Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

Praise for Denise Swanson’s Scumble River mystery series

“It’s no mystery why the first Scumble River novel was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award. Denise Swanson knows small-town America, its secrets, and its self-delusions, and she writes as if she might have been hiding behind a tree when some of the bodies were being buried. A delightful new series.”

—Margaret Maron

Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

“Skye is a quixotic blend of vulnerability and strength. . . . Denise Swanson is on her way to the top of the genre. . . . A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

—Harriet Klausner

“Superbly written with emotion and everything a good mystery needs. . . . Shame on you if you miss anything by Denise Swanson.”

—The Bookshelf

“Swanson’s writing itself is fresh and snappy. The dialogue and descriptions pop like a July firecracker. . . . Skye Denison [is] one of the most likable protagonists in softer-boiled mystery fiction today. Murder of a Sweet Old Lady is more fun than the Whirl-A-Gig at the county fair and tastier than a corn dog. The price of admission is well worth the trip.”

—Susan McBride, The Charlotte Austin Review

Murder of a Small-Town Honey

“A charming, insightful debut mystery.”

—Carolyn Hart

“A delightful mystery that bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns.”

—Earlene Fowler, Edgar Award-winning author

“Murder of a Small-Town Honey is the start of a bright new series. Swanson captures the essence of small-town life in Scumble River, and Skye is a likable heroine.”

—Romantic Times

“Denise Swanson has created a likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge. . . . A fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”

—The Charlotte Austin Review

“Skye is smart, feisty, quick to action, and altogether lovable.”

—I Love a Mystery

“A charming debut novel that rings with humor, buzzes with suspense, and engages with each page turned. . . . An impressive first novel worthy of praise.”

—Kankakee Daily Journal (IL)

“With a light touch, [Swanson’s] crafted a likable heroine in a wackily realistic small-town community with wonderful series potential. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of Denise Swanson and Scumble River.”

—Mystery Morgue

“A lighthearted, entertaining mystery.”

—The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

SIGNET

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

First Printing, April 2002

Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2002

All rights reserved

To my dad,

Ernest W. Swanson (1927-2000),

whose quiet goodness was

taken away from us much too soon.

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks to:

My aunt and uncle, Wilma and Al Votta, my cousins Darla and Ron Hutton, and the rest of my relatives and friends, who sustained my mother through her time of grief and helped ease her into widowhood.

My Windy City Chapter of RWA, a great group of writers.

My fellow Deadly Divas, especially Susan McBride, for all the companionship and advice. I could never have written this book while promoting my first one without you.

My Buds, for their unending support.

Luci Zahray, for her help with the pharmaceutical information.

My mother, Marie Swanson, who helped me continue despite our mutual grief.

And with love to my husband, Dave Stybr, whose devotion protects me from the slings and arrows.

CHAPTER 1

From Bad to Hearse

As a school psychologist Skye Denison had dealt with many recalcitrant teens, but Justin Boward would be the death of her yet. He refused to talk. She was beginning to think his entire vocabulary consisted of yes, no, and the occasional grunt. Although she knew that adolescents tended to be like cats—neither react when you talk to them—his lack of response to her attempts to draw him out was starting to make her feel like a failure. A feeling she was way too familiar with already.

Two years ago, Skye had been forced to crawl back to Scumble River, Illinois, after finding herself fired, jilted, and broke. It had been hard enough to return to the rural Midwestern town she had escaped as a teenager, but the citizens’ long memories had made it worse. Hardly a week went by without someone reminding Skye of what she had declared twelve years ago in her valedictorian speech. Back then, the moment the words had left her mouth, she’d regretted saying that Scumble River was full of small-minded people with even smaller intellects. She had regretted it even more since she’d moved back home.

She snuck a peek at her watch as she pushed a stray chestnut curl under her headband. Twenty-five minutes before the Scumble River High School dismissal bell would ring. Once again, she attempted to make eye contact with the teen seated kitty-corner from her at the small table. He ducked his head and studied his chewed fingernails. Justin had not spoken three words in the previous fifteen minutes. Skye searched for some pithy comment.

Before she could come up with one, a student she vaguely recognized flung the door open and stumbled inside. The girl bent over, trying to catch her breath, and spoke between gasps. “Sleeping Beauty is dead.”

“What?” Was this teen-speak for: Run, the cops are here? Was Skye supposed to answer: The gray wolf howls at midnight?

Skye’s gaze raked the adolescent, who was still hunched over, hands on her knees, standing just past the office threshold. She was dressed in low-riding wide-legged denims and a hooded belly top. Her bleached two-tone hair fell to the middle of her back, and her navel was pierced.

After a quick appraisal, Skye decided that the girl probably hung with either the Rebels or the Skanks. Of Scumble River High’s five or six cliques, these were the two roughest. And unlike the teacher-pleasing Cheerleaders, Jocks, and Nerds, they did not volunteer information to adults. What was this girl up to?

The adolescent finally straightened and grabbed Skye by the wrist. “Something abhorrent has happened. You have to come right now.” She tugged at Skye’s arm. “Hurry!”

Skye found herself half-running, half-dragged down the long hall. Orange lockers went by in a blur, and the smell of that day’s lunch caught in her throat.

The teen skidded to a halt before the closed gym doors and pointed. “In there.”

“Who are you, and what are you talking about?”

“This is just FYI. I’m out of here.” The girl tried to push past Skye and head back down the corridor.

Skye grabbed the hood of her top. “Oh no, you don’t. Explain.”

“Hey, Cujo, back in your cage.” The teen twisted violently, trying to free herself, then turned an anger-filled stare on Skye, who met her gaze without blinking. Finally, the girl shrugged. “So, okay, I cut my eighth-period study hall, and I was hanging around here and there, waiting until my buds got out of school. I wanted a cigarette, and knew there was no PE last hour, so I went in the gym. It was dark, but I thought I saw someone on the stage, so I went closer. That’s when I saw her. The cheerleader playing Sleeping Beauty. She was laying there, dead.”

The teen tried again to free herself. Skye refused to let go. “Oh no, you don’t, you’re staying with me. Let’s check this out. Sleeping Beauty was probably just rehearsing, or taking a nap.” Under her breath she muttered, “Or maybe she was afraid of you.”

Side by side they entered the unlit gym. As her eyes adjusted, Skye could just make out the stage at the opposite end of the room, cluttered with partially completed sets for the spring musical Sleeping Beauty. She moved forward, a firm grip on her prisoner’s hood. Half walls and skeletal trees loomed in the darkness. While they climbed the steps to the stage, Skye wondered if she were doing the right thing. She didn’t think the faculty handbook covered this situation.

To their right, a mock castle bedroom had been set up. Lying on the twin bed was one of the most beautiful young women Skye had ever seen. Her straight blond hair brushed the floor, and her face was a flawless oval. She had passed from the awkwardness of adolescence, and was yet to be touched by the hand of time. She was perfect.

Skye took a closer look. Her skin had a waxy appearance and was almost blue-gray in color. Her lips and nails were pale. Skye rushed to the bed and checked for a pulse. She could feel nothing over the thud of her own heartbeat. She put her ear to the girl’s chest. Again nothing. Finally, she placed the back of her hand to the teen’s mouth. She wasn’t breathing.

Skye forced herself to remain calm and remember what she had learned in her first-aid course. Nothing applied here. Sleeping Beauty was dead.

“Run to the office and call 911.” Skye looked up to find the other girl gone. “Shit, I shouldn’t have let go of her.”

“You shouldn’t say ‘shit’ either.”

Skye’s heart thudded, and her head jerked up. She caught her breath when she recognized Justin, standing near the stairs. It was so rare to hear him speak that she hadn’t recognized his voice. She hadn’t noticed, but he must have followed when the girl dragged her away.

He was the type that blended into the background. Medium height, medium build, and medium brown hair that hung straight from a center part to the middle of his ears.

“Justin, am I glad to see you. Run to the office and call 911. We need an ambulance.”

“Looks more like you need a hearse.” His words were cocky, but his face was pale and sweaty.

“Justin, please, just call 911. Tell them no lights or siren, and no radio.” Skye wondered if there were anything else she should do. “And get the principal. Oh, and tell him to shut off the dismissal bell.”

He shrugged. “He’s not going to listen to me.”

She searched the pocket of her gray wool skirt and found a pad of passes. “Give me a pen.”

The boy handed her the Bic from his shirt pocket.

She scribbled a note and signed it, then handed it to Justin. “Hurry!”

When the boy left, Skye pulled down the sleeves of her pink cardigan and shivered. It was the beginning of April, and it was still cold in Illinois. Of course, it didn’t help that the school board turned off the furnace on March 31, no matter what the weather.

Skye felt a deep sadness settle over her. Why was this young woman dead? She had barely begun to live. This was one Sleeping Beauty who would never awake to her prince’s kiss. Skye’s gaze was drawn back to the girl. What had caused her death? There was no visible wound, no blood, no mark of any kind.

She glanced around. The scene looked ready for a rehearsal. Except—what was that, not quite under the bed? She got down on her hands and knees, and peered at the object. The label had been peeled off, but the bottle’s odd shape teased Skye’s memory.

She sat back on her heels and gnawed at her thumb. I wonder where it came from? The school doesn’t sell anything in bottles.

Suddenly doors flew open and lights snapped on. “Miss Denison, what’s the meaning of all this?” Homer Knapik, the high-school principal, scurried across the gym floor.

As he approached her, a detached part of Skye’s mind noted that between his squat build and the hair emanating from nearly every orifice and covering every limb, the principal looked like a sheepdog—one ready to bite the next lamb that veered from the flock.

Justin followed at a prudent distance, his face still chalky but his brown eyes alight with interest.

Skye met Homer at the bottom of the stairs. “Did you call 911? Did you shut off the dismissal bell?”

“Yes, and you’d better have a damn good reason for your note.” He peered peevishly up at her through the fuzz hanging over his eyes.

“I do.” She pointed to the body on the bed. “Maybe you’d better have the teachers escort the kids out the front door. We don’t want any of them wandering back here.”

Homer took a step closer and squinted upward. “Oh, my God! That’s Lorelei Ingels. She isn’t . . . dead?” When Skye nodded, he scribbled a note on the pad from his pocket. “Boy, take this to the front office immediately and give it to Mrs. Hill.”

“Justin, after you do that, wait for the ambulance crew, and show them the side entrance.” Skye lowered her voice and kept an eye on the teen, who was walking away ever so slowly. “We’d better call the police, too.”

“What?” Homer jumped from foot to foot, as if he were about to pee his pants. “Do you have any idea who Lorelei Ingels is? Her family is one of the wealthiest and most influential in town. She’s won nearly every beauty pageant in the state. We’ve got to be extremely careful.” He stopped hopping around, and his shoulders slumped. “What am I saying? No matter how we handle this or how she died, we’re screwed.”

“A young woman is dead, and that’s your first reaction?” Skye shook her head. She hoped that thirty years in the school system wouldn’t turn her into a bureaucratic zombie like they had poor Homer.

The PA blared into life, making them both flinch. “All teachers are to personally escort their eighth-period students out the front door. Teachers without eighth-period students are to report to the locker area and help supervise. No students are allowed anywhere in the school unescorted.”

