Murder of a Creped Suzette (16 page)

Puppy handed her a receipt and said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look really frazzled. You should do what I do when I’m feeling tense.”

“What?” Skye asked before she could stop herself.

“I handle stressful situations like our canine friends do.” Puppy’s expression was serious. “If you can’t eat it or hump it, pee on it and walk away.”

After politely agreeing that Puppy’s stress relief idea had merit, Skye said good-bye to Toby and hurried out of the building. It was now seven o’clock, and since all she had left in her wallet was a coupon good for twenty-five cents off a bottle of salad dressing, she had to hit the ATM before going to school.

 

There were only two ATMs in Scumble River, and one was, thank goodness, on Skye’s way to work. She parked in front of the Scumble River Savings and Loan and hurried into the foyer. The bank’s interior was dark, but the area containing the ATM was brightly lit.

Skye rushed up to the machine, her debit card at the ready. She punched in her PIN number, then hesitated. How much cash should she take out?

At the pace she was spending money, she should probably get the limit—five hundred dollars—but she decided to be cautious and take only half of the maximum allowed. Her purse would probably be secure in her desk drawer, but better safe than sorry.

She waited impatiently for the bills to come out of the slot, then tucked the cash inside her tote bag and grabbed the receipt. Whirling around, she bit back a scream.

“I guess you didn’t hear me come in.” Simon Reid stood a few feet away from her, a charming smile on his handsome face. “Maybe they should install chimes over the door.”

Skye nodded in agreement, waiting for her heart to return to its normal rhythm before trying out her voice. Simon had always been able to sneak up on her. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he floated above the ground instead of walking like a normal person.

“Sorry I scared you.” Every strand of Simon’s short auburn hair was in place, his cheeks were freshly shaved, and his black wingtip shoes were so perfectly polished he could use them to check that his tie was straight.

Instantly, Skye became conscious of her own rumpled appearance. She tugged at the empire waist of her plum-colored knit dress and brushed white dog hair from its elbow-length bell sleeves.

“Are you on your way to school?” Simon’s finely sculpted features hinted at an elegance and sophistication that were rare in Scumble River.

“Yes.” Skye glanced down at her black tights. The buckle on Toby’s collar had caught in them, so there was a huge run that started from the top of her ballet flats and disappeared under the hem of her skirt. She’d planned to change into the emergency panty hose she kept in her desk drawer as soon as she got to school.

“I’m glad I ran into you.” Simon’s warm tenor washed over her. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“In your role as coroner?” Skye stopped fussing with her clothes and met his gaze. “Is there some evidence about the murder you want to share?”

“No.” Simon’s hazel eyes were hooded. “I’m sure Boyd has filled you in on those facts.” He paused. “Although I do have a question about Suzette.”

“What?”

“When you first met her, did she look familiar to you?” Simon wrinkled his brow. “When I saw her perform last Saturday night, she reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t put my finger on who.”

“Not really.” Skye tried to remember if she had thought Suzette looked like anyone. “Her parents only lived here a year, and that was back in 1978.”

“Then there’s no way I could have known her mother or father. I would only have been eight years old at the time, and I didn’t move to town until 1998, when I inherited the funeral home from my uncle.” Simon massaged one temple. “Does she have any relatives in Scumble River?”

“No. As far as I know, the police haven’t been able to locate any family.”

“I see.” Simon shrugged. “I guess she just had that kind of face.”

“That could be it.”

“Back to the reason I was glad to run into you,” Simon said. “I hear you have a houseguest who needs alternative accommodations.”

“Who told you that?”

“Trixie mentioned it to Frannie yesterday afternoon at the drugstore. Then Frannie told Mom when she got to work last night.” Frannie was a waitress at the bowling alley that Simon owned and his mother, Bunny, managed.

“I should have known. There are no secrets around here.” Skye twisted a strand of the gold chain that hung past her scoop neckline. “I suppose Bunny told you the whole story.”

