Murder of a Sleeping Beauty (15 page)

“I didn’t get the connection. Ryan’s a fairly common last name.” Skye remembered the teen’s hatred of Lorelei and her clique. “Was she upset by Lorelei’s death?”

“No. I’d say more half-afraid, half-thrilled. She doesn’t want you to think she killed Lorelei, because you’re so cool, but she was really psyched to finally tell someone how she was treated by that group of girls.”

“She’s welcome to talk to me anytime, about those feelings or anything else, although she will need to have her dad sign a consent slip,” Skye explained. “Unless it’s an emergency.”

“She’ll never ask her father.” Simon shrugged. “It’s really too bad. He’d do anything for her, but somehow he and Frannie just butt heads when they try to communicate.”

“Speaking of Lorelei, when will you have the results of the autopsy and tox screen?” As soon as the words left her mouth Skye experienced an “oh no, second”—that minuscule fraction of time in which she realized she had just blown the tiny chance she had to make up with Simon. Now he would never believe she was being nice to him for any reason except to gather information about Lorelei’s murder.
Damn
. Why had he brought up the subject?

Skye was saved from trying to explain herself when Father Burns strode into the room and smiled beatifically at them. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Today the parishioners had many things to discuss.”

“No problem, Father.” Skye gazed fondly at the priest.

“I wanted to talk to you about helping out your church. Our youth committee is in dire need of leadership.”

“Oh.” Simon raised an eyebrow.

“You two would be perfect,” Father Burns continued, leaning forward. “We need someone young, with an understanding of teens today. Skye, you have the training, and Simon, I’ve seen how well the kids react to you.”

Skye was silent. Did she really want to take on another job? On the other hand, maybe it would do her good to be around “average” kids without major problems. It would give her perspective. Besides, how could she turn down Father Burns’s request after all he’d done for her? She slid her gaze to Simon. What would his reaction be?

“What does the job entail?” Simon asked.

“Planning monthly youth activities mostly, and chaperoning them, of course.”

“Is there a budget?” Skye asked.

“Not really. Mostly they fund-raise. For some of the activities we do charge a small fee, but that’s waived if a family can’t afford it.”

Skye and Simon turned to each other. Both gave slight shrugs. Simon answered, “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

Skye nodded in agreement. How hard could it be? “Sure, we’ll formulate a plan, then get back to you.” She convinced herself that the chance of seeing Simon on a regular basis had nothing to do with her acceptance.

Father Burns thanked them and escorted them out of the rectory. They parted at the end of the sidewalk with a promise to get together in a couple of days and talk.

The church was located on the corner of Stebler and Basin. Simon headed toward the parking lot and Skye toward the street.

At the bench on the corner, Skye sat and exchanged her sandals for the Keds she had stuffed into her purse. She held her breath as Simon drove by in his Lexus. She squinted to read his bumper sticker: LOTTERY: A TAX ON PEOPLE WHO ARE BAD AT MATH. Typical of Simon’s dry sense of humor.

Skye sighed. He hadn’t even offered her a ride. Of course, he didn’t know she was without a car. Giving herself a mental shake, she bounced to her feet. She didn’t need a ride or anything else from anybody. It was less than a mile to her cottage, and a beautiful day to walk.

As Skye neared her house, she noticed several cars parked in the driveway. She recognized her parents’ white Oldsmobile, her brother’s Jeep, and Charlie’s Caddy, but the glimpses of aqua worried her.

Her father, Jed, greeted her enthusiastically and took her right arm. “Skye, we’ve got a surprise for you,” he exclaimed.

He was much more animated than she could ever remember seeing him. His deeply tanned faced was wrinkled with a smile, and his faded brown eyes were twinkling. Even his gray crew cut seemed to be standing at attention.

“Oh, today is full of surprises,” Skye remarked dryly, and tried to edge closer to whatever her family was trying to hide from her. A tarp covered most of the object, but she was afraid she knew what it was. They had gone against her wishes and bought her a car. The only question that remained was: What kind of vehicle had they purchased? The thought of what their collective minds would come up with made Skye shudder.