When the announcement ended, Homer tried to climb the steps, but Skye stepped in front of him. “What are you doing? Get out of my way,” he demanded.

Skye didn’t budge. “I think we’d better leave things on the stage alone. We don’t want to disturb any evidence.”

Homer gave her a withering look. “Are you saying the girl was murdered? All we need is for a rumor like that to get started.”

“The police will want to know why an apparently healthy eighteen-year-old suddenly dropped dead.”

As if in response to her words, they heard the sound of running feet. Moments later, paramedics rushed through the door. Skye pointed to the bed. They pushed past her and went up the stairs.

Homer grabbed her arm. “I’d better call the superintendent. I’ll be right back.”

Skye watched the principal scurry out of the gym and Justin step just inside the doorway, turning back to the stage only when the EMTs began to fire questions at her. “How long has she been like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you find her?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Was she conscious?”

“No, just like she is now. No pulse, no heartbeat, no breathing.”

One of the paramedics turned to his partner. “Better call the police.”

The chief of police, Walter Boyd, was the first to arrive. He was tall and powerful-looking, with a muscular chest. Skye watched him swiftly assess the situation, then radio for backup from the county sheriff’s department and the state police. He also called in all four of the off-duty Scumble River cops.

Wally’s expressive brown eyes became shuttered when he spotted Skye. “I should have known you’d be involved.”

She bit her lip. It wasn’t fair. She had never even dated the guy, and still her relationship with him had always been complicated: from her first crush on him when she was fifteen and he twenty-three, to their latest fight over what he considered to be a betrayal of his trust. “I’m sorry you’re still mad at me,” she said.

“Mad? I’m not mad at you. I just don’t trust you anymore,” Wally said without inflection. “I specifically told you not to go off investigating on your own.”

“I explained why I had to go alone to talk to those survivalists when my grandmother died last summer.” Skye moved closer. “They never would’ve said anything if you’d been with me.”

He stepped back from her and ran a hand through his curly black hair, pain etched in the lines bracketing his mouth. “Yeah, Darleen explained why she had to leave me for another man, too. Let’s stick to business.” He flipped open his pad and clicked his pen. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

Skye noted the weariness in Wally’s face, and realized once again just how much she had hurt him. She wanted to repeat her apology but knew it would never be enough, so instead she replayed the last hour for him, step by step.

“Where’s the girl who originally found the body?” Wally asked.

“I haven’t seen her since she got away from me, and I don’t know her name.”

Wally walked over to where Justin stood a few feet away from the adults. “Do you know who the girl is?”

He shrugged. “Could be Elvira Doozier.”

Skye looked heavenward. She should have guessed. Anytime there was a problem, a Doozier was usually involved somehow. She had first encountered the family when she initially returned to Scumble River. In fact, Junior Doozier had helped her when her car was totaled. Then the boy’s uncle had tried to kill her, and Junior had again come to her aid. She wondered where Elvira fit into that twisted family tree.

The chief sent Justin to wait on the bleachers and ordered Skye, “Tell me about the boy.”

“Who, Justin?”

Wally nodded impatiently.

Skye quickly sorted out what she had gathered from their counseling sessions, and thus considered confidential, from what was a matter of record. “I’ve been seeing him for nearly two years, ever since I started working for the Scumble River school district. He’s a freshman. We haven’t made much progress. He barely speaks to me. At the end of last year, he almost came around, but thanks to Aunt Mona and her committee, he was denied an essay award he had legitimately won. Now he’s reverted to his previous hostile self.”

“How did she stop him from getting a school award?”

“She didn’t like his essay topic—pro-choice vs. pro-life.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Hard to say. Justin’s a loner, due to his deep distrust of both adults and peers. He’s a bright boy, with an IQ in the superior range, but he squeaks by with Cs and Ds, so he doesn’t hang out with the Nerds. He’s not athletic, so he doesn’t fit with the Jocks either. He’s both angry and uncommunicative, which is a dangerous combination. I’m worried about the type of group he might eventually find.”

“But what about now? Is there anyone he hangs with?”

Skye shook her head. “Why are you asking all these questions about Justin? Surely you don’t suspect him of being involved with this death. He was with me this period.”

“We don’t even know what happened, let alone when. But since this boy was around, I just want to get a picture of him. Have you talked to his parents? What are they like?”

“I’ve tried to warn his parents of the seriousness of his emotional state, but his mother’s coping with her own depression, and his father’s in poor health. They’re both pretty absorbed in their own needs.”

Wally made a note, and his voice turned formal. “Thanks. Please sit on the bleachers with the boy until you’re dismissed.”

Skye chafed at his brusque tone but did as she was told.

Simon Reid, the coroner, arrived next. As tall as the chief, he had a more sophisticated demeanor. His dark auburn hair and golden hazel eyes reminded her of Gary Cooper. As usual, he was dressed impeccably in a perfectly pressed designer suit.

He rushed past Skye, nodding coolly. He was another of her interpersonal disasters. They had dated for nearly a year after Skye had first returned to Scumble River, but had broken up last summer when he had pushed for a level of intimacy she wasn’t ready for.

Skye sat on the bottom row of the bleachers. Shouts echoed through the cavernous gym. Ceiling lights in their safety cages cast ominous shadows. Justin sat beside her, sneaking worried glances at her face. She knew she should say something to reassure him, but she felt drained and unable to move, let alone make a decision.

Occasionally, she heard the voices of people trying to push past the police officers and enter the gym. Eventually, someone calling her name penetrated her fog. She rose unsteadily from the bench and made her way to the door.

Kent Walker, Scumble River High’s new English teacher, the director of Sleeping Beauty, and the man Skye was half-heartedly dating, was arguing that they should let him into the gym. He was tall and lithe, with a casual grace that spoke of money and privilege. He had caused many heads to turn and hearts to throb when he moved to town last September. Skye had never understood why he chose to date her, especially since there was so little sexual chemistry between them. She had come to the conclusion it was because she shared his wry view about rural life.

He turned away from the officer and demanded, “Skye, tell these buffoons who I am.”

She dutifully said, “This is Kent Walker. He’s the director of this year’s musical.”

“So?” Deputy McCabe took off his hat and scratched his head. “The chief says nobody comes in or goes out. No exceptions.”

She shrugged at Kent. “Sorry.”

His handsome face reddened. “I need to come in.” He dropped his voice. “Is it really Lorelei Ingels?”

Skye hesitated. “I can’t say. The police aren’t releasing the name until the next of kin can be notified.”

Kent’s tone turned frosty. “Why are you treating me like a stranger? I thought we had something between us.”

She raised an eyebrow. Something between them? She didn’t think so. True, they had gone out half a dozen times, but they weren’t dating each other exclusively, and they had never progressed beyond a quick kiss good night.

Skye stared at Kent, who was frowning and tapping his foot. She hadn’t noticed before, but his jaw was slightly receding, and when he tensed it, as he was doing now, it looked as if he had no chin at all. She gazed in fascination as he changed from good-looking to downright ugly. Why am I thinking about Kent’s appearance at a time like this?

Finally, she forced her attention back to the situation at hand. “Sorry, what did you say, Kent?”

“I asked why you’re acting so strangely.” His blue eyes were icy.

“Well, it is quite a shock to find a body in the course of a Wednesday afternoon.” Skye was beginning to feel more like her usual assertive self. Since coming out from under the spell of her ex-fiancé, she had allowed no man to take that belligerent tone with her.

“You’re right, of course. I’m being a beast.” A lock of white-blond hair fell over one eye as he tilted his head. “But could you please talk to that police chief of yours, and see if he’ll let me through?”

She answered automatically, “He’s not my police chief.” At least not anymore. “But if you really want me to, I’ll see what I can do. Why do you need to come in here?”

“I’d rather not explain it twice, just get the chief, okay?”

Skye had opened her mouth to say no, it wasn’t okay, when she caught a glimpse of Wally standing alone. This was her chance.

She hurried over to one side of the stage just as he squatted down. “Wally, could I speak to you for a moment?”

He straightened and glared at her. “Didn’t I tell you to sit on the bleachers and not move?”

He had, and she’d forgotten. “Sorry, I haven’t touched anything.”

“That’s something.” He crouched again. “So, what’s so urgent?”

“Um, well, Kent Walker, the director of the musical, would like to come into the gym, and Deputy McCabe won’t let him.”

“As per my orders,” Wally answered distractedly, his nose almost touching the floor. “Why does he need to be here?”

Skye tried to see what Wally was staring at. It looked like a small piece of tinsel. “He wanted to talk to you about that.”

“And you didn’t insist on knowing?” Wally got to his feet. “Then it’s true. You two are an item.”

“What?” Her eyebrows came together.

“Never mind. Let’s go talk to Mr. Kent Walker.”

CHAPTER 2

Waste of Death

Skye trailed after Wally as he approached the gym doors. Deputy McCabe stood talking to the crowd that had continued to gather. There was no sign of Kent.

The chief stopped at the entrance and turned to her. “Where’s Walker?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he went to the bathroom.”

Wally spoke to Deputy McCabe. “Where did Kent Walker go?”

“Who?” The deputy wrinkled his brow.

Skye pushed past the chief. “The guy you wouldn’t let into the gym.”

“Lots of those. I think nearabouts every parent in Scumble River is trying to get in here.”

Skye blew a curl out of her eyes. “The one yelling my name.”

“Oh, the fella with the funny way of talking. Is he English or something?”

“No, he’s from Boston.”

“Oh, well. He said something about having to go, and walked off.”

“That’s all he said?”

“Yeah.” McCabe twisted his face in thought. “No. Said to tell you he’d see you later.”

Skye felt her face burn. Wally probably thought she had used this whole incident with Kent just to get his attention.

The chief narrowed his eyes, and Skye waited for the explosion. Instead he said sarcastically, “If there’s nothing else you or your friends require, I’ll get back to work now.” He turned on his heel and started away from the door, then stopped and told Skye, “Go sit on the bleachers.”

“Wally?”

“Yes?”

“I really need to make some phone calls. Couldn’t I just go to the office? I won’t leave the building.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Skye searched his face, but it was blank of emotion. “Could I at least call Justin Boward’s family? They’ll be wondering where he is.”

“I’ll have an officer call. Do you have his number?”

Skye shook her head. “But we can ask Justin.” She turned toward the bleachers. “Where’d he go?”

The chief gave her a disgusted look. “You sit down. I’ll go find him.”

“But . . .” Skye trailed off. Wally was already striding away.

She examined her surroundings. There was nowhere to hide in the gym. It was just a large room with wooden floors and high ceilings. The sidewalls were made up of bleachers folded flat, except for the one extended bench on which she and Justin had been seated, and two locked doors marked GIRLS and BOYS that led to the locker rooms. On the back wall were two sets of double doors. Those to the right were chained shut, and Deputy McCabe guarded the others.

In front and up a short flight of stairs was the stage. It was brightly lit and crawling with police officers examining the scene, sketching, videotaping, and snapping pictures. Others were dusting for fingerprints and collecting evidence.