“About Homer and the shoe baptism? Yes, she did.” Simon chuckled. “That must have been quite a sight.”

“Yes.” Skye giggled. “I’ve never seen Homer so upset, and that’s saying a lot.”

“Anyway, if you still need someone to take care of the dog, I’d be glad to do it.”

“Why?” Skye asked, wondering if this was another of Simon’s schemes to win back her affections.

“I’ve been thinking of getting a pet.” He examined the crease in the pants of his olive green wool suit. “And this would be a good way to see if a dog is right for me. A bit like being a foster parent.”

“Well . . .” Skye was suddenly reluctant to give up Toby. “I’m not sure—”

“How about I take him during the day while you’re at work,” Simon suggested. “You can pick him up on your way home after school, and if you need me to take care of him longer, just give me a call.”

“You’d have to keep him with you,” Skye warned. “Believe me, you do not want him bored and alone in your house, or anywhere else.”

“So I heard.” Simon grinned. “Actually, that works out perfectly for me, since most wakes are held in the late afternoon or evening.”

“How about interments or when you have to consult with the bereaved?” Skye was still not sure this was a good plan. She didn’t want to owe Simon a favor.

“I’ll set up one of the empty rooms for him at the funeral home with a bed and some toys.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Xavier can help.”

“I’m so glad you talked Xavier into coming back to work for you after he quit last month.”

“Me, too.” Simon shuffled his feet. “So, what do you say? Will you trust me with the little guy?”

“Yes.” Skye realized she really couldn’t afford to turn down his offer. “He’s already set for today, but I’ll bring him over to your place between seven and seven fifteen tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Simon stepped close to Skye and softly kissed her cheek. “I’m looking forward to the companionship.”

“Toby can definitely provide that.” Skye tried to lighten the mood.

“That’s good.” Simon’s expression was pensive. “Now that we’re not together, it seems I no longer like my own company as much as I used to.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Skye kept the sympathy out of her voice, not wanting to mislead him about her feelings.

“Thank you.” Simon grimaced. “It’s just that I never thought of myself as a person who’d ever be lonely.”

“A Boy Named Sue”

H
alf an hour later, Skye sat on an uncomfortable molded-plastic chair in an overheated office, still wearing her ruined tights. She had intended to drop off Homer’s new shoes with the school secretary and escape without having to deal with the principal, but Homer had pounced on her as soon as she entered the building.

While the principal propelled her through the lobby, past the front counter, and into his inner sanctum, he grumbled about a new student who was moving into their district. Woodrow Buckingham was being enrolled that morning and his parents were arriving in ten minutes to brief them on their child’s needs.

After a quick scan of the six-inch-thick file Homer thrust into her arms, Skye said, “We really need to have the physical therapist, occupational therapist, speech pathologist, and nurse at this meeting.”

“Right.” Homer sneered. “Since the OT, PT, and speech path are only assigned to this building half a day a week and we get the nurse three afternoons—if we’re lucky—I suppose you want me to ask Harry Potter to borrow his magic wand. Or do you have a better suggestion about how I should get them all here at the last minute?”

Fortunately for both Homer and Skye, Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham arrived before Skye could tell the principal what he could do with Harry’s wand. For the next two hours Mrs. Buckingham talked about her son’s special needs. Skye took notes, trying to make sense of all the medical jargon, but in the end her yellow legal pad looked as if she’d been writing in Swahili.

After the meeting was over and the door finally closed behind the couple, Homer said, “That woman’s train of thought needs a caboose.”

Skye sat stunned, contemplating what she’d been told. It was difficult to comprehend all it would take to educate Woodrow in regular classes. She could only imagine what this poor kid had to cope with every day of his life.

From what Skye could piece together from Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham’s lengthy description, Woodrow was in a motorized wheelchair and had the use of only two fingers on his left hand. His speech was difficult, sometimes impossible to understand, and he had a moderate hearing loss in his right ear. He also had other significant health issues.

