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“That’s more like it.” Homer smirked. “And don’t you forget it. Because right this minute, I’m not in the mood for your sass. I’m having one of those days when I’m mighty tempted to let my middle finger provide all my answers to everyone’s stupid questions.”

“Seriously?” Skye shook her head, then said, “Anyway, back to actual school business. When the police arrived, intending to interview our staff and students, Opal asked me what she should do. As you pointed out, I’m not the boss, so I had to ad-lib. Perhaps it’s time for you to get a cell phone.”

“Nope.” Homer strolled over to his mini fridge and pulled out an orange soda. “I see no reason to be at everyone’s beck and call.”

“Then who exactly is in charge when you’re not here?” Skye looked longingly at the can. Her throat was parched, and she hadn’t had time to get to the lounge to buy a soda from the machine.

“Technically . . .” Homer tilted the ice-cold can, drank deeply, burped, and continued. “Pru Cormorant is assistant principal, but . . .”

“Right.” Skye shuddered. The annoying English teacher was about the only thing she and Homer agreed on. Better no one at the helm than Pru. “How did she get the job? Why doesn’t anyone know she has it? And what are her duties?”

“She has the most seniority.” Homer had the grace to look a little sheepish, a first for him. “We always allow whoever’s closest to retirement to be the assistant principal so they can maximize their pension benefit. No one
knows she’s assistant principal because she has no duties. It’s an in-name-only position rather than an actual one.”

“Of course.” Skye sighed. The joy of small-town politics never ended. She made a face, and when Homer glared, she feigned innocence and said, “Darn! Did I just roll my eyes out loud?”

“Anything else?” Homer took her elbow and pulled her toward the door.

“The chief and Sergeant Quirk are talking to the faculty during the teachers’ free periods, and I’ve phoned all the parents of the students they want to interview. Luckily, I was able to reach almost all of the volleyball team players’ parents. You see how handy cell phones are, Homer?” Skye couldn’t believe she was the one insisting someone else needed a cell when she’d been so reluctant to get one herself. “I’ll keep trying to touch base with the two or three I haven’t contacted.” Skye paused for a breath. “The ones who are concerned are coming in to be with their daughters during their meeting with the police.”

Ignoring her dig about the phone, Homer said, “Why did you do that? Now we’ll have a bunch of parents running around here and interfering with us.” Homer sneered at Skye. “I suppose you felt compelled to defend the little brats’ rights.”

“It also protects the school district from a lawsuit,” Skye pointed out. “You could be held liable.”

“No way.” Homer shook his massive head from side to side, looking a lot like a buffalo trying to get rid of an annoying fly. “I assume full responsibility for my own actions, but not those that are someone else’s fault.” He paused and smacked his rubbery lips together. “Which are most of them.”

“And that’s why I called the parents.” Skye blew out an exasperated breath.

“Yeah.” Homer jeered. “Right. You’re a real peach and deserve a medal. Now, as long as all the classes are covered, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of it.” Homer nearly pushed Skye out of his office.

When Skye heard the lock click behind her, she stood staring at the closed door. Evidently, Homer was indifferent to what had been happening in his absence or what was currently occurring in his school. She had half a mind to go home and let him cope.

It was a shame that if she jumped ship, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Squaring her shoulders, she headed down the hallway at a jog. She could see a light at the end of the tunnel, and really hoped it was the bathroom.

Once she’d taken care of her most urgent need, she washed her hands, then went into the faculty lounge, bought a soda from the machine, and went back to her office to eat her lunch.

By three fifteen Wally and Quirk had talked to everyone on their list. Before leaving, Wally stopped by Skye’s office and said, “I’m heading back to the PD now. Don’t wait dinner for me. I have no idea when I’ll be home.”

“Did you find out anything?” Skye asked.

“Just that everyone claims to have alibis, but most are from spouses or significant others, so not too reliable. Nothing new about motives.” Wally paused in the doorway. “But the crime-scene guy did get a couple of unidentified prints from the electrical panel in the boiler room. They don’t match either of the custodians, so we’re hopeful they belong to the killer.”

“Well, that’s good news.” Skye frowned when Wally didn’t smile. “Isn’t it?”

“It will be once we have a suspect.” Wally shrugged. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a match to anyone on IAFIS.”