A door on either side at gym level led to the backstage area. Skye bet that was where Justin had disappeared to. She scanned the area. Wally was talking to a deputy. No one seemed to be looking for the boy. She edged closer to the door on the left. She could hear the officers on the stage talking. One mentioned a pool of vomit near the curtain that he had almost stepped in. Yech! She was glad she hadn’t noticed that bit of evidence.

A quick glance assured her that no one was paying attention to her. Maybe she could take a fast look and be back before the chief noticed. Justin was her responsibility, and she needed to make sure he was okay.

Skye entered the darkened concrete stairwell. There were five steps leading upward. The light from the gym provided the only illumination, and she was surprised to feel a little afraid. Which was silly—the place was crawling with police; nothing could happen to her.

At the top, she paused. Was that voices she heard? To her left was a room used for makeup and dressing, but the sounds were coming from the opposite direction. She carefully eased through the small passage formed from the space between the wall and the stage’s back curtain.

As she approached the room on the other side, the voices stopped. The door stood ajar, and she peered inside. This area was used to store sets and costumes. A space in the back had been cleared and a desk set up for the director.

Standing in the shadows was a male figure. He moved slightly, and Skye saw who it was. “Justin Boward, what are you doing back here?”

The boy shrugged, his face sullen. “Looking around. Nothing to get bent about.”

“Is there someone else back here with you?”

“Nah.”

Skye decided to pursue that later. She scanned the area. There was no sign of disturbance. “We’d better get out front before the chief comes looking for us.”

“Too late,” came Wally’s voice from behind them. He aimed his flashlight at Justin. “Stay where you are, son.”

Skye saw the teen’s Adam’s apple bob nervously.

The chief barely glanced at Skye. “You, go sit on the bleachers, like I told you before.”

“No.” She stepped nearer to Justin. “This boy is my responsibility until his parents get here, and I’m staying with him.”

Wally’s features hardened with anger. He started to say something, seemed to change his mind, then spoke through clenched teeth. “Fine. You.” He pointed at Skye. “Keep your mouth shut, or I swear I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice. You.” He pointed to Justin. “Tell me what you’re doing back here, and why I shouldn’t arrest you for tampering with evidence.”

The boy stared at the chief, then looked beseechingly at Skye. She raised an eyebrow at Wally. They all stood silently.

The chief sighed and spoke to Skye. “Tell him to answer my questions.”

“You told me to keep my mouth shut.”

Wally groaned.

“Right, a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. I forgot,” she said, and hastily continued, “Justin, tell the chief what you were doing back here.”

“He’ll be mad.” The boy shuffled his feet and refused to make eye contact.

“Too late again.” Wally shot Justin an angry look.

“Smart, Wally. That’s the way to get someone to talk to you.” Skye turned her back on the chief. “Justin, unless you had something to do with Lorelei’s death, I’m sure the chief won’t care what you were doing.”

“Sure, I’m just concerned about this incident, nothing else,” Wally confirmed. Skye could tell he was trying the “good cop” routine.

“Promise?” Justin asked.

Both adults nodded.

“Okay, I was trying to get out of here. The cop at the door wouldn’t let me go, and then I thought about something I heard in PE class one time.” Justin took a breath. “Someone told me there was a secret door backstage that would lead you out of the gym.”

Wally’s expression sharpened. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah. It’s right here.” Justin pushed aside a curtain and a half door was revealed.

Skye reached for the knob, but Wally grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch anything. I need to get this whole area fingerprinted.”

Justin’s face reddened. “Ah, I already opened it.”

“Son of a bitch! There goes any evidence.”

Skye couldn’t remember ever having heard the chief swear before. She closed her eyes, remembering once when Wally had spoken about investigating a young person’s death a few years ago, and how much it had disturbed him. He must be experiencing similar feelings now, and that was why he was coming across as such an insensitive and authoritative jerk. Convinced Skye had betrayed him several months ago, and now having to deal with a senseless death, the chief was raising all sorts of emotional defenses.

She tried to save the situation by asking, “Where does the door lead, Justin?”

“The band room.”

“It must be so they can hand their instruments through, without carrying them in the corridors,” she guessed.

Wally focused on Skye. “Why do you say that?”

“With all the additions put on this school, there are some rooms that are right next to each other, but you have to detour through miles of hallway to get from one to the other. That must be the case here. I know the hall dead-ends at the gym.” Skye paused and considered. “Hey, maybe not all is lost. You can have your techs dust the band room. Justin didn’t go in there, right?”

“No.”

“Good.” Skye smiled.

The chief crossed his arms. “One other question, Justin. Why did you want to leave so badly?”

The boy reddened and glanced at Skye before answering. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

It was nearly six by the time the police finished their work in the gym. The stage and the backstage areas remained taped off with bright yellow ribbon, a glaring contrast to the gray gymnasium. Justin had been released to his parents, and most of the crowd had dissipated. Suppers had to be cooked, farm animals had to be fed, and families had to be tended, no matter who died.

Skye, Wally, and Homer were left trying to locate Lorelei Ingels’s parents. Wally had called their residence and spoken to their housekeeper, who’d told him that Allen Ingels, Lorelei’s father, was out of town that day on business and his wife, Lorna, had accompanied him in order to shop and have her hair done. Lorelei’s younger sister was at a neighbor’s playing. They were all expected home by seven.

After a brief discussion, it was decided that Skye, Homer, and Wally would wait for the Ingels at their home. Skye hadn’t been surprised when Homer insisted that she go along. The Ingels were an extremely prominent family—Mr. Ingels was the bank president—and Homer liked to surround himself with other people to deflect any possible blame that might be cast on him. Wally led the way in the squad car, and Homer and Skye followed in the principal’s Taurus.

Ten minutes later, the three of them stood on the Ingels’ doorstep. The housekeeper answered their ring, and after a brief explanation from the chief, showed them into a stark white living room.

They seated themselves, and the housekeeper brought them coffee. Skye winced as Homer put his cup down on the glass table. She hoped it wouldn’t leave a ring.

Skye wiggled, trying to find a comfortable position in the Jacobsen chair she occupied. Except for a family portrait done in oils above the fireplace, and several mirrors hung in strategic locations, the walls reminded her of the inside of a refrigerator.

Homer’s shaggy appearance looked out of place against the streamlined leather couch on which he was perched.

Wally, on the other hand, seemed at ease in a Bauhaus chair as he made notes on a pocket-size pad. He finally looked up. “Homer, you and Skye really don’t have to be here.”

Homer slowly put down the magazine he had been pretending to read. “How would it look to the Ingels and the rest of the community if we let the police take over with no school representation?”

Before Wally could respond the sound of car doors slamming and the front door opening drew their attention. A tall woman dressed in a lime-colored Nipon suit entered. Her champagne-blond hair was perfectly coifed in a shoulder-length flip, and she held a Shizué purse.

The man following her had been handsome in his youth, but time had clawed its signature across his features. His Armani suit, although flawlessly tailored, couldn’t hide his thickening middle. His florid complexion spoke of three-martini lunches, wine-drenched dinners, and bedtime brandies.

The chief stood and took a couple of steps toward them. Skye and Homer kept a few feet back.

Allen Ingels spoke. “What’s going on? What are you doing in my house?”

Wally answered, “I’m sorry, folks, but I have some bad news for you.”

Lorna Ingels paled and clutched her husband’s arm. He half turned, almost as if he were ready to make a run for it.

“Bad news? What could you possibly have to say that would concern us?” Allen Ingels brushed off an imaginary speck of lint, his eyes suddenly unable to meet the chief’s.

To Skye, it was almost as if he already felt guilty about something.

“Today at approximately three o’clock your daughter Lorelei was found in the high school gym, dead from unknown causes.”

“My baby?” Mrs. Ingels shrieked and sagged against her husband. “What happened to my baby?”

Before Wally could speak, Mr. Ingels roared, “Nonsense! There must be some mistake. What gross incompetence. She’s never been sick a day in her life. I’ll sue all of you for scaring us like this.”

Skye watched a veil of denial descend on both the Ingels’s faces.

Wally eased the couple down on the sofa. “There’s no mistake. During the last half of eighth period, Ms. Denison here”—he indicated Skye—“was summoned by a student to the gym. Once there, she found your daughter lying on a bed that was part of the stage set for the school play. Lorelei was not breathing, nor was her heart beating. An ambulance was immediately sent for, and arrived within five minutes. The EMTs declared her dead, and called for me and the coroner. We won’t know the cause of death until after the autopsy.”

Mrs. Ingels screamed and buried her head in her arms. “My baby, my baby! She was so beautiful! You can’t cut her up. I won’t let you. I want to see my baby.”

Skye moved forward to comfort Mrs. Ingels, but Wally held her back. She shot him a surprised look, and he gave a slight shake of his head. What was he up to?

Mr. Ingels sat stone-faced. “What are you talking about? How could a perfectly healthy eighteen-year-old go to school and just die?”

“I’m sorry. We don’t know. There’s no physical evidence.”

Skye looked at Wally again. What did he mean? What about the mysterious bottle? What about the piece of tinsel, and the pool of vomit the officers had been talking about?

Allen Ingels turned to Homer, who had been hovering to the banker’s left. “How could you let something like this happen in your school?”

Beads of sweat popped out on Homer’s brow.

Skye stepped forward to rescue the principal. “Mr. and Mrs. Ingels, you have our utmost sympathy for your loss, but there was nothing we could do.” Was their reaction a natural expression of grief? The Ingels weren’t acting like any parents she had dealt with before.

“And you.” Allen Ingels pivoted in Skye’s direction. “Did you do anything to help? Did you try CPR or mouth-to-mouth? Or did you just let her die?”

Skye felt as if she’d been sucker-punched. Could I have done something more?

Wally spoke before she could find an answer. “Your daughter was dead when Ms. Denison found her. She followed the correct procedure.”

Both parents glared at Wally. Lorna Ingels, tears running down her cheeks, said, “Well, we’ll never know now, will we?”

“The autopsy will answer many of your questions,” the chief answered. “And since we have to treat this like a suspicious death, we’ll need to search Lorelei’s room.”

Allen Ingels drew up straighter and glowered. “Over my dead body. No search and no autopsy.” He started to leave the room. “I’m calling our attorney. I want you all out of my house now.”

“That’s not being very cooperative, Al,” a deep voice boomed.

All eyes turned to the huge man who filled the doorway. He wore a white shirt and gray twill pants held up by bright red suspenders. An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth.

Skye let out an inaudible sigh. For better or worse, Uncle Charlie had arrived. Charlie Patukas was really Skye’s godfather, not her uncle, but more importantly he was president of the school board and had his finger in a lot of Scumble River pies.

Charlie Patukas and Allen Ingels were the two most influential men in the area, and as such, were often at odds. Charlie’s first concern was the welfare of the town, whereas Allen’s interest seemed to lie more in self-advancement.

Homer opened his mouth, then closed it. Clearly, he couldn’t decide if he was happy or upset with Charlie’s arrival. He whispered to Wally, “The superintendent is out of town at a conference, so I had to notify Charlie.”

Wally folded his arms, his face expressionless.

“This is none of your business, Charlie,” Allen Ingels said, his bloodshot blue eyes locked with Charlie’s clear ones.

