Murder of a Small-Town Honey (12 page)

“Nothing about money or the child. Interesting.” Skye jotted down a note on her pad. “Where were you when she was killed?”

“Home, alone, getting ready to pick up Abby for the parade.”

“Did anyone come to the door or call you on the telephone?”

“No. I picked up Abby about twelve-thirty. Since we were going to watch the parade from the roof of the salon, and it wasn’t supposed to start until one, we didn’t need to get here early in order to get a good spot.” The sound of the front door opening distracted Vince momentarily.

“From the questions the coroner was asking me,” Skye said, “they seem to think she was killed shortly before I found her, which would be around eleven-thirty. Plenty of time for you to stab her, go home, shower, and pick up Abby looking fresh and clean.”

“Whoa, I thought you said you believed me.”

Skye snapped her notebook closed and tucked it back into her tote before standing. “I do, but it’s obvious that the police don’t.”

Money Makes the World Go ’Round

When Skye arrived at the high school on Wednesday morning, she was determined to force the principal, Homer Knapik, to give her some direction. Also, she had several questions regarding scheduling and procedures about which she needed to pin him down. Without his input there was literally nothing she could do for the high school. She didn’t know what day or time the PPS meetings were held, or even how often.

Homer was not in his office, but his secretary, Opal Hill, reported that he could probably be found in the library. The school’s first IBM computer had arrived late yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Knapik was still in the process of installing and testing it.

Skye walked down the east hall of the high school, astonished at how little it had changed during the time she’d been gone. The beat-up yellow lockers and shabby lime carpet were just as she remembered. Even the faint odor of sweat, hormones, and chalk dust was the same.

The library was located in the center of the building, accessible by either the east or the west halls. Homer was hunched over a stand that held computer components and several open manuals. Skye pulled up a chair from an adjacent table and sat down.

He did not look up until she spoke. “Homer, I need to talk to you, and I need to see the confidential files so I can get started with re-evals and find out who is supposed to be receiving counseling.”

It was very hard for Skye not to address him as “Mr. Knapik”; after all, he had been the principal at Scumble River High School for twenty-five years, which included the time she was a student there.

Frowning, he looked up. “Oh, Skye. I told you I didn’t want to disturb anything while Neva Llewellyn was away having her baby.”

“I understand your hesitation, Homer, but I can’t do my job without those folders. And I have as much right to have access to those files as the guidance counselor does.”

Homer reluctantly dug in his pocket and retrieved a large set of keys, attached to a key fob that resembled a jailer’s ring. He selected two keys and handed the set to Skye. “Here, the big one is for the door and the little one is for the filing cabinets. Don’t take the files out of the guidance office, and put them back like you found them.”

“Sure. She’ll never know I was there,” Skye said brightly.

He shook his head mournfully. “She’ll know and she’ll chew my butt for it.” Turning back to the table, he selected a manual and paged through it, wrinkling his forehead in concentration.

Skye persisted, trying to recapture his attention. “When are your PPS meetings scheduled, and are there any other meetings you want me to attend?”

“We only have faculty meetings. The secretary can give you the dates for those, but you don’t have to come.” Homer didn’t take his eyes from the page he was reading.

“You mean you don’t meet regularly with the psychologist, social worker, nurse . . .”

“We don’t need that here. Anyone gives us any trouble, we kick ’em out. They can’t keep up in class, we flunk ’em.”

“How about the kids who come to you with an Individual Education Plan in place? We’re legally obligated to provide whatever assistance that IEP prescribes,” Skye pointed out.

Losing his patience, Homer slammed the book shut. “I told you, Neva takes care of all that.”

Skye got up, clutching the keys, afraid he would change his mind and demand them back. Still, she felt obligated to try once more. “So, you never have PPS meetings or staffings or anything like that?”

“Look, if it’s really important to you, talk to Neva when she gets back. You two can set things up, but I am not going to any more meetings.” Homer turned his back and reached again for the manual.