Woodrow would definitely be the most challenging student Skye and Homer had ever attempted to mainstream. Although he had an above-average IQ, it was extremely difficult for him to perform even the smallest physical task. The personnel and materials he would require to be integrated into regular classes were astronomical.

Homer caressed a tuft of hair growing from his ear and said, “What are we going to do with him? Where do we even start?”

“I wish I knew.” Skye felt numb. “I’ll study his file and start making a list of the equipment and services we’ll need.”

“We have to have a plan before he can start classes.” Homer grimaced. “Didn’t the mom say they expect him to start next week?”

“Yes, both parents were adamant about that. At least Monday is Teacher Institute, so no students.” Skye made a note on her legal pad. “But come Tuesday, he’ll need a specially outfitted bus.”

“Shit.” Homer closed his eyes and started to move his lips in and out.

“Listen.” Skye could tell that the principal was going to his happy place, and if she didn’t pull him back right now, he would stay there until she had solved his problem. “You need to contact the special education cooperative and get the coordinator assigned to us out here for a consultation.”

Homer didn’t open his eyes. “You call.”

“No.” Fighting the temptation to toss her legal pad at Homer’s head, Skye stuffed her notes into her tote bag. “He won’t listen to me, and the only way we can get access to all the apparatus and staff we’ll need is through him.”

Homer grunted and reached for the phone, which Skye took as both agreement and dismissal.

She quickly stood, moved to the door, and said, “I’ll be around until one thirty; then I’m heading to the junior high.”

Homer waved her off. As she exited, she heard him say, “Opal, get me the sped coordinator right now. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Although Skye didn’t like the special education coordinator—he lacked a sincere interest in the students and harangued Skye for becoming too involved with them—he was the only person who had the authority to help them. That is, of course, if the jerk could be motivated to actually do his job.

As Skye headed down the hall, she tried to come up with ideas to help Woodrow fit in and make friends. Which classmate would be a good buddy for him? Who was popular enough and had sufficient self-confidence and compassion to get the other students to accept the boy?

Skye’s deliberations had brought her to a junction in the corridor. If she went left, she’d arrive at her own office ; if she went right, she’d pass the music room. It was ten twenty-three; third period ended in two minutes and fourth period was Noreen Iverson’s plan time, which made it the perfect moment to talk to her about Suzette’s father.

As Skye headed right, she rationalized that she needed to speak to Noreen about Woodrow. His mother had mentioned that he loved music, and it should be assigned as his scheduled elective. If Noreen brought up Mr. Neal and Skye got a lead in the investigation of Suzette’s murder, she figured that would simply be a twofer.

Noreen’s room was in the oldest part of the school, in the fine and practical arts wing. Although the heating was iffy and there was no air-conditioning, it did have the coveted advantage of windows, real walls versus curtain separators, and spaciousness.

Skye expected to hear the familiar notes of flutes, violins, and drums, but instead she heard shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but accelerated her steps as the voices grew louder.

Afraid that fists would be swinging soon, Skye dashed into the room and stopped abruptly when she saw several students lined up on a dais in front of the class. Noreen stood facing them, using a conductor’s baton to point to each in turn. As she did so, each teen spoke a word; then the next person uttered the same word, only louder.

At that moment the bell rang, and Noreen said, “Excellent work, everyone. We’ll pick up here next time. Class dismissed.”

Skye hesitated, not sure what she had seen. What in the world was Noreen teaching?

Once all the students had left, Noreen approached Skye. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Skye’s cheeks reddened. “I’m so sorry for bursting in here without knocking.” She knew she’d breached the unwritten rule that each teacher was king or queen of his or her classroom.

“No problem.” Noreen’s lips twitched. “I bet you thought the kids were about to start throwing punches.”

Skye nodded.

“We’re so isolated in this wing, I didn’t even think of what the lesson on voice as an instrument would sound like to someone in the hall.” Noreen patted Skye’s arm. “Sorry for frightening you.”