“Most everything in Scumble River is my business, Al. ’Specially when it happens on school property.” Charlie leaned against the doorframe, which creaked in protest, and crossed his arms. His voice turned deadly serious. “So,” he said, “why don’t you want to cooperate with the police?”

CHAPTER 3

Lend a Tear

Skye sat next to Charlie as he piloted his white Cadillac Seville through the darkness, toward the cottage she rented down by the river. She tried to concentrate, to figure out what she should do next, but her thoughts kept turning to Lorelei Ingels, the Sleeping Beauty who would never wake again. It was difficult to face mortality at any age, but the death of a young woman on the verge of independence just wasn’t right. No words could comfort the family or soothe Skye’s own sense of waste. It was her time. At least she didn’t suffer, certainly didn’t work. And the old standby, Now she’s with God, didn’t cut it when the corpse was an eighteen-year-old.

Charlie interrupted Skye’s thoughts. “She was a beautiful girl.”

“Yes, she was.”

“What do you think happened?” He concentrated on steering the huge car into Skye’s narrow driveway.

“It could be just about anything.” She didn’t want to have this conversation, but she knew she had better get used to it, as everyone in town would be asking the same question. “It could be suicide, heart attack, an overdose. We may never know, if Mr. Ingels squelches the autopsy.”

“Bob Ginardi is both the school and city attorney, and he says Al can’t do that. But he’s not sure if Al can stop the search of Lorelei’s room.”

“So what’ll they do?”

Charlie bit down on his unlit cigar. “Tomorrow they’ll go before a judge and try to get a search warrant, but our lawyer doesn’t think we’ll have a good case until we nail down the cause of death. It’s real touchy, the Ingels being who they are.”

“What do you mean? The rich get different treatment than the poor?”

“Sure. And you know it.” Charlie reached over and pinched her cheek. “Normally, Wally would post a guard at that bedroom door while he tried for a warrant, but he can’t do that with the Ingels.”

“So, we’re all responsible for what we do—unless, of course, we’re rich?”

“That about sums it up. The more money, the better the lawyer and the more rights you have.”

Skye closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Charlie had a point, but no matter what happened now, no matter what any of them did, an eighteen-year-old was dead. Were they all about to fight over her corpse like children over a Barbie doll? Once again Skye felt caught in the middle, and there was nothing she could do to make things better.

She slid over and kissed Charlie’s rough cheek. “Thanks for the ride.” She tried to keep the resignation from her voice.

“You should let me buy you a car,” Charlie said.

“I’m supposed to get money from the insurance company by the end of this week, so I’ll finally be able to buy my own car,” Skye countered.

Ever since Charlie had inherited a fortune, he’d been trying to spend it on Skye, her brother, Vince, and her parents. He claimed they were his only family, and he wanted them to be happy. Skye tried to resist the temptation of his gifts—at least most of the time.

“Can you believe they stopped payment on the check for the Chevy,” Skye said, “just because the Buick was totaled a few months later? Good thing the insurance agent is my cousin. Can you imagine how strangers are treated?”

She’d had bad luck with cars since she’d moved back to Scumble River—two years, two cars, two wrecks ago. Her insurance company was not at all sure they wanted to pay up for either vehicle, and with her bad credit rating and nonexistent savings account, she couldn’t afford to purchase one without that check for a down payment. This meant she’d been borrowing cars and hitching rides for the last eight months.

“You should have let me talk to Kevin,” Charlie said. “Sometimes cousins need to be reminded of their family duties.”

“I can handle him. Time to hit the sack. Tomorrow’s going to be a rough day.”

She slid across to the passenger door, then got out and waved as Charlie pulled out of the driveway. Bingo greeted her at the cottage door. He was a beautiful, nearly solid black cat, and had previously belonged to Skye’s recently deceased grandmother. He twined around Skye’s ankles, meowing and purring simultaneously. She dropped her tote bag and coat on the hall bench and scooped him up, burying her face in his velvetlike fur. He purred louder and kneaded her shoulder with his front paws.

After a moment she carried him to the kitchen and prepared his supper with one hand. As soon as she popped open the can, he began to squirm, insisting on being put down. She placed him on the floor with his bowl of food, sorry to lose the feeling of something alive in her arms. Bingo sniffed delicately.

“Come on, don’t be silly. You’ve been eating the same stuff for over nine months now.”

He looked up at her out of slitted eyes.

“I don’t care if Grandma prepared hand-cooked meals for you. You’re lucky that on my budget I buy you the name-brand cat food and not the generic.”

He took a tentative lick.

“That’s better.”

Skye glanced at the clock in the microwave. Nine-thirty. She should eat something. Her tuna sandwich at lunch had been a long time ago. But she wasn’t hungry. Suddenly she was bone-tired. She dragged herself to the bedroom, undressing as she went. Her flannel nightgown hung from a hook on the back of the bathroom door, and she wearily inched her way into it, then climbed into bed, too exhausted to bother with her usual nightly ritual of facial cleanser and moisturizing cream. She didn’t think missing one night would cause her to wake up looking like a shar-pei.

Skye dreamed she was in college and had forgotten to go to class all semester. Now it was time to take the final exam. A blank blue book stared up at her from the desktop. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled up through layers of unconsciousness. She still couldn’t inhale. Her mouth felt dry and fuzzy. Her eyes flew open. Everything was black. Bingo had settled on the pillow next to her, his rump covering the lower half of her face.

She pushed him away and flung back the covers. She was sweating, and it felt as if she had run the Chicago Marathon. To calm her racing heart she tried one of the deep breathing exercises she taught to kids who suffered from anxiety.

Suddenly Skye bolted upright. Shit, shit, shit! She would bet her next paycheck that the high school had no crisis-intervention strategy. She had read recently that only seventy-eight percent of all schools had such a plan, and since neither a psychologist nor social worker had ever remained in Scumble River for more than a year, it was highly unlikely an emergency procedure had ever been written. And without a plan spelling out who would do what in case of a disaster or a tragedy, nothing would be in place to handle the students’ grief.

She’d bet another week’s salary that Homer would see no need for such an intervention. But whether the principal agreed or not, many of the students would suffer severe emotional trauma once they heard about Lorelei’s death. For the majority of those kids, it would be their first taste of mortality. Most would act as if Lorelei’s death didn’t bother them, but if the situation wasn’t handled properly, they’d be vulnerable to suicide attempts, substance abuse, and other risk-taking behaviors.

Skye pulled the covers over her head. How could she deal with such a crisis alone? She needed help from other mental-health professionals, but there were none in Scumble River.

After a few moments, she forced herself out of bed and into the shower. By five-thirty, she was sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of Earl Grey tea, the phone book, and a legal pad.

One bright spot. The superintendent was out of town. Dr. Wraige and Skye had a mutual-avoidance policy going, and she was happy not to have to deal with him. That left the principal as her first call. She hoped he was an early riser.

“Hi. Homer? Skye Denison here. Time? Yes, I know the time. It’s five-thirty-five. I’m sorry I woke you, but we have a problem, one connected with Lorelei’s death.” Skye held the phone away from her ear and let him rant for a few moments. “I’m really sorry, but do we have some sort of policy on how to deal with this type of situation with the other kids?”

Homer’s end went silent. Then he said, “No. Well, we do have something from the special ed co-op, but we never filled in the blanks with names or anything.”

The Scumble River School District belonged to the Stanley County Special Education Cooperative, an entity that, in theory, furnished them with programs and personnel on an intermittent basis, as needed. The cooperative had started out by providing school psychologists, social workers, occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech pathologists, and teachers for such low-incidence handicaps as vision and hearing impairments. Now that most of those professions were needed full-time by school districts, the co-op had become more or less a watchdog to deal with the bureaucratic red tape of special-education funding.

Skye covered the mouthpiece and swore. She tapped an angry tattoo on the kitchen table with her pen, then finally spoke into the phone. “Who do we have available who’s qualified to help deal with the kids who are upset?”

“Besides you?”

“Yes, besides me.” She was glad Homer couldn’t see her expression. Forcing her tone into a pleasant range, she asked, “Who can I have today? Who will have had some training?”

A longer silence fell this time. “Ah, no one I can think of. Maybe we should call off school today and let the parents handle it.”

Skye considered Homer’s suggestion. It was tempting, but it probably wouldn’t be best for the majority of the kids to sit home and brood, or worse yet, get together in groups and egg each other on to do something stupid, to prove who loved Lorelei best.

If Lorelei had been an average student, Skye could have called together the girl’s two or three closest friends and helped them deal with their emotions. But Lorelei was a star—head cheerleader, lead in all the school musicals, majorette in the band, and secretary of the student council—so almost everyone in the school would feel her loss. Even those who were jealous of her would experience some emotion.

“No, we’d better have school today. I’ll call the co-op, and see if they have a crisis team we can borrow. And we need to have a faculty meeting before school. Quite a few teachers will be upset, too.”

“The staff will be fine,” Homer protested.

Skye contemplated crawling back into bed. Instead she continued to sweet-talk him until Homer agreed to hold a teachers’ meeting at seven-thirty. She fed Bingo and got dressed. It was still only six o’clock. She decided to try the co-op anyway and got an answering machine. She left her message and headed out the door.

It was a long walk to the school, and what with yesterday’s excitement, she had forgotten to arrange for a ride. Skye vowed she would buy a car this weekend even if she had to sell her body to get the cash. Looking down at her generous curves, she hoped the car salesman liked cuddly women.

As Skye pulled the cottage door shut, a white Oldsmobile turned into her driveway. Skye closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Her mother, May Denison, was fifty-seven but had the energy of a twenty-year-old. She kept her house immaculate, exercised four times a week, and worked part-time as a police, fire, and emergency dispatcher. Along with this already-busy schedule, May’s primary cause in life was taking care of her children. This would have been noble had Skye and her brother, Vince, been under sixteen, but both were well over thirty. Skye was finding it tough to keep her independence.

May shot out of the car and yo-yoed Skye, first grabbing her in a tight hug, then pushing her away, then grabbing her again. “Why do I always have to hear about things from Minnie first?” May demanded.

“I thought you were dispatching last night, and would already know more than I did.”

“No, I traded with Thea so she could go to her granddaughter’s dance recital. I worked days yesterday.” May crossed her arms. “Fill me in.”

Skye thought she knew what her mother was referring to, but she was taking no chance in revealing a secret that May might not actually know. “What did Aunt Minnie have to say this morning?”

“Don’t try to act dumb with me, Missy. Lorelei Ingels’s murder, of course.”

“No one has said she was murdered, have they?” Skye wondered if a cause of death had been announced while she was sleeping.

“Everyone in town knows that the police and coroner were at the school. Not that my own daughter would pick up a phone and call me.” The salt-and-pepper waves on May’s head appeared to bristle.

“Sorry, Mom. It was after nine-thirty by the time I got home.” Skye tried to look innocent, fighting a sly grin that was trying to escape. “Besides, I thought for sure Uncle Charlie would have told you.”

“Charlie knew?” A look of betrayal crossed May’s face. Charlie and May had been trading secrets and gossip for nearly thirty years.

“Sure, he was there. He drove me home.”