Having won a small battle in what she was just beginning to suspect might turn into a full-fledged war, Skye hurried toward the guidance office.

It was cool and pleasant—since it was in one of the newer additions to the high school, it was air-conditioned. Although the room was dark, Skye didn’t turn on the overhead light; instead she switched on the desk lamp. She noticed one file cabinet after another lining the walls, the drawers labeled with various years. It looked as if all the records since Scumble River High was first opened were stored in this room.

Skye unlocked the drawer identified with the most recent year and inspected its contents. She gathered up a pile of the most promising-looking files, hoping they were confidential special education records that contained Individual Education Plans, and not just cumulative folders containing report cards and group achievement tests.

She sat down behind the desk. The chair was wonderfully comfortable, deep and enveloping, the soft black leather aged and shaped to perfection. She sighed with pleasure at the unexpected physical comfort and started to work.

First she wrote down the name of the student on her legal pad. In the next column she listed the date on which he or she needed to receive a three-year reevaluation. Finally, after reading the IEP, which usually consisted of fifteen or more pages, Skye determined whether that child was supposed to be receiving counseling. Later she would have to go back and read the most recent psychological evaluation report on each student who was enrolled in the special education program.

Several hours went by, and Skye was about to stop for lunch when she heard a tentative tapping on the frosted-glass window of the door.

Opening it, she found the secretary standing there, twitching. “Were you looking for me, Opal?”

Opal nodded. “Oh, my goodness, yes. Mr. Knapik is out of the building and the police are here.”

A sudden wave of nausea left Skye unable to think clearly.
It must be about Vince.

“Are you all right? You’re pale as milk.” Opal looked at her curiously.

Skye took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I must have gotten up too fast or my blood sugar’s low. It’s getting close to lunchtime.”

“Could you talk to the police first? With Mrs. Llewellyn gone and Mr. Knapik out of the building, I’m not sure what I should do. Should I call the superintendent?” Opal asked with a touch of panic.

Shaking her head, Skye almost pushed Opal out of the room. “Why don’t you ask the police to come in here where we can have some privacy? Give me a minute to put these folders back.”

In the few moments it took Skye to tidy up the files and lock them away, she realized how foolish she was to think the police would come to tell her they’d rearrested Vince. The chief had been ready to put Skye in jail Monday night when he found out she was the one responsible for May’s behavior and Loretta Steiner’s presence. After that incident, Skye would be the last person on Earth the police would notify.

Opal ushered Deputy McCabe and a Scumble River officer whom Skye didn’t know into the office. Opal left, closing the door behind her. Both men stood in front of the desk and looked down at Skye.

“I’m Skye Denison, the district psychologist.”

“I’m Deputy McCabe. You remember me from the murder last Sunday?” When she nodded he continued, “This is Officer Roy Quirk. What can you tell us about a girl named Phoebe Unger?”

“Nothing. I’m brand-new here, and I’ve never heard of her.” She indicated chairs. “Please sit. What kind of information are you looking for?”

They sat, the leather of the utility belts around their waists creaking.

Quirk settled back and crossed his legs. “We’d like to know who she hangs out with, who her boyfriend is, what the school’s impression of her is.”

Skye nodded. “I’m sure we can get that information for you. It’s not confidential. But Mr. Knapik, the principal, will want to know why you’re so interested in Phoebe.”

“That’s official police business. There’s no need for you to know, little lady.” McCabe rubbed a smudge from the toe of his perfectly polished shoe.

Leaning forward, Skye made eye contact with each man in turn. “I certainly understand your need to keep things quiet in an ongoing investigation. And that it isn’t always an easy task in a town this size. But you must understand that we need to know what you think she’s done. If her actions make her a danger to our other students, we must be informed.”

“We’ve had an anonymous informant tell us that her boyfriend, who does not go to school here, may be involved in a series of arson-style fires.” Quirk straightened the crease of his pants.

McCabe glared at him.