May took her place on Skye’s left. “Close your eyes.”

Skye was way ahead of her mother’s orders. The problem was: Could she bring herself to ever open them again?

Vince stood behind her and whispered in her ear, “It’s not as bad as it might seem at first.”

Skye heard the tarp being pulled off as Charlie yelled, “Ta-dah!”

She forced herself to look. Her mouth dropped open and little sounds came out, but no words. The car was bigger than Charlie’s Cadillac, painted a bright turquoise, and . . . and it had fins. She moaned.

Charlie took her hand and led her toward the vehicle. “I’ll bet you don’t know what a gem me and your daddy found for you.”

Skye shook her head, unable to produce a coherent utterance.

Jed declared, “This is a genuine 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.”

When Skye still didn’t respond, May poked her in the side. “Your father has been working on this car for you since December. It was a wreck when Charlie discovered it in old man Gar’s barn.”

“I knew what a beauty was hidden beneath the rust and rags,” Charlie said, using his sleeve to wipe a smudge off the hood.

Jed relinquished his grip on Skye’s arm and popped open the hood. “See that? Everything’s like new. This’ll run forever. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

Skye peered at the engine. It was clean enough to eat from. She looked at Vince with raised brows. He shrugged and leaned against his Jeep.

“Here, sit behind the wheel.” Charlie opened the driver’s door, and May shoved Skye inside.

“Wow,” Skye finally managed to say. “This leather is so soft.” The front bench was mostly white with broad aqua stripes running down both edges, a double band down the middle. The seat was wide and comfortable.

“Take it for a spin,” Charlie urged, handing her the keys.

“It’s really big and bright. People will talk.”

Charlie stuck his thumbs in his red suspenders and puffed out his chest. “If you ain’t makin’ waves, you ain’t kickin’ hard enough.”

“Ah, well.” Skye located the ignition and slid the key in the slot. “Vince, why don’t you come with me?”

He grinned. “Sure.”

Skye handed Charlie her house keys. “You guys go in and have some coffee or something. We’ll be right back.”

The car was so big that it took her a while to get used to driving it, and instead of talking she concentrated on keeping it between the lines of the road. When she reached a straight stretch, she said, “How in the world did they come up with this? And why didn’t you warn me?”

Vince laughed. “They’re getting too smart. They didn’t tell me until this morning. Mom and Dad came over after eight o’clock Mass. They know you always go at ten.” He put his arm across the back of the seat. “Mom was driving their car, and Dad had this one. They told me to meet them at your place at eleven. Charlie was already there when I arrived.”

“What am I going to do?” Skye searched for a place to turn the huge car around.

“What
can
you do? They’d be crushed if you turned it down.”

Skye pounded the wheel and almost ran the Bel Air into the ditch. “But I want to pick out my own car. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never chosen my own vehicle.”

“So?” Vince was not as into independence as Skye was. He was happy to have Jed mow the lawn in front of his shop once a week, and he was thrilled that May brought him lunch every day.

“It’s not right that they spend so much of their money on us,” Skye said. As they drove down Basin Street, people waved at them as if they were royalty.

Vince had perfected the princely motion and was waving back. “Hey, we get it all when they die anyway. At least when they give us presents, they get to share our pleasure.”

Skye narrowed her eyes. They were almost back at her cottage. “What do you get out of all this?” Vince was too eager for her to accept this gift. He had to have an ulterior motive. Besides, their parents would never spend this kind of money on her without also getting Vince something nearly as valuable.

Vince looked straight ahead. “They promised me a new set of drums.”

“I thought you quit playing in high school.”

“I always kept a set to mess around on, but these are the best you can buy.”

Skye turned the Chevrolet into her drive, and cut the ignition. “It’s not like they wouldn’t buy you the drums if I turned down this car.”

Vince hopped out and headed inside. “That’s not the point. The point is, how can you say to Dad, ‘Sorry, I don’t want the gift you worked four months restoring’? And how can you say to Charlie, ‘I don’t want the car you found for me.’ He gave old man Gar’s son the secret location of his favorite fishing spot to get this car for you.”

