer that information.” Wally poured a cup of coffee for himself, then sat down. “And neither did anyone else.”

“I’m not surprised.” Skye drank her cranberry juice. “Probably very few people are familiar with the whole story. Bunny and Frannie were aware that Fawn had been recently hospitalized, but I don’t think they knew why.” Skye explained how Sandy had come to hear about it, adding, “There really is no privacy anymore. Even though the medical personnel respect confidentiality, the volunteers can’t be held to the same standards.”

“I won’t be able to see the records of her stay, but I
will reinterview her.” Wally cradled his mug, his expression thoughtful. “Actually, considering the circumstances of her hospitalization, I think the department’s psych consultant should be present, too.”

“Before we talk to her, you might want to check with the Laurel Police Department,” Skye cautioned. “According to the rumor mill, a lot of folks seem to think Fawn might have killed her husband.”

“Son of a B!” Wally nearly spewed the gulp of coffee he had just taken. “Every time I think we’ve eliminated a suspect we add two more. If we could just find Jacobsen, maybe we could wrap this case up.”

“Maybe.” Raising an eyebrow, Skye took a delicate sip of her tea. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

S
kye wasn’t scheduled to be at the high school at all on Wednesdays or Thursdays—a fact that Homer tended to conveniently overlook. When things were running smoothly, he resented giving up any space or budget for her needs. But the minute a tricky situation reared its ugly head, he felt that she should devote all her time and energy to his school.

Unfortunately, as a school psychologist assigned to multiple schools, Skye was often put in the awkward position of reminding all the principals that she wasn’t their full-time employee. And as she stepped over the threshold of the elementary school’s office Wednesday morning, she sensed that today would be one of those days when she was needed everywhere at once, with everyone thinking his or her crisis was the most pressing.

Caroline Greer was standing between Mrs. Canetti and Mrs. Hinich, the mothers of two of Skye’s social-skills group counselees. The principal was trying to keep the two women apart, while they were engrossed in a heated discussion involving loud voices, mean faces, and wild gesticulations.

As soon as Caroline spotted Skye, she abandoned her
arbitration attempts and hurried over to her. The office was crowded with teachers signing in, chatting with each other, and watching Mrs. Canetti and Mrs. Hinich argue, but the principal pulled Skye to a semi-secluded area.

Once out of earshot, Caroline said in a low voice, “Help me get these parents into my office.” She glanced worriedly back at the two antagonists. “I don’t want to do this in public.”

“What’s up?” Skye kept a wary eye on the women, who continued their bickering.

“We have a major problem,” Caroline said over her shoulder as she darted over to Mrs. Canetti, who was jabbing her finger in Mrs. Hinich’s chest. The principal gripped the woman’s arm just above the elbow, and motioned with her chin for Skye to take charge of the other mother.

Skye moved into place and waited for instructions.

“Ladies, let’s sit down in private, have some coffee, and talk this over,” Caroline suggested, tugging on Mrs. Canetti’s arm until the much larger woman gave in and began to move. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement that will be in the best interest of both children.”

Shooing Mrs. Hinich toward the principal’s office, Skye passed Fern Otte, the school secretary, who handed her a sheaf of small pink pieces of paper. Fern was a small-boned woman who dressed in shades of brown and flapped her arms as if she was about to fly away. That, along with her tendency to sound as if she were cheeping when she spoke, had earned her the nickname Tweets. Not that anyone was cruel enough to call the fragile woman that to her face, but sometimes it was hard not to slip up.

While Caroline poured coffee for everyone, Skye glanced through the while-you-were-out memos. Most of them were from Homer, each succeeding one more agitated than the last. In short, he commanded her to drop
everything and report to the high school immediately to deal with the Pass Out game girls.

From Homer’s increasingly more detailed messages, Skye gathered that the gossip mill had been busy grinding out bigger and more exaggerated accounts of what had happened Saturday night at the infamous slumber party. Now parents whose kids had not even been involved were calling the high school principal in a state of panic, demanding information about what he and the district were going to do about the situation. And Homer, being Homer, in turn ordered Skye to handle the whole mess ASAP.

Neva had left the remaining message. She had called Earl Doozier to come pick up the classroom material for the instruction Junior would be missing due to his suspension. However, Earl had claimed his car wasn’t working. Since Neva didn’t want him and his brood trooping into her school anyway, she had promised that Skye would deliver the homework—Skye being the only one from the school that Earl allowed on his property.

Skye glanced up from her perusal of the pink slips and saw Caroline fussing with white foam cups, sugar, and creamer. If Fern reminded Skye of a wren, Caroline made her think of a partridge. The elementary principal was short, round, and had a monobosom. She had poufy white hair, black-framed glasses, and a reddish nose.