“I see. So, at this time she does not appear to be a danger to herself or others. Correct?” Skye looked from one man to the other.

Both men nodded.

“Fine. Then I’ll talk to Mr. Knapik when he gets back. With his permission, I’ll speak to her teachers and try to get the information you need.”

Quirk handed her his card. “Call me as soon as possible.”

 

When school ended that day, Skye drove straight to the Scumble River Police Department. She was going to be a good citizen and deliver the information about Phoebe Unger to Officer Quirk in person. If, while she was there, she happened to chat with Chief Boyd about Honey Adair’s murder, who would she be hurting?

Walking up to the counter, she raised her voice. “Hi, Thea. How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Thea Jones, one of Scumble River’s longtime dispatchers, opened the gate and motioned Skye through, then gave her a hug. “Skye, honey, how you doin’? I’m sure sorry for the trouble your family’s havin’.”

Skye hugged her back. “Me, too. I hope Chief Boyd finds the real killer soon. It’s just silly to think of Vince as a murderer.”

“Ain’t that right?” Thea sat back down. “Sometimes these men around here don’t think too good. None of us dispatchers think he done it.”

Leaning over, Skye kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. I have some information on another case for Officer Quirk. Is he available?”

“Yep. He’s in with the chief. I’ll let ’em know you’re here.”

Following a short conversation on the intercom, Thea turned to Skye. “Go right into the chief’s office, honey. They both want to hear what you got to say.”

Smiling to herself, Skye thought,
How convenient. I won’t even have to ask to see Chief Boyd.

He was standing on the threshold. When Skye approached, he motioned her inside and closed the door. Office Quirk was in one chair, and Skye took the other visitor’s seat.

A faint smell of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Skye looked around but didn’t see any ashtrays, so she suspected the odor was from before Chief Boyd’s time. His office was small and windowless, its gray walls lined with file cabinets and bookshelves. Linoleum that might have been blue when it was first put down but now looked silvery covered the floor. Shrouding the top of the chief’s desk were papers of every shape and color. His chair was cracked green vinyl.

Chief Boyd sat on the edge of his desk, pushing a stack of manila files out of his way. “So, Skye, what can you tell us about Phoebe Unger?”

“Well, she certainly talks tough. No one knows if she carries out her threats, but if anyone crosses her or she thinks anyone has crossed her, she wants revenge.”

Roy Quirk asked, “Can you be more specific?”

“I talked to a couple of girls she used to be friendly with last year. They seemed genuinely afraid of her—and it takes a lot to scare a teenager.”

“Did they say why?” Chief Boyd looked up from the file he had been sifting through.

“This boyfriend you’re investigating tried to break up with her last year. Phoebe was furious and vowed to get him back. She found out who his new girlfriend was, waited until they were out on a date, and trashed the girl’s car.”

“Why didn’t she report it to the police?” demanded Roy.

“Was there any proof Phoebe did it?” asked the chief.

“It wasn’t reported to the police because the girl was terrified. She refused to have anything more to do with Phoebe’s ex-boyfriend. As to proof, yes, I’d say they had proof.”

“You sound pretty sure. What kind of evidence did they have?” The Chief made a note in the file.

“Phoebe didn’t give the boyfriend back his school jacket when he broke up with her. When they found the car, there was a dummy behind the wheel, wearing what was left of the jacket. It was stabbed through the chest with a butcher knife.”

Both men looked at each other. Roy got up, excused himself, and left the office.

“Why do I think you guys are really after Phoebe and not the boyfriend?” Skye asked, trying to get comfortable on the hard chair.

“You don’t want to know.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to, but if the other kids are in danger I need to.”

Chief Boyd moved from behind his desk to the chair next to Skye. He took her hand. “Do you trust me, Skye?”

She was having trouble keeping her breathing even. His tone had changed from official to intimate. “Yes, I . . . I guess so.” Part of her wanted to jerk her fingers away, but another part of her remembered that summer when she was fifteen.