“Oh.” Skye nodded. IAFIS was the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System used by the police to find perpetrators who already had a criminal record. “Right.”

Knowing Wally had been at the school all day and that he hadn’t had any lunch, Skye reminded him to eat something; then she kissed him good-bye and headed down the hallway. She was running late for the newspaper staff’s
after-school meeting. They met in the library because that was where the computer lab was set up.

She and Trixie got the kids settled down and on task, and then Skye updated her BFF on everything she knew about the murder. Or at least everything Wally had told her she could share. Trixie didn’t have a chance to ask too many questions because the newspaper staff was wrapping up the April issue and both she and Skye were kept busy helping the kids meet their deadline.

A couple of hours later, when they’d completed the monthly edition, Skye announced that she was looking for volunteers to assist with the rubber duck race. Fortunately, they were all good kids and happy to pitch in to support Trixie’s fund-raiser.

Once the students said good-bye and left, Trixie turned to Skye and beamed. “See. Easy-peasy. The kids all agreed to help number the ducks.”

“Big surprise.” Skye raised a brow. “After you showed them all the sad puppy and kitten pictures, how could they say no?”

“Yep.” Trixie hooked her thumbs into the material of her shirt on either side of her chest. “The idea of putting together an album of the adorable shelter animals was pure genius on my part.”

“When did you have time to do that?” Skye moved around the computer lab tidying up the space. “You only told me about the race two days ago.”

“You know that when I get an idea in my head, I can’t rest.”

“True.” Skye wasn’t certain whether she admired her friend’s energy or if she should suggest that Trixie be evaluated for hyperactivity.

“Well, you’re usually a pushover, so when it was so hard to persuade you to help me, I knew I’d need to bring out the big guns in order to get everybody else on board.” Trixie twisted a short strand of hair around her finger. “Monday afternoon, while I was surfing the net
looking for ideas to help inspire me on ways to publicize the event, I popped over to I Can Has Cheezburger?”

“You were hungry?” Skye threw away some trash and stared at her friend.

“No.” Trixie shook her head, then shrugged. “Well, yes. I’m always hungry, but ICHC is a website with pictures of mostly cats, but other animals, too. And all the photos have funny captions.”

“O-kay.” Skye stretched out the word. Where was this leading? “And?”

“This site gets as many as a million and a half hits per day.”

“You’re kidding me.” Skye had grown fonder of technology, but clearly she still didn’t quite grasp the enormous impact of the World Wide Web.

“Nope.” Trixie hopped to her feet and started putting the chairs on top of the tables so the custodian could vacuum more easily. “Which made me realize that there’s nothing more persuasive than cute animals.”

“And that’s when you dropped everything, drove over to the shelter, took the pictures, and came back here to make up the scrapbook,” Skye guessed. Between the newspaper and yearbook committees, all the equipment Trixie needed to print photos and create an album was available in the school’s computer lab.

“Exactly.” Trixie beamed. “And it’s worked like a charm. I put together several copies, and the GIVE kids have been using them to solicit prizes for the race and to sell ducks. We already have a savings bond from the bank, dinner for six from the Feed Bag, a mani-pedi from the spa, a hundred-dollar check from the Fine Foods Factory, a book and muffin basket from Tales and Treats, and a case of wine from the Brown Bag Bar and Liquor Store.”

“Extremely impressive for two days of effort.” Skye slid the last chair into place. The library was ready for the next school day. “Have you gotten the permit from the city council yet?”

“Of course.” Trixie pumped her fist in the air. “How could you doubt me? As of three p.m. we are an officially sanctioned event.”

“That’s amazing.” Skye started to walk toward the door, but Trixie blocked her path. Skye frowned and said, “I need to get going.”

“Just a second.” Trixie gripped Skye’s arm as if she were afraid her friend was about to make a run for it. “There’s one more thing.”

“Oh.” Skye didn’t like the fact that her BFF couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Actually”—Trixie’s cheeks reddened—“getting the permit turned out to be harder than I thought. Your uncle is a total jerk.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” Skye tried to free herself from Trixie’s grasp. “Dante is the king of the skunks.”

“And I was getting sort of desperate.” Trixie continued as if Skye hadn’t spoken. “When one of the GIVE kids came up with a solution.”

