Murder of a Bookstore Babe

CHAPTER 11

The Sun Also Rises

Grateful to be finally alone, Skye slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and crawled into bed. Wally had still been at the station when she’d called to share Xenia’s information, and he’d asked her to accompany the girl to the PD.

While Skye and Xenia were driving into town, Wally had contacted Risé and Orlando and asked about the security cameras. Risé told him that they were hooked up to a recording device in the store’s back room. She claimed that she had forgotten about them in all the shock and confusion.

While Wally was interviewing Xenia, he sent an officer to retrieve the security recordings. Once Wally had finished questioning Xenia, he and Skye viewed the footage. Someone had double-parked outside the store at eight thirty Saturday night. Unfortunately, the image was fuzzy, and the vehicle was an unrecognizable dark blur. Wally had had to send the recording to the crime lab in Laurel to see whether the techs there could enhance the image.

By the time all the loose ends had been tied up and Wally had driven Skye home, it was past midnight and she was exhausted. Not only had it been a long, stressful day, but it was way past her usual ten o’clock bedtime.

So why wasn’t she in dreamland? Skye lay on her side, watching the red digital numbers of her clock radio change as the minutes went by. Maybe she should have gone home with Wally. At least missing sleep while in his bed had other benefits. But he had been even more worn-out than she was, and since she had an early meeting at school the next day, she hadn’t wanted to disturb him at five a.m. when she got up.

Sighing, she flipped over onto her back, laced her fingers behind her head, and stared at the ceiling. The problem with this case was that they weren’t sure what the intended crime had been. Was it a burglary gone bad, or had the criminal been intent on murder? And if that was the case, who was the intended victim? Charlie seemed certain that if anyone had given someone a motive for murder, it had been Risé.

Monday, as Skye pulled into the high school parking lot, a red Hummer roared past her and squealed to a stop in the no-parking zone at the front entrance. The driver hopped out of the vehicle and hurried to the door, where he repeatedly jabbed the intercom button. All schools were kept tightly locked down since 9/11. Too bad the only people inconvenienced were the staff and the parents, as evidenced by the unending spate of school violence. The bad guys got inside no matter what precautions were taken.

The Hummer driver looked somewhat familiar. Who would be there more than an hour before classes started? Oh, yeah. Now she remembered. He was the magazine sales rep. Scumble River High had decided to sell magazines for its annual December fund-raiser. She wondered how many subscriptions the kids would talk her into buying.

As she got out of the car, a warm breeze blew across her face, and she smiled. It had been a nice fall so far. The temps had been in the high seventies, with lots of sunshine and no sign of an early winter. She crossed her fingers that the weather would continue to be warmer than usual and that it would snow only a couple of inches on Christmas Eve and melt completely away by New Year’s Day.

After pushing her windblown hair out of her eyes, she grabbed her purse and tote bag, then strode across the asphalt and used her key to get inside. Homer Knapik, the high school principal, was standing in the school’s foyer, his gaze fastened on the door. He was squarely built with an excess of body hair and a permanent frown. He reminded Skye of Bigfoot with a bunion.

As soon as he caught sight of Skye, he boomed, “You. In my office immediately!”

Yikes! What did Homer want? Skye followed the principal past the front counter, down a dark narrow hall, and into his lair.

He shut the door and marched over to the coffee machine on the credenza beneath the window. Homer had been the principal at the high school for as long as most people could remember. In fact, he’d been there when Skye was a student, which made the whole colleague/ equal-footing relationship a bit hard to pull off.

For the last couple of years Homer had been threatening to retire, but much to the disappointment of his staff, those had been empty promises. The teachers were convinced that even if Homer died, the board would just stuff and mount him in the chair behind his desk. If that happened, Skye was pretty sure no one would be able to tell the difference, at least as far as the running of the school went.

Without turning around, Homer barked, “I heard you found another stiff.”

“That stiff, as you so eloquently put it, was one of our students not too long ago”—Skye’s voice was rebuking—“so I’d appreciate it if you referred to her in a respectful manner.” Skye wasn’t good at standing up for herself, but she didn’t let anyone denigrate the kids, even after they were dead.