Once everyone had been supplied with coffee, Caroline settled behind her desk and said, “Let’s start with a clear picture of what occurred yesterday.” She clasped her hands. “Mrs. Canetti, for Ms. Denison’s benefit will you please explain what happened?”

The muscular blonde frowned, but began. “Alvin Hinich bit my Duncan during afternoon recess.” Her short platinum hair bristled as she continued. “Now Duncan is convinced he has rabies.”

Duncan Canetti was germophobic. Duncan—or, as
the kids called him, Mr. Clean—liked everything to be perfectly orderly and hygienic. So much so that he had persuaded his mother to allow him to have his head shaved in order to avoid ever having a hair out of place. He carried a can of Lysol with him wherever he went.

Skye knew that Duncan couldn’t stand being touched, so she could certainly see how having someone’s mouth and saliva on his bare arm would upset the boy. Something like that could easily push him over the edge.

“Alvin didn’t even break the skin,” Mrs. Hinich pointed out, her tone exasperated. “How in the world can Mr. Clean think he has rabies if there isn’t a puncture?” She huffed and sat back in her seat.

“
Duncan
”—Mrs. Canetti emphasized her son’s name— “thought he was foaming at the mouth when he brushed his teeth this morning.” She glared at the other woman. “He freaked out and has already taken three showers since then. He’s rubbing his arm raw.”

“And Alvin is traumatized by how his teacher treated him after the incident.” Mrs. Hinich fingered her dark brown braid. “He’d been getting so much better lately.” Her voice broke and she slumped. “Now he only growls and barks at me when I try to talk to him.”

Skye knew that Alvin insisted he was a beagle named Spot. However, Skye had been making some headway with both boys. Now, hearing how Alvin and Duncan had regressed, she almost sobbed in frustration. It looked as if all the progress they had made was gone. She made a mental note to check on Clifford, the third member of the social-skills group she’d been conducting for the past six months.

“You need to stop indulging that child,” Mrs. Canetti said with a sniff. “If my son acted like some kind of hound, I’d serve him dog food and make him sleep on the floor until he snapped out of it.”

“Sure you would. Because you have such great parenting
skills.” Mrs. Hinich scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Is that why you allowed your son to go bald?” She shook her head. “And for heaven’s sake, just take away that damn Lysol can. The reason Alvin bit him was because Duncan sprayed it in his eyes.”

“Ladies!” Caroline leaned forward and addressed the two mothers. “I can understand your concerns, but both of you know that your children have difficult issues and special needs. Which is why I’m sure you can sympathize with each other’s challenges.”

The women refused to meet Caroline’s gaze. Neither one seemed willing or able to empathize with the other’s tribulations.

While the principal’s statement had been diplomatic, it hadn’t gotten them anywhere, so Skye decided to try a more direct approach. “Mrs. Canetti, I assume that if Duncan got over his rabies paranoia that would satisfy you. You’d drop the matter.”

“Yes.” The blonde nodded. “If he comes out of the bathroom and stops scrubbing himself bloody, I’m willing to overlook the assault.”

“And Mrs. Hinich, I assume that if Alvin stops growling and starts talking, that would satisfy you.”

“Yes.”

“Great.” Skye took a deep breath. What she was about to suggest was most certainly not recommended in the school psychology best practices manual. However, since no other immediate solution came to mind—therapy certainly did not produce rapid results—she said, “Mrs. Canetti, stop at the drugstore and pick up a tube of antibiotic ointment—a brand Duncan has never seen before. Then ask the pharmacist to paste a label on the box reading
RABIES VACCINE
.”

“Will he do that?” Mrs. Canetti asked. “Isn’t that illegal or something?”

“I think if you explain the problem, the pharmacist
will be willing to help you out.” Skye shrugged. “If he isn’t able to, then you can create a label on your computer, print it out, and stick it on the package yourself.”

“Okay.” Mrs. Canetti sound uncertain, but she took a breath and nodded.

“Once you have the carton fixed up, show your son the medicine, then apply it to his arm and tell him he’ll be cured in half an hour.”

“But—”

Skye cut off Mrs. Canetti’s protest and turned her attention to the other mother. “Mrs. Hinich, you need to rent a DVD of
Cats and Dogs
.”

“What—?”

Skye interrupted her. “Watch the movie with Alvin and point out that the star is a beagle who talks. Emphasize throughout the film that the dog doesn’t just growl.” She bit her lip. She hated reinforcing the boy’s fantasy, but she would deal with the fallout from that shortcut later, during group. “Make sure you stress that the dog communicates using words.”