“Mmm.” May paused for a few moments, then continued on a different track. “That reminds me. Your father’s found a car for you.”

Skye felt her heart sink. Her dad’s idea of a great car was good transportation—paint and fenders were optional. After driving her father’s eyesores all her life, this time she wanted something with a little more beauty than the beasts he usually chose. She knew it was shallow to care about a car’s looks, but she didn’t care. This time she wanted something hot. A Miata if she could swing the payments.

“Ah, well, that’s really nice of him, but I did tell Dad I was going to pick out a car myself.”

“Just take a look at it.” May played her trump card. “You don’t want to hurt your father’s feelings, do you?”

“Sure, I’ll look at it.” Being a bridge player, Skye recognized an ace of spades when she heard it. “But I’m not buying it.”

“Sure. No one said you had to.” May nodded. “Want a ride to school?”

Skye weighed her options. A three-mile hike, hoping to see someone she knew who would give her a ride, or five minutes of interrogation by her mother about Lorelei’s death. “Sure, thanks. Is that a new jacket?” She took a stab at trying to distract May’s attention.

“No. Now tell me what happened yesterday, from the beginning.”

The drive to school was short, and Skye was only up to finding the body when May steered the Olds into the empty parking lot. “Keep going. No one is here yet, so you have time.”

“Not really, Mom.” Skye grabbed the door handle and pushed. It seemed to be stuck. “I’ve got to get some plans in place before everyone else arrives.” And if she were lucky, she might be able to squeeze in her morning swim in the school’s pool.

“Five more minutes.”

“I’ll call you tonight.” Skye tried the door again.

“Childproof automatic locks.” May smiled serenely. “Tell me the rest.”

Skye sagged against the seat. Why were her relatives always kidnapping her? As she told her mom what May wanted to know, Skye realized they had all forgotten about the girl who had sounded the alarm. She would have to confirm that it was indeed Elvira Doozier and talk to her ASAP.

When Skye finished, May pressed the button to release the doors. “You know,” she said, “from what you said, Allen and Lorna Ingels’ attitude is really pretty strange. You ought to talk to your cousins. They know a lot about Lorelei and her mother.”

“Which cousins?” Skye stood on the blacktop, straightening her navy wool pantsuit.

“The twins. They’re involved with all that beauty-pageant nonsense, and so are the Ingels.” May looked at her watch and frowned.

Before Skye could question her mother further, May leaned over, shut the passenger door, and drove away. Skye gazed at the red taillights, wondering where her mother was off to before seven on a Thursday morning.

The phone was ringing as Skye unlocked the front door of the school. It stopped while she was still trying to open the door to the front office, but started up again almost immediately. Should she answer it? Probably not, but what if it were the co-op with a list of helpers?

She dropped her tote onto the counter and reached for the phone, pressing the button for an outside line. She’d call the co-op back rather than run the risk of playing telephone roulette, with a thousand-to-one odds in favor of the caller being an irate parent.

This time she reached an actual person. A secretary. Skye identified herself and asked to speak to the coordinator for their district. She had met him only a half dozen times, as he rarely attended any of Scumble River’s meetings. She was told that he wouldn’t be in until nine.

“Could someone else help me? We have an emergency, a student death. Does the co-op have a crisis plan?” Skye heard her voice become shaky. It was just starting to hit her that she would have to handle the situation all by herself.

“I’m sorry. That has to go through your coordinator. But I can page him if you like.”

“Yes, definitely page him.”

“Please hold.” Music suddenly blared into Skye’s ear. Appropriately enough, it was Patsy Cline singing “Lonely Street.”

Twenty minutes later, Skye finally got to talk to the coordinator. “As I’ve explained at least a dozen times, I need help,” she said. “What can the co-op do for me?”

The faculty and staff of the high school were beginning to arrive. She heard excited voices and sobs, and Skye wondered if by the time the announcement was made at the faculty meeting, the stories going around would resemble in any way what had really happened.

“We’ll try to pull some social workers and psychologists who are employed by the cooperative, rather than by individual school districts,” the coordinator replied. “But this could take a while, and they may not be available for the whole day.”

“How about you? Couldn’t you come down for at least the morning? Didn’t you say you have a degree in social work?” Skye couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice.

“Working directly with students is not part of my job,” the coordinator’s emotionless voice droned. “As I said, I’ll see what help I can get you.”

“Fine.” Skye recognized when someone really didn’t care.

Her mind raced as she hurried down the hall toward the guidance room. Coach would not be happy, but she was commandeering his office for the day. She stopped suddenly as an idea formed. If Coach were a real guidance counselor, he should be able to help with the day’s crisis. She had always suspected he wasn’t truly qualified. Now she’d find out.

Who else could she get to talk to kids with minimal instructions from her? Trixie and Abby. Trixie Frayne was the school librarian and cheerleader coach, a natural listener, and a lot of kids already confided in her. Plus, she was Skye’s best friend and could be counted on to do her a favor. And Abby Fleming was the school nurse. Surely she would have had some training in at least rudimentary counseling.

Skye talked to Trixie and Abby, who were glad to help, although a little unsure of their ability. Next she approached the coach. As she expected, he flat-out refused. Most teachers were happy to do what they could for the school and the students, but there was a small coterie of those who had been teaching too long and had essentially retired before the actual papers were signed. Coach belonged to the latter group.

Skye went in search of Homer. She found him sequestered in his office and explained what she had already done.

Homer shook his shaggy head. “Not good. Not good. Mrs. Frayne and Ms. Fleming are not qualified to provide counseling, thus they are not covered under our liability insurance.”

Skye bit back a retort and searched frantically for an answer. “Wouldn’t they be covered by the Good Samaritan law?”

“I’ll call our lawyer and find out.”

The attorney wasn’t in his office yet.

Before Homer could say no, Skye asked, “What do you suppose would be worse in the eyes of the law: do nothing or make a good-faith effort?”

After a few minutes of agonizing, Homer grudgingly gave Skye permission to follow through on her plan. Then, without warning, he stood, and said, “Time for the faculty meeting. I’m turning it over to you to run.”

He was halfway down the hall before Skye could protest. She raced after him, but as soon as she caught up with him, in the Home Ec room where the meetings were held, he turned to the teachers who were already assembled and introduced her.

Suddenly she felt her own grief and despair fighting their way to the surface. She fleetingly considered faking an appendicitis attack so she could go home sick. Instead, she pushed her distress back down, nodded to Homer, and began. “We have all had a terrible shock. As you know, Lorelei Ingels was found dead in our gymnasium yesterday afternoon. As of this morning we do not know the cause of death.

“Many of us feel a personal sense of loss, and those of you who think you cannot handle your classes, please let Mr. Knapik know immediately, so other arrangements can be made.”

Skye paused, but no one came forward. She didn’t expect anyone would. They would come later in private. “Here is our plan for today. We’re a small school, so as soon as the bell rings to signal the beginning of classes, we will assemble all students in the cafeteria, since we still aren’t allowed access to the gym. I will announce Lorelei’s death, and give them what little information we have about the circumstances surrounding it. At that point, I ask that all teachers return to their first-period rooms. Any students who want to talk more about Lorelei’s death will be asked to stay in the cafeteria. The rest will be dismissed to their classrooms.”

Skye swallowed hard and forced her voice to remain steady. She could not afford to break down. “The students who remain in the cafeteria will be counseled by me, the school nurse, and the librarian. As the need arises, we will break into even smaller groups or see kids individually. I’m hoping that some social workers or psychologists from the co-op will arrive this afternoon. When that happens, if any of you would like to talk to someone, please feel free. Of course, if you need to see someone before then, find me, and we’ll speak with you immediately.”

Most of the teachers looked as numb as Skye felt. Some had tears rolling down their cheeks. Skye asked, “Any questions?”

After dealing with the usual queries about who should say what to the students’ questions, Skye dismissed the faculty. There were two more things she had to do before the day officially started. She wanted to ask the secretary to get some coffee, soft drinks, donuts, and snacks for the counseling rooms. And she had to call Wally and find out if a cause of death had been established. How was usually the first thing teens wanted to know. Too bad that question was followed closely by why, something that the adults could never answer.

CHAPTER 4

More Than Meets the Lie

The students filed silently into the cafeteria. There was none of the joking, laughter, or raised voices Skye had come to expect at an assembly. They found seats on the benches, without the usual fuss of who sat next to whom, and stared forward. Skye felt as if she were about to address the Stepford children.

She walked nervously to the front of the room, near the window where food trays were usually handed out. The pea-green cinder-block walls were hung with posters advertising the seven basic food groups and nutritionally balanced meals. Many had been altered with Magic Marker and teenage wit. Skye blinked; was that supposed to be a condom on that banana?

A heavy odor of Tater Tots and hot dogs hung in the airless room. Skye opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t remember what she had meant to say. The eerie silence and concentrated stares were making her nervous.

This was one of the many tough parts of her job. She had to keep her own emotions in check in order to create an atmosphere in which the students would feel safe to expose their feelings. Teens only felt secure if the adults around them exhibited a calm, unruffled, it’s-all-being-handled type of demeanor.

With an effort, she pulled herself together and began, “As many of you know, my name is Ms. Denison, and I’m the school psychologist.” Skye smiled slightly and nodded at several students she recognized. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the sad news—Lorelei Ingels was found dead yesterday on the school stage. We don’t know the cause of death, but we will share that information with you as soon as we do find out. There is no reason to believe that she suffered, or that there is any danger to anyone else.”

Skye studied the faces in front of her. Most of the teens were staring back at her. She could hear whispers starting as she continued, “In a few minutes Mr. Knapik will ring the bell, and everyone should go to their first-hour classes. Anyone who feels too upset should stay here and we’ll talk some more.”

After the teens were dismissed, Skye did a quick count of how many were left. About forty kids remained seated. They ranged from clumps of eight or ten, to single students hunkered by themselves.

Forty was far too many for an effective group intervention. She’d have to divide them among the helpers she had available. Weighing the personalities involved, Skye resolved to give Abby the least upset kids. The school nurse tended to be a bit clinical, which would be appropriate for the teens who would be fine as soon as they could sort out the experience in their minds.

Trixie was a great listener. She could take the kids who were upset more with the idea of someone dying than with Lorelei’s death in particular.

Skye would take Lorelei’s closest friends—the cheerleaders, the drama crowd, and the student council.

“Okay, in a little bit we’ll divide up into three groups. Mrs. Frayne will take some of you to the library to talk, Ms. Fleming’s bunch will go to the music room, and the rest will come with me to the guidance office.”

Skye scanned the crowd. How to decide who was the least upset? She shrugged. Maybe this wasn’t the correct way to approach this crisis, but it was all she could think of. She hadn’t been given much training for this type of incident. “Before we break into groups, I’d like you each to tell me a little bit about how you knew Lorelei.”

Three girls were clustered together at the front table. One with short blond curls met Skye’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow. Skye pointed to her. “Would you go first?”

“I was her best friend. We were co-captains of the cheerleading squad.”

Skye thought she heard a small voice say, “Lorelei let you be her assistant. You were never the co-captain.”

It was interesting how quickly people jumped in to get their version across. Skye dipped her head to the two other girls. “Were you on the squad, too?”