“Don’t take that holier-than-thou tone with me.” Homer faced her, holding a steaming cup. “When you’ve been around here as long as I have, see if you’re still so protective of the little brats.”

Skye paused. Changing Homer’s mind was probably impossible, but she’d keep after him about how he treated the students.

Her lack of response seemed to irritate him, and he moved on to another complaint. “What are you, some kind of pied piper for the dead? When you walk through a cemetery, do the corpses rise up and follow you?”

“Are you nuts?” Skye was beginning to worry about Homer’s sanity. “No one outside of a horror novel can do that.”

“Everything I say can be entirely validated by my own opinion.”

Skye kept her expression neutral. There was no way to respond to a statement like that. Heck, she wasn’t even sure what he’d actually said.

“What do they call your affliction, anyway?” the principal jabbed at Skye.

“I’d tell you, Homer, but it’s too hard for you to pronounce. And you don’t have to worry. Someone like you certainly can’t catch it.”

“Are you being smart with me?” He slammed his cup down on the desktop, hot liquid sloshing over the sides.

“Of course not.” Skye barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

“I’ve told you before”—Homer’s tone was that of a salesman speaking to an unreasonable customer—“I want you to quit finding corpses.”

“Okay.” They’d had this conversation before, and it never ended well. It was hard to defend yourself against an accusation you were afraid might be true. “I’ll put that on my to-do list.”

“That’s what you said last time.” The hair growing out of his nose bristled. “But you did it again.”

“And how do you suggest I carry out your order?” Skye was trying to remain calm, but he was starting to seriously tick her off. Did he think she got a bounty for every victim she found?

“Staying out of police investigations would be a good start.” Homer’s face turned a mottled red. “Quit poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You are aware that I was hired to consult for the police department?” Skye knew he was, because although her school contract allowed her to moonlight, it stipulated that she inform the principals and the school board, which she’d done.

“Everyone knows the only reason you got that gig was because the chief was hot for you.” Homer plunked into his chair, which groaned in protest. “Now that you’re engaged to him, give the man a break and stop interfering.”

“I do not interfere.” Skye refused to let someone who resembled a Yeti disparage the assistance she provided the police. “I help.”

Homer snorted. “Quit finding dead bodies. Quit finding murderers. Quit bugging the crap out of me.” Homer pointed a hairy finger at her. “Do what we pay you for.”

“What are you talking about?” Skye always got her work finished, even when it meant staying late and taking reports home to finish. “What haven’t I done?”

“Straightened out Pru Cormorant.” Homer pretended to search for something in a drawer, not looking at Skye when he muttered, “She’s gone a little off.”

“So, what’s new?” Skye retorted. “She’s been past her sell-by date for years.”

The English teacher had been at Scumble River High for as long as Homer had and was a law unto herself. Every once in a while she did something so atrocious that Homer was forced to take some action, like the time she wrote on a report card, Since our last conference, your child has reached rock bottom and started to dig.

Unfortunately, Homer usually delegated the task of doing something about Pru to Skye. This was the beginning of Skye’s sixth year at Scumble River High and at least the third time Homer had ordered her to “fix” Pru.

“She’s got her panties in a bunch over that new bookshop.” Homer pushed a clipboard across his desktop to Skye. “She wants the whole school to sign this petition and boycott the store.” He turned his back. “You’ve got to get her under control.”

Skye cringed. “That isn’t my job. It’s yours.”

Homer ignored Skye and continued, “Worse yet, she’s already sent petitions home to some parents. I’ve been getting calls all weekend asking if what Corny is saying is true and wanting to know what the school is doing about this matter.”

“I discussed this with her last Friday.” Skye pushed the clipboard back toward Homer. “There’s absolutely no merit to her accusation that the bookstore is selling porn or books advocating devil worship.”

“And this was all before that girl was killed in the break-in.” Homer’s two oversize front teeth gnawed on his bottom lip. “I hear now Corny is claiming the wild animals they keep as pets are really the reason for the murder. Which doesn’t even make sense.”

“Holy moly.” And Skye had thought nothing Pru did could surprise her. “That’s ridiculous. The ‘wild animals’ are chinchillas, and they didn’t get loose. She, or one of her minions, let them loose.”