“That’s great.” Skye started to pry Trixie’s fingers off her arm. “The whole point of extracurricular activities is for the students to learn problem solving and enhance their social skills.”

“Precisely.” Trixie refused to allow Skye to escape her hold. “Anyway, the girl said that her pop could get the permit for us.”

“Is her dad on the city council?” Skye asked, trying to recall which member had children in high school. After a second, she still couldn’t come up with anyone. They were mostly in their fifties and sixties. Maybe the councilman was the girl’s grandfather.

“No.” Trixie shook her head. “Considering the family, I didn’t ask too many questions. Normally, I might not have even agreed to request this parent’s help, but I was getting desperate.”

“Oh. My. Gosh! You can’t be freaking serious!” Skye yanked her arm free, not caring if she got scratched in
the process, and rushed toward the exit. “Tell me the father you’re talking about isn’t—”

“Miz Skye, as I live and breathe. I ain’t seen you since your weddin’ reception.”

Earl Doozier strolled into the library, a huge grin in his toothless mouth. Earl was the top dog of the Red Raggers, an assorted family of misfits who always seemed to be around when there were nefarious activities brewing. They didn’t usually make the first move, but they were quick to take advantage of any opening to beat the crap out of someone or exploit a profitable situation.

Dooziers didn’t have savings accounts—they had jars full of cash buried in their backyards. Their kids took chemistry in school not because they were premed, but so they could make pipe bombs. Skye was sure that if they won the lottery, they’d invest the money in a trip to Las Vegas, a lifetime supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a trailer truck full of Marlboros for the men and Virginia Slim Menthols for the ladies.

Despite all this, through her job as a school psychologist, Skye had established a good relationship with Earl. She’d worked to ensure his many children, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews made it through the public-education system with as few problems as possible.

And in turn, Earl and his kin had managed to save Skye on a few occasions. By now they treated her almost like one of their many pet hound dogs—with casual affection and neglect. That is unless someone bothered her. Then it was all-out war.

How in the world had Earl managed to get the permit from the city council for Trixie’s fund-raiser? Skye cringed. Did she really want to know? Before she could decide, a woman with blond hair from a box of Clairol, a Pamela Anderson bust, and the personality of a honey badger barreled into the room.

Skye groaned. Earl’s wife, Glenda, had arrived.

Ignoring Skye and Trixie, Glenda glowered at her
husband and screeched, “What in the hell is takin’ you so long, Earl Doozier?”

Earl, evidently having a death wish, said, “Aw, ain’t that sweet? She misses me.”

“Like I miss cramps once my period’s over with.” Glenda put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “You said you’d only be a second, but I listened to Kenny Chesney sing ‘Beer in Mexico’ and Craig Morgan belt out ‘International Harvester,’ and you still ain’t back.”

“But, honey pie, I gots myself a little lost. The hallways confused—”

“Don’t make me break a nail slappin’ some sense in you,” Glenda shrieked.

Skye’s gaze was drawn to the bright orange talons Glenda was using to poke at her husband.

“I said I’d be a minute.” Surprisingly, Earl didn’t seem afraid. There was a stubborn expression on his typically slack-jawed face when he said, “This is important to Bambi, and I ain’t lettin’ her down. Besides, I’s got a plan for our future.”

“The last time you told me you was plannin’ for our future, you bought two cases of beer instead of the usual one.” Glenda tapped a safety-cone-orange stiletto on the worn carpet. “I’m countin’ to three and you better have your skinny butt out of here and back into the Buick or I’m leavin’ you to walk home. It’s clear you don’t care about me.”

“But sweet cheeks, you’s knows that my love for you is like diarrhea.” Earl clasped his hands to his heart. “I just can’t hold it in.”

“Well . . .” Glenda hesitated.

“’Cause you’re prettier than a beer truck pulling up in the driveway.”

“You say that to all the girls.” Glenda batted her false eyelashes at her husband.

While the lovebirds were cooing at each other, Skye murmured to Trixie, “Bambi Doozier is a member of your community service club?” Bambi was the last of Earl and Glenda’s brood—at least so far—and this was her first
year attending Scumble River High School. She was a quiet girl and one of the few Doozier offspring who hadn’t been referred for any special education assistance—thus Skye hadn’t had much to do with her.