Skye pursed her lips. “This is my new car, isn’t it?”

Vince nodded as he opened the cottage door for her.

She turned and took another look at the Bel Air. “Well, I always wanted a convertible.”

 

Monday morning brought the April showers made famous in the poem. Skye scowled into her closet. What to wear, what to wear—the age-old question that haunted women of every age, shape, and profession.

She felt in the mood for black, but would that be fair to the kids? Pastels were out in this weather. The sage-green outfit she’d bought last spring on sale at T.J. Maxx would be perfect.

After feeding Bingo and herself breakfast, Skye donned her tan trench coat, grabbed her purse, and ran for the Bel Air. It was nice to have her own transportation again. And she felt better now that she had convinced her folks and Charlie to accept the check from the insurance company, when it came.

Still, this was hardly the Miata she had pictured herself buzzing around town in. She just hoped the roof would stay up. It had a tendency to fall down whenever she hit a bump, and the only way to raise it again was to pull over and tug on it by hand.

The elementary school was already humming when she arrived. Teachers were discussing the weather and whether they should plan to have recess inside or outside today. The kids were talking about their weekends. And the phone was ringing with parents calling to ask questions they could have answered for themselves if they read the weekly newsletter.

Skye signed in unnoticed, grabbed the messages from her box, and headed toward her office. Since she had lasted a second year in the job, the elementary school had been forced to ante up the space they had promised her when she was first hired.

It had been given grudgingly, was not much bigger than a voting booth, and outside the door, in the hallway, was the milk cooler that had occupied that room before Skye’s tenancy. It rattled and shrieked, scaring many of the kids Skye was trying to work with. But, she was quick to remind herself, at least she had a private office all to herself—except on Tuesday and Thursday mornings when the speech therapist used it.

Skye hung her coat behind the door, celebrating another small victory. It had taken months to hound the custodian into putting up that hook. She stowed her purse in the desk drawer and opened her appointment book. Her morning schedule included observing a first grader, therapy sessions with two second graders, and testing a kindergartner.

She grabbed the first grader’s file and made her way to the classroom. Twenty minutes later, she was noting the number of times the child had left his seat without permission when there was a knock on the classroom door. It was Fern Otte, the secretary, who motioned to Skye.

Grabbing her pad and pencil, Skye left the room as unobtrusively as possible. Several kids whispered good-bye and waved to her, undoing her effort.

As soon as the classroom door closed behind Skye, Fern whispered, “Hurry, there’s a problem in Mrs. Kennedy’s room.”

“What’s wrong?” Skye followed the secretary.

“I can’t explain. Hurry.”

Caroline Greer greeted Skye at the door. “Another crisis, I’m afraid,” she said.

The third-grade classroom was in an uproar. Most of the kids were seated, but the noise level would have registered well above “acid-rock band” on the meter.

Skye frowned. Caroline was a great principal. Two emergencies in one year, let alone within days of each other, were unheard of for her.

“Give me the big picture first,” Skye requested.

“Shauna”—Caroline pointed to a little girl standing by the teacher—“had a disagreement with Cassie over a dance recital they’re both in next weekend.”

“And?” Skye waited for the other shoe to drop.

Caroline motioned for the teacher to join them. “Mrs. Kennedy, please give Ms. Denison the details.”

“Cassie sits in front of Shauna. I was at the blackboard writing out math problems when I heard the girls start to argue. I shushed them.”

“Then what happened?” Skye asked, worried because she didn’t see the other girl anywhere.

“I turned back to the board, and all of a sudden I heard a scream.” The older woman grabbed a piece of paper and fanned herself. “I turned around, and Shauna was holding a huge pair of scissors in one hand and Cassie’s hacked-off braid in the other.”

“Oh, my.” Skye hadn’t seen that coming. “Where’s Cassie?”

“In the bathroom with my student teacher. She refuses to come out.” Mrs. Kennedy paused. “Cassie, that is, not the student teacher.”

“I’d better talk to Shauna first.”