Oops! She had forgotten to tell Wally about that episode, as well as what Charlie had said about Risé. She’d have to call him as soon as she was out of her meeting.

“I don’t give a damn.” Homer swept his desktop with his arm, sending the offending clipboard along with various other items, flying to the floor. “Just make Corny stop, so the parents quit calling me about this shit.”

“Why don’t you order her to stop?” Skye made a scornful noise and answered her own question. “Oh, yeah, she’s tenured, so you can’t, because you don’t have much to hold over her head, right?”

“So what?” he snapped. “It’s your job to convince her to quit being a pain in my crack. You’re the shrink. Counsel her about her evil ways.”

“Right.” He’d tried using that tack before. “The fact that you blatantly don’t believe in all that ‘psychobabble,’ as you put it, makes it pretty obvious your real motive is to pass the buck.”

“Have it your way.” Homer folded his hands across his paunch and leaned back. “Do it because I’m ordering you to, and because, unlike that lunatic English teacher, you do not have tenure.”

Skye opened her mouth to protest but closed it without speaking. He was right. Since she was considered a part of neither the teaching faculty nor the administration, she had none of the protections most of the staff enjoyed. She’d tried to join the union, as many of her fellow school psychologists in other school systems had, but so far the matter was still being considered.

“Any suggestion on how I can prevent Pru from acting within her constitutional rights?” Skye asked. Not that she didn’t want the teacher to cease and desist harassing the bookstore, but she had no idea how to make her stop.

“Nope.” Homer scratched behind a hairy ear.

Skye wondered whether she should get him a flea collar for Christmas this year.

“Just don’t mention I told you to do it.” Homer pointed his finger at her.

The ringing of the phone saved Skye from responding.

Homer snatched up the handset. “Yes?” He paused, then said, “No. No. Tell him I’m not here. . . . Hello, Shamus. What can I do for you?”

Skye flinched, hoping this call wasn’t about her. Dr. Shamus Wraige was the superintendent of the Scumble River School District, and not one of Skye’s biggest fans.

She unashamedly eavesdropped and heard Homer say, “No, I didn’t sanction that petition.” He listened, then whined, “Pru Cormorant sent it to her students’ parents without telling me.” He listened again before bleating, “I do have control of my staff. In fact, I just asked our psychologist to talk to Mrs. Cormorant about her concerns and suggest she not involve the school in her personal issues.” After a long pause, he said, “Ms. Denison assures me there is no merit to Mrs. Cormorant’s fears. Yes, sir. She’ll take care of it today.” He banged down the receiver and told Skye, “Dr. Wraige does not want to get one more call about this matter.” Homer dug a roll of antacids out of his desk drawer.

“And you told him I could stop Pru?”

“Yes, so hop to it.” Homer threw a handful of Tums into his mouth.

The white fizz around his lips made him look like a wolf with rabies. Normally Skye might have found that amusing. Not now. Not considering that he had just offered her up to the superintendent as a sacrificial lamb.

“You know”—Homer suddenly froze, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead—“if Corny finds out I told you to stop her, she’ll hound me to hell and back.”

“I promise not to mention your name.”

“You’d better not,” Homer warned, then threw two more antacids into his mouth. “Because if that happens, I’m making you twice as miserable as she makes me.”

“I’ll do what I can, but truly, I have no idea how to get her to quit.”

Homer appeared to make a sudden decision. “I’ve got to make a call.” He picked up the phone. “You can go now.”

As she was gathering her things, Skye heard part of Homer’s conversation. “It’s me. I’ve decided we should go to the cabin this afternoon. Start packing now. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. I’ll call in sick for the rest of the week.”

Apparently, Homer wasn’t taking any chances that Pru Cormorant would turn her attentions to him.

He looked up from the file he had opened. “Are you still here? I thought you had an appointment at seven fifteen.” He looked pointedly at the clock on the wall behind her. “You’re late.”

Great! Skye yanked open the door and dashed out of the office. As she jogged down the hall toward the library, where the meeting was being held, she ran through Homer’s list of commands: Stop finding bodies, stop finding murderers, and stop Pru Cormorant from riling up parents against the bookstore. Nope. She had as much chance of doing any of them as she had of winning a million dollars.