They nodded and whispered.

That triad would come with Skye.

A muscular young man sitting with two other guys caught Skye’s attention next, and she walked over to them. “And how did you know Lorelei?”

His voice cracked when he answered, “She was my girlfriend.”

“I’m so sorry.” This boy would probably be the chief mourner. She would have to watch him closely. “Are these your friends?” Skye indicated the teens flanking him.

“Yes, we’re on the football team together.”

My group, too. She worked her way through the rest of the kids. The last girl sat by herself in the back, staring into space and looking out of place among the ultraslim blondes who had been in Lorelei’s inner circle. She had a voluptuous figure and long, wavy brown hair. It took Skye several tries to get the girl’s attention.

Finally, the loner said, “I’m no one. Lorelei didn’t know I was alive.”

Skye looked at her quizzically.

The girl rose from her seat. Her brown eyes blazed. “I hated her. I’m glad she’s dead.”

It was close to ten-thirty by the time Skye left the guidance office. Several of the students had asked for individual sessions. She was heading for the faculty lounge and the staff bathroom when Opal Hill, the school secretary, came flying down the hall. Normally Opal reminded Skye of a mouse, but today, dressed all in black, she looked more like a bat.

“Oh, thank goodness I found you. Mr. Knapik is in with the coordinator from the co-op and has ordered me not to disturb them, but the police are here. What should I do?”

“Tell Homer immediately.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Well, I can.” Skye marched toward the office, trailed by the secretary.

Wally, Officer Quirk, and two other Scumble River policemen were standing in the main office. Skye walked past them, ignoring their words, and knocked on Homer’s door. No answer. She knocked again and leaned her head against the wood. Not a sound. She tried the door. It opened easily, but no one was in the room.

Skye turned to Wally. “Did you see Homer leave this office?”

The chief shook his head. “No, but we don’t need him. Just give us the class lists, and we’ll pull the students we need to talk to.”

Skye ignored Wally and tried Opal. “Was Homer in his office when the police arrived and you left to get me?”

The secretary nodded.

“How the heck did he get out?” Skye scanned the inside of Homer’s office, and walked over to the closed drapes. Come to think of it, she had never seen them open. She stuck her hand underneath the fabric and fished for the cord. Nabbing it, she yanked. The curtains swished back to reveal not the window Skye was expecting, but a door designed to look like a window from the outside of the building.

Opal murmured, “I guess they went to lunch.”

“At ten-thirty?”

The other woman shrugged.

Skye turned to Wally. “You’ll have to wait for them to get back. Opal and I don’t have the authority to let you have the list or interview students.”

Wally’s face was rigid. “We don’t need your permission.”

Skye didn’t know what the law said, but she knew what parent reaction would be if they allowed Wally free rein. “Sorry, but if you insist, we’ll advise students not to talk to you until we can reach their parents.”

“You’re out of line.” Wally sighed. “I understand you want to protect your kids, but the longer we wait, the colder the trail gets.”

What he had just said finally sank through to Skye. “Are you saying she was murdered?”

Skye screamed. It felt good, so she did it again. One more time, she decided, and then she could face returning to the chaos inside the high school. She had borrowed Trixie’s car keys and locked herself in the Mustang in order to blow off some steam and refrain from hitting someone.

The question wasn’t whom to smack, but whom to smack first? The coach/guidance counselor, who hated sharing a room with Skye and kept trying to sneak into the guidance office and force Skye out? The insufferable coordinator from the co-op, who had finally dropped by but still refused to interact with any of the students, and instead had locked himself in with Homer, then had had the nerve to go out to lunch? Or Wally, who continued to try to freeze Skye with his indifference every time they were in the same room together?

Reluctantly, Skye emerged from the small car. The dark interior had been soothing, almost like being inside a mug of hot cocoa. Too bad a cup of Swiss Miss wasn’t inside of her; she could use a shot of chocolate comfort right now. As she entered the school, she could hear sounds of male bonding—guffaws, chuckles, and snickers—coming from behind the principal’s closed door. She looked at her watch—nearly noon. Obviously the co-op coordinator and Homer had returned from their early luncheon.

All the buttons on the telephone were lit, and as fast as Opal answered one, another line would light up. Her part of the conversations consisted of, “Sorry, we can’t give out that information.” Then she paused as the person on the other end yelled at her. She finished with, “I’m really sorry, but I’m not allowed to say.”

The secretary’s sparse mouse-colored hair stood on end, and her watery brown eyes were red-rimmed from the tears she kept dabbing away with a shredded tissue. Obviously the woman was overwhelmed by the volume and vituperativeness of the calls.

Skye stared at Homer’s closed door. Opal was nearing a breakdown, and the principal needed to do something about it. A sudden wave of male laughter helped Skye make up her mind. With some principals she used reason to achieve what she wanted. With others she used diplomacy. Homer reacted only to frontal attacks.

She knocked sharply on the door and entered without waiting for permission. “Homer, the phones are ringing off the wall. Opal needs someone to help her with all the calls.”

The jovial expression on the principal’s face changed to one of annoyance. “What do you want me to do about it? You’ve confiscated all my personnel.”

Skye counted to ten and reminded herself of Homer’s age and position before she replied. “Two, I’m only using two of your people.”

“Sure, but how about all the teachers who are too upset to teach their classes?” Homer’s tone was sarcastic.

“I did suggest hiring some floating subs for today,” she reminded him, keeping hold of her temper with great difficulty.

“It’s not in the budget.” Homer sat back in his chair and shook the hair out of his eyes. “Did you know the co-op is going to charge us for the people they sent over? You didn’t have authorization to request help. We may have to take that from your salary.”

Skye opened her mouth and closed it without speaking. She glanced at the silent coordinator. She could swear he had a smirk on his face. Between gritted teeth she muttered, “Fine. Now, about some help for Opal . . .”

Homer sighed. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Coach,” Skye answered. “It’s his guidance counselor day, and since he has refused to do any crisis counseling, and the guidance office is occupied, he’s just sitting around in the teachers’ lounge stirring up the faculty.”

“He won’t like this,” Homer said.

“Really? And I’m having such a good time today myself.” Skye knew she shouldn’t be so sarcastic, but it had just slipped out, and she couldn’t back down now.

“Okay, Coach can answer phones.” Homer leaned back in his chair. “You stop and tell him on your way back to the guidance office.”

“I think it would be better coming from you.” Skye pushed the phone toward Homer. “For some reason, Coach thinks I’m out to get him.”

As Homer dialed and spoke, Skye smiled. She loved a twofer—help for Opal and a way to keep Coach out of the guidance office.

After the principal got off the phone, Skye said, “Did you know that the police were here and tried to question the students?”

“No, that must have been when we were . . . ah . . . at that special meeting we had to attend.”

“Right.” Was that the one Ronald McDonald chaired? Skye tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Anyway, what will we do when they come back?”

“I’ll check with the school lawyer and see.” Homer reached for the phone he had just pushed aside. He spoke for a while, and after he hung up, he said, “Nope, Bob says not to let the police question the students. The law is unclear, but we could be in trouble if the parents could prove we were negligent in protecting their child’s rights. Either school personnel or a parent must be with the child when he or she is interviewed.”

“Better let people know because Wally will no doubt return any minute.” Skye waved and backed out of the door. Without warning, she felt icy fingers grab her arm. She yelped and spun around.

Kent Walker’s pale blue eyes stared into hers.

“Oh my gosh, Kent, you scared me to death.” She shook off his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you aware that the police chief is interrogating some of the students right here in school? I tried to sit in with the kids as he questioned them, but one of his storm troopers threw me out.”

One thing she had liked about Kent was his high level of involvement with the students. So why didn’t what he had just said sound right? She didn’t have time to think about it now. “Show me where they are.”

Kent guided her down the hall to the Home Ec room. The space was divided into two. The half nearest the door was filled with sewing machines, several teens, all of whom avoided looking at each other, and the police officers who were guarding them.

The other half of the room was set up as the cooking area, and Wally had confiscated this section for his interviews. The heavy stoves and refrigerators that formed a wall between the two areas filtered out most of the conversation.

Skye marched through the sewing area before the police could stop her. The officers were quicker where Kent was concerned, and nabbed him as he tried to follow her into the interrogation section.

As he was escorted away, he yelled, “Tell the kids they don’t have to say anything.”

She yelled back, “I’ll take care of the students; you tell Homer to start calling their parents.”

Wally was speaking as she entered the kitchen. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened to your friend. There’s no need to be afraid.” He leaned casually against the counter.

The blonde sitting at the aqua Formica kitchen table did not look frightened. The girl’s cold blue eyes sparkled with disdain as she turned them toward Skye. “You’re that shrink that talked to us this morning.”

Skye nodded. “I’m Ms. Denison, the school psychologist. And you’re Zoë VanHorn, Lorelei’s best friend.”

“Right on the first try.” Zoë examined her long purple nails. “I don’t have to talk to the cops, correct?”

Before Skye could answer, Wally moved from the counter to her side and ordered in a low voice, “Get out.”

“No.” Skye wrinkled her brow. Darn, this whole business was so much harder with Wally still mad at her. Maybe he was right. Maybe she had betrayed his trust by investigating alone last summer, but she had apologized repeatedly. What more could she do to make things right between them? She had never dreamed he would be this hurt.

Wally took her arm and tried to lead her away.

She refused to budge. “Have you called Zoë’s parents?”

Wally released his grip. “Get out, or I’ll have you removed by force.”

“A school representative must be present if a minor is to be interrogated without a parent in attendance.”

“That’s not the law.”

“No? Well, it’s in the school handbook, which I’m obligated to follow, and the school attorney has advised us to handle things this way.” Good thing she had actually read the manual when she was first hired.

“Tough. Get out.” Wally turned his back on her.

Zoë waved her hand. “I want her to stay.”

“No.” Wally’s face was beginning to turn red.

The teen shrugged. “Then I want a lawyer.”

Wally’s face went from cherry to maroon. “Have a seat, Ms. Denison.”

“Thank you, Chief Boyd.” Skye settled herself in a chrome kitchen chair and studied Wally. Once his face had returned to its natural tan hue, he was a handsome man. He had recently turned forty, but except for a few gray threads in his curly black hair, and a couple of lines radiating from his brown eyes, there were few signs of his age.

Skye shook her head. She had been half in love with him since she was fifteen. When she first met him he was fresh out of the police academy. Everyone liked him, especially the teens. He was fair and honest with them. She had developed a huge crush on the young officer, and he had handled it kindly without ever embarrassing her or taking advantage of the situation.

In the ensuing years she had moved away, he had gotten married, she had moved back, and they had become friends. But last summer she had destroyed that friendship by going behind his back. That betrayal, and his wife’s leaving him for another man, had changed Wally. Skye kept hoping it was a temporary situation and that he would return to his old self, given enough time.

Skye suddenly noticed that both the chief and the teen were staring at her, waiting for her to speak. “So, what were you and Zoë discussing?”

“I had asked Zoë to tell me a little about Lorelei’s movements yesterday.”

The girl ran her fingers through her short curls and wet her already-glossy lips. “Let’s see. It was pretty much same old, same old.”

