Murder of a Creped Suzette

CHAPTER 15

“A Boy Named Sue”

Half 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.”

Skye blew out a breath. “I need to stop letting my imagination get the better of me, and seeing crises around every corner.”

“Don’t we all,” Noreen agreed. “So, were you coming to see me about something?”

“Yes.” Skye tipped her head toward a small table. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” Noreen led the way and took a seat. “But I need to grade papers for my next class while we talk.”

“I won’t keep you long.” Skye sat down. “We’re getting a new student who wants music on his schedule as his elective course.”

“Oh?” Noreen raised a brow. “So where does the school psychologist fit into that picture?”

Skye explained about Woodrow’s special circumstances, ending with, “Which means we don’t know yet exactly what he’ll require, but at a minimum he’ll have a teacher assistant with him at all times.”

“Then everything should be fine.” Noreen reached for a stack of papers. “I’m sure his aide will know what to do, and I’ll be happy to make any accommodations or modifications suggested.”

“That’s great.” Skye relaxed. “Thanks.” Some teachers were more comfortable than others with students who had special needs.

“I learned to be flexible during my student teaching.” Noreen smiled fondly. “One of the first lessons Quentin Neal taught me was that music teachers eventually have every kid in the school in their class, and we’d better be able to handle all types.”

“It sounds as if he was a terrific trainer.” Skye couldn’t believe her luck; Quentin was exactly who she really wanted to talk about.

Noreen nodded, then asked, “Have you heard anything more about his daughter’s death?”

“Not much so far, but the police and I are working on it,” Skye said, taking out her notepad. “Maybe you can help us out a little. Would you mind answering some questions about the Neals?”

“Sure.” Noreen picked up a red pen. “But I don’t remember much.”

“Anything you can tell me would be helpful,” Skye assured her. “Do you remember where the Neals lived?”

“Hmm.” Noreen closed her eyes. “They rented a house on that street behind where the McDonald’s is now. Singer Lane. I remember thinking how appropriate the name was.”

Skye made a note. “Did Mrs. Neal work outside the home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How, uh, was . . .” Skye wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. “Did you ever hear anything about Mr. and Mrs. Neal’s marriage?”

“Well . . .” Noreen hesitated, clearly deciding whether to tell Skye what she knew. “Quentin put in a lot of hours directing the Catholic Church choir, and Paulette was a little unhappy with that, but no, nothing else.”

“Can you think of any friends or relatives of the Neals who might have more information?”

“No. He didn’t talk much about his personal life.” Noreen uncapped her pen. “And they hadn’t been here very long. You know it takes a while for native Scumble Riverites to warm up to newcomers.”

“True.” Skye searched for something more to ask. “Was anyone who’s currently on staff here around the year Quentin was teaching?”

“Hmm.” Noreen chewed the top of her pen. “Homer and Pru are the only ones I can think of who have been here that long.”

“Great.” The two people Skye most didn’t want to have to question.

“I wish I knew more.”

“The biggest obstacle so far is that we can’t locate a next of kin.”

“That’s terrible.” Noreen made a sad clucking sound with her tongue. “I remember Quentin mentioning that both he and his wife didn’t have any siblings.”

“Darn! That means Suzette didn’t have any aunts or uncles or even first cousins.”

“Yeah.” Noreen pulled a quiz from the stack, read a line, then put a red check by number one. “That was why Quentin and Paulette were so happy they’d had twins. They didn’t want to risk raising an only child.”

“Suzette had a sister?” Skye’s voice rose and she nearly smacked the music teacher. Why hadn’t Noreen mentioned that fact in the first place?

“A brother,” Noreen corrected. “They were fraternal twins.”

“What was his name?” Skye demanded.

“I don’t remember.” Noreen squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Quentin always just called him the boy.”

“I wonder why there’s no record of him in her life,” Skye mused out loud, then thought to herself, And why didn’t Suzette mention him when she asked me for help?

“I have no idea.” Noreen frowned. “After Paulette died and Quentin moved away, I never heard from him again. I don’t think he wanted any reminders of Scumble River.”