Wally drew up a chair and sat opposite the females. “Start at the beginning. When was the first time you saw Lorelei yesterday?”

“I picked her up at her house around seven, and we buzzed the gut for a half hour or so.”

Wally and Skye’s eyes met. “Buzzing the gut” was what the teens called driving down Basin Street, Scumble River’s main drag, and circling back by cutting through the McDonald’s parking lot on one end and Mayor Clapp’s used-car lot on the other. It was also called “shooting the loop,” and it was technically illegal, although that law was not often enforced.

Skye spoke, earning a glare from Wally. “What did you girls talk about?”

“Stuff.” Her bony shoulders under a tight-ribbed sweater moved up and down. “You know, whose clothes are so ‘last year,’ who’s a trendoid wannabe, who was slipping who the tongue at the party last night.”

“Did you pick up anyone else?”

“Well, no, I drive a Miata.” Zoë looked at the adults, who appeared clueless. “No backseat.”

“Nice wheels,” Skye murmured. It was pretty pathetic that a teenager owned the car that she could only dream of buying. It was clear that Skye had taken a wrong turn somewhere on life’s highway.

“Yeah, right.” Wally tried to regain control of the interview. “So you arrived at school at approximately seven-thirty, but classes don’t start until eight.”

“We had a cheerleader meeting.” Zoë bent down and adjusted the ankle strap on her black sandals.

“Who was there?” Wally asked, taking out his notebook.

Skye itched to do the same.

“Mrs. Frayne, me, Lorelei, Caresse, and Farrah. Tara was on vacation, and we’re down a girl since DiDi moved away. That’s what the meeting was about. Picking a new Black Widow.”

“What the he—ck is a Black Widow?” Wally asked.

Zoë rolled her eyes. “The name of the cheerleading squad, of course. The baseball and football teams are the Scorpions, so we’re the Black Widows. Get it?”

The chief nodded wearily. “What are the other girls’ last names?”

“Farrah Miles and Caresse Wren.”

“Next, you went to your first-period class, right?”

The teen nodded. “We have all our classes together.”

“Lorelei wasn’t out of your sight all day?” The chief frowned.

“Well, except for seventh and eighth hour.”

“What happened during those periods?”

“Since there was no PE, and Lorelei and Chase had back-to-back study hall, Mr. Walker called a rehearsal for Sleeping Beauty.” Zoë pulled a mirror out of her purse.

“You aren’t in the play?” Skye’s question earned her another scowl from the chief.

“Of course I am.” A tiny line appeared between the teen’s perfect eyebrows. “But Lorelei and Chase were the leads.”

“What is Chase’s last name?” Wally slid back his chair.

“Wren. He’s Caresse’s twin.” Zoë spread another coat of scarlet gloss on her lips.

Wally looked at Skye. “Ms. Denison, is Mr. Walker the disappearing teacher you dragged me over to meet yesterday?”

“Yes.” Skye thought a moment. There was someone missing. “How about Troy Yates? I thought he was her boyfriend. Wasn’t she with him at all yesterday?”

Zoë shrugged. “Probably. Who knows?”

The chief nodded thoughtfully as the three sat in silence.

Finally, Zoë asked, “Is everything Crystal Light-clear now?”

Wally didn’t look up from his notebook. “Clear as mud.”

CHAPTER 5

Mind Your Ps and Clues

After Zoë left, Wally said to Skye, “She didn’t seem overly grief-stricken, did she?” “One of the first stages of grief is denial. Maybe it hasn’t hit her yet. So many adolescents have no concept of mortality.” Skye felt she had to support the girl, but in her heart she agreed with the chief. Zoë had not come across as sad.

“That girl’s period of mourning is about as short as her skirt.”

Skye didn’t want to argue, so instead she changed the subject. “Have you talked to Elvira Doozier yet?”

“She’s not at school today. I sent someone out to her house.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“The Dooziers just don’t like talking to the police.”

“Too bad she’s not here today. I’d like to be with her when you question her.”

Wally slumped in his chair. “I suppose you plan on sitting here for all the interviews?”

“Until their parents arrive.”

“You called the parents? That was a mistake.”

“I told you if you tried to see the kids alone, we had to contact the parents.”

Wally shook his head. Before he could speak, the PA system crackled. “Ms. Denison, line one.”

Now what? Skye shot out of her seat and hurried toward the office. They would never page her for a phone call if it weren’t extremely urgent. Most of the time, she was lucky to get a message slip stuck in her mailbox.

She rounded the corner and grabbed the receiver. “Skye Denison, may I help you?”

“Skye, it’s Caroline Greer. Thank goodness I found you. We need you right away.”

“What’s up?” Skye couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard the elementary-school principal so shaken up. Caroline Greer was famous for her calm demeanor.

“Linette Ingels.”

Shit! Skye had forgotten that Lorelei had a sister. She should have had a crisis team at the elementary school, too. “She’s not at school, is she?”

“No, but she was on the phone last night with her friends. They’re all upset, and the hysteria is spreading through the school faster than lice.” Caroline’s tone showed her strain. “How soon can you get here?”

Caroline was a great principal. If she said she needed help, things must be really bad. Skye looked at the clock. It was a little past twelve-thirty. The kids must have just gotten in from lunch recess. “I’ll be right over. Just let me tie up some loose ends.” Skye could hear excited voices in the background.

“Hurry.”

The line went dead in Skye’s hand. Opal was still busy answering phones. Through the open door to the health room, Skye could see the coach with a receiver in one hand and an aggrieved expression on his face as he grunted into the mouthpiece. It made her whole day to see that man actually work.

Homer was still with the co-op coordinator when Skye entered his office. She explained the situation at the grade school and suggested that the principal sit in on the rest of the chief’s interviews with their students.

As Skye talked, the coordinator stood and picked up his briefcase. “Well, Homer,” he said, “looks like things here are under control. I’ve got to get going.”

“Since you’re leaving, could you drop me at the elementary school on your way?” Skye asked.

A look of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Are you ready to leave now? I’ve got an important meeting at one.”

“Just let me grab my purse. I’ll meet you in the parking lot. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A red Corvette.”

Somehow his answer didn’t surprise her.

After a brief stop in the grade school’s office, Skye went directly to Linette Ingels’s fifth-grade classroom. The teacher and principal were each surrounded by several students. Other kids were wandering around the room. The children were talking excitedly in loud, high-pitched voices.

Skye whispered in the principal’s ear, “Shall I take over?”

Caroline nodded, and eased out of the grasp of several girls. The teacher took the signal and followed suit.

Skye raised her voice. “Hi, I’m Ms. Denison, and I work at this school. One of my jobs is to help kids who are feeling bad. Anybody here feeling sort of bad or sad?” She knew she had to build some rapport with this age level before talking directly about Lorelei’s death.

Two-thirds of the students raised their hands, as did their teacher, who smiled wearily.

“Okay. Let’s sit on the carpet in a circle.” Skye eased onto the floor. “I know many of you talked to Linette last night. A lot of times when something happens that makes us feel sad, it helps to talk to other people about it. I’ll bet that’s why Linette called you.”

A girl with long red curls bounced up onto her knees. “Linette said her sister died, but we don’t believe it.”

Skye saw several nodding heads. Good. The little girl had given her the opening she needed to talk about Lorelei’s death. “Why don’t you believe Linette?”

“She tells stories,” the redhead answered.

“I see.” Skye tucked that info away for later examination. “Well, I’m sorry to say she’s telling the truth this time. Lorelei did die yesterday.”

A timid voice asked, “At school?”

“Yes, but that is very unusual. You don’t have to worry about that happening to you, or anyone else you know.” Skye said a silent prayer that she was telling the truth.

The kids fell quiet.

“How many of you knew Lorelei?” Skye asked.

More hands than she expected were raised.

“Wow. Did you meet her playing at Linette’s?”

A boy in the back answered, “Nah, she came to class one day, and showed us her crown and junk when she got to be Miss Stanley County. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale.”

One of the girls chimed in, “Linette is going to win that same pageant sometime. She’s already won two more than Lorelei did at her age.”

Skye decided to walk the mile or so back to the high school rather than waste time looking for a ride. It was a clear day, and the temperature had finally broken out of the forties. Birds twittered from telephone wires, and the slight breeze smelled of spring. She barely noticed either the buds on the trees or the cracks on the sidewalk. Her mind kept turning over everything she had heard that morning.

It bothered her that no one seemed to be very sad about Lorelei’s death. People were upset, but more about the passing of an eighteen-year-old in general than Lorelei specifically. She seemed almost more of a symbol than a person.

Skye glanced at her watch; the day was getting away from her. She still had to find the girl from this morning who said she hated Lorelei. The girl needed to be turned over to the police, but Skye wanted a chance to talk to her first. She also wanted to touch base with Justin. Being present when a body was discovered couldn’t be good for that boy’s fragile mental health.

About a block from the school, Skye heard yelling and screaming. As she got nearer, she saw police cruisers with their lights on and civilian cars parked everywhere—even in the sacred bus lane.

Skye edged her way up the steps through a mob of people. Stanley County deputies guarded the doors.

She tried to step around them and was told, “You can’t go in there, Miss.”

“I work here. I’m the school psychologist.”

“Do you have any ID?”

“Nothing that shows I work here.”

“No faculty card?”

“I wasn’t in this building the day they took the pictures.” Skye was feeling desperate. “I’m assigned to all the Scumble River schools. Just step inside and ask the principal.”

“Sorry. We can’t leave the door.”

Skye fumbled in her purse and found her Illinois School Psychologists Association membership card, her National Association of School Psychologists membership card, and her Nationally Certified School Psychologist card. She pressed these into the officer’s hand.

After studying them closely, he said, “Okay, you can go in.”

She always knew that belonging to ISPA, NASP, and NCSP was important, although this wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she joined.

The officer opened the door a sliver, and she squeezed inside. Homer pounced on her as she popped through. Immediately, she wished she hadn’t tried so hard to get back to work.

“Good. You’re finally here. Where were you? The secretary at the grade school said you left twenty minutes ago.”

“I walked.”

“Bad time to take an afternoon stroll.” Homer dug his finger between his collar and neck. “We’ve got parents up the wazoo.”

“How did they get in, with all the police surrounding the place?”

“These are the ones that got here before we called the cops.”

“Oh.” Skye let the confusion show on her face. “And why did you have to call the police?”

“They were out of control. They wouldn’t sit quietly and take turns talking. Worst of all, they refused to move their cars from the bus lane.” The principal raised alarmed eyes. “The transportation director will kill me if I don’t get those vehicles out of the way.”

“I know this isn’t the time, but I’ve always wondered why everything in the school revolves around the buses. Is the bus company owned by the mob or something?”

Homer paled. “The superintendent has ordered us never to discuss the transportation contract.”

“Okaaay.” Skye lengthened the word and narrowed her eyes. Another mystery to look into sometime. “What’s your strategy?”

“Ah . . . that is . . . why don’t we go with your plan this time?”

She took a deep breath and counted to ten. Homer found it easy to criticize others, but he always froze the minute he had to take action himself. “It’s not even two yet, so we have more than ninety minutes before the buses arrive.” Skye paused to gather her thoughts. “Use the PA to do an all-call announcement, saying that any cars that are not parked in legal spots within the next ten minutes will be towed. Then call the mayor.”

At the look of apprehension on the principal’s face she changed her tack.

“Come to think of it, the best thing to do is call Charlie. Have him call the mayor and ask for the city tow truck.”

“That sounds good. How about the parents?”

“What are they here for?”

“You had me call them,” Homer answered.

“You called all of them?” Skye asked. “I only wanted you to call the half dozen or so parents of the students being questioned by the police.”

“That’s who I called. The rest came to support their friends and relatives, or in a panic over their own children, or out of morbid curiosity.”

“Is Chief Boyd still interviewing students?”

“Nope, he talked to four or five after you left, and a couple of faculty members, then left about an hour ago.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “Also announce that Wally and his officers have left the building, and that no students are currently being questioned by police. Ask everyone to leave unless they have urgent business with school personnel. Have them get a number from Opal, and tell them you and I will see them in order.”

Homer looked skeptical. “Why should they listen now? They haven’t been listening to me for the last couple of hours.”

“Two reasons. Their cars are about to be towed, and by using the number system, we pit them against each other. It’ll be competitive—who can get the best numbers.”

The principal didn’t look convinced, but he moved off to follow Skye’s directions.

Skye took a quick scan of the hall. No more parents. Good. She really needed to see some kids, but every time she ventured out of her office a parent grabbed her. She checked her watch. Damn. Only half an hour of school left. Which student should she talk to first? Who would know the identity of the girl she needed to see? Justin. For someone on the fringes, he seemed to know a lot about what the other kids were up to—if he’d talk.

She had Opal send for him and waited in the guidance office. It was beginning to feel like home. I wonder how I could get Homer to let me have this room permanently. She eyed the rows and rows of metal filing cabinets and the big old wooden desk. Coach has an office in the gym. He really doesn’t need two.

Justin walked in as Skye was admiring the comfy leather chair. As usual, he didn’t say anything.

Skye greeted him and asked him to sit. “Quite a day yesterday, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She was encouraged. At least he had verbalized an answer. “I noticed you stuck around the cafeteria this morning after most of the kids left. Were you close to Lorelei?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Better than going to class.”

“Do you know the girl who said she hated Lorelei?”

“Sure, that’s Frannie Ryan.”

Skye was surprised by Justin’s willingness to answer. Could it be that this incident had actually been good for him? Maybe it was helping him to be less self-absorbed. “So, are you okay about yesterday?”

Justin looked at her blankly.

“I mean about finding Lorelei like that, and talking to the police and everything.”

Another shrug. “No biggie.”

Skye waited to see if he would add anything. After several minutes, she said, “I guess you better go back to class before the bell rings, so you can get your books.”

Justin levered himself out of the chair. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned. “You know, Ms. Denison, one thing I figured out from yesterday is that even someone who seems perfect is probably more messed up than you’d think.”

Wow, Justin had spent time and effort thinking about someone other than himself. That was real progress. Before Skye could formulate a response he was out the door.

In a counseling session, the last few words as the client left the room were usually the most significant. Justin must have been referring to Lorelei. But how had Sleeping Beauty been messed up?

The bell rang as Skye was noting Justin’s statement in his file. She pulled her appointment book from her purse and flipped to the next day’s page. She penciled in Elvira Doozier at eight, followed by Frannie Ryan at nine, then added Zoë VanHorn, Troy Yates, Farrah Miles, and Caresse and Chase Wren. It would be a full day.

Skye stood and stretched. She needed to talk to the social workers the co-op had sent, debrief Trixie and Abby, and check to see when the body would be released. And if there was time, she also wanted to question Trixie about the cheerleader meeting Zoë had mentioned, and ask Kent about the Sleeping Beauty rehearsal.

She had set up the co-op social workers in the band room. She was impressed by their ingenuity. They had shoved most of the chairs and music stands into the center of the room, and arranged portable bulletin boards on either side, giving them each privacy.

“I see you guys are old hands at this.” Skye gestured to their construction.

The male social worker nodded. “Too much so. Seems like we’re called in to do crisis counseling more and more often.”

“We really appreciate your help.” Skye looked over to the woman to include her. “I’m here by myself.”

“No problem.” The woman picked up two sheets of yellow legal paper. “Here’s a list of who we saw, our impressions, and suggestions for follow-up.”

“Thanks. This is great.” Skye looked over the names, about twenty in all.

“You should send this out to these kids’ parents.” The man handed her a sheaf of photocopied forms. “It tells them we talked to their child. You can check one of the boxes on the bottom as to what, if any, follow-up is recommended.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” Skye was overwhelmed. It was so nice to have help, not to have to think of everything herself.

The two social workers gathered their belongings. The woman said, “There doesn’t seem to be a need for us to come back, but if the situation changes, call us and we’ll be right here.”

Skye shook both their hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

As they walked toward the entrance the man turned to her. “You really do need to get a crisis-intervention plan in place. I’ll put an outline in the mail to you tomorrow.”

“Great.” Skye waved. “Thanks again.” For a moment she almost believed she saw halos around their heads. Of course, it was just the afternoon sun shining through the outer door . . . wasn’t it?

Clutching the papers they had given her, Skye went in search of Trixie and Abby. Staff were required to stay half an hour after the dismissal bell. Skye had five minutes to find them.

They were together in the IMC, formerly known as the library. Both women clutched cans of Pepsi. Abby was sprawled in one of the few upholstered seats. Her white-blond hair cascaded over the chair’s back; a tanned hand was laid across her eyes. Trixie sat on the counter, her short, compact body bent at the waist as she clasped her knees.

Abby greeted Skye as she entered the room with, “I’m never doing this again. My throat hurts, and my head is pounding.”

“It really was a lot harder than you said, Skye,” Trixie chimed in. She ran her fingers through her short brown hair. “We don’t have the training.”

“Well, I really appreciate your pitching in. And I understand how hard it is. But unfortunately . . .”

Abby straightened, her aquamarine eyes narrowed. Trixie jumped down from the counter. They both said, “What . . .”

“Sorry.” Skye ran a finger around her suddenly tight collar. Trixie and Abby didn’t know the half of it . . . yet. “But we’ll need to draw up a crisis strategy. Now that you two have some experience, it’s logical for you to be included in that plan.”

“How could you do that to us?” Abby advanced on Skye. “We only did this as a favor to you.”

Trixie closed in from the other side. “You wouldn’t do this to your best friend, would you?”

“Sorry. Trying to make me feel like this is my fault won’t work. You both know my mom. May is a certified travel agent for guilt trips. In comparison to her, you two haven’t even gotten your learner’s permits yet.”

Abby and Trixie muttered ominously under their breath and moved closer to Skye.

When she realized she was being backed into the circulation desk, Skye offered words of appeasement. “Don’t worry. You won’t be in this alone. Scumble River High has a lot of caring teachers who often aren’t noticed because the bad ones get all the attention. I’m sure we’ll get plenty of volunteers, so no one will have the entire responsibility on his or her shoulders.”

“You’d better be right.” Trixie was now knee to knee with Skye. “Because if I have to go through this again, I’m putting that picture of you and the goat in the school paper.”

Skye cringed. She knew the photo Trixie meant. When they were twelve their Girl Scout troop had visited a petting zoo, and a huge goat had developed a crush on Skye. He had followed her everywhere, finally butting her to the ground and standing guard over her so she couldn’t get up.

“And I have a picture Vince gave me while we were dating. It’s you and him attending your junior prom. How would you like everyone reminded that the only escort you could get to the dance was your brother?” Abby leaned in from the other side until they were nose to nose, and said, “Now, you were saying that Trixie and I had done our part, and you’d get someone else for the next crisis, right?”

“Right,” Skye mumbled.

CHAPTER 6

Sweetness and Slight

Ms. Denison, Ms. Denison.” A high-pitched fake-sounding drawl shot through Skye’s aching head. Her hand was inches from the knob of the office door when she turned. “Yes? May I help you?”

“I’m Priscilla VanHorn, Zoë’s mother. Do you have a minute?” The overblown redhead wore a dress that looked as if it were made out of leftover wallpaper that had been poorly hung.

“Sure. Let’s use the health office.” Skye ushered the woman through the main door and into a small room to the left.

Skye took the seat behind the desk, forcing Mrs. VanHorn to perch on the vinyl cot. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m concerned about my daughter. I understand you were with her when that awful police chief interrogated her?” The woman raised her voice at the end of her statement, making it sound like a question.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t say he interrogated her. He asked her a few questions—mostly trying to get a picture of Lorelei’s last few hours.” Skye wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Well, Zoë was very upset by the whole ordeal.” Mrs.

VanHorn rummaged in her purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed hankie. “Zoë and Lorelei have been best friends forever. They’ve been together in every pageant, play, and performance. They’re in the same clubs and have been cheering together since junior high.”

“I had no idea they were so close.” Skye thought of Zoë’s demeanor during both Wally’s interview and the crisis counseling. “She really covered up her feelings well.”

“Lorelei was like a sister to Zoë and a daughter to me.” Mrs. VanHorn touched the corner of her eye with the handkerchief. “We were closer than her own family.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Her mother was only interested in Lorelei when she was winning a crown. And Linette’s only use for her sister was as a tape measure—to show how much better she was at everything.”

“My, how sad for Lorelei.” Skye frowned, trying to remember what she had heard about the young woman. “She seemed like such a golden adolescent—winning all the school prizes and honors.”

Mrs. VanHorn heaved a big sigh. “So, you can see how being grilled by the police is too upsetting for Zoë?”

“Yes, we’ll try not to let it happen again. And I’ll talk to Zoë myself tomorrow, to make sure she’s okay.” The woman didn’t move. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I just had a thought.” Mrs. VanHorn widened her eyes and fluttered her lashes. “I’m sure the school will go ahead and put on Sleeping Beauty. After all, the show must go on. Zoë would be the perfect replacement for Lorelei’s part.” She leaned forward and lowered her fake drawl a notch. “Zoë really should have had the part to begin with. She has a superior voice, and is a much better actress than Lorelei.”

“I really don’t have anything to do with the play.”

Mrs. VanHorn ignored Skye’s statement. “Zoë and I decided to let Lorelei have the part, to get her mother off her back.”

“How . . . nice of you.” This woman was amazing. She must subscribe to the new magazine, Better Living Through Denial. Skye tried again. “I don’t have anything to do with casting the musical. You need to see Kent Walker.” Skye forced down a snicker as she pictured Priscilla VanHorn trying to influence Kent’s decision. Skye remembered his endless monologues in the teachers’ lounge as he tried to decide who should get what part. The faculty had learned quickly that suggestions were not welcome.

“He’s still in charge?” The woman looked confused.

“Yes, why wouldn’t he be?” Mrs. VanHorn didn’t answer, so Skye finally asked, “Do you know where his room is?”

“Why, yes I do.” The woman hoisted herself off the cot and picked up her purse. “Now that Lorelei’s gone, you just keep my Zoë in mind for those honors and awards you were talking about.”

Skye waited until Mrs. VanHorn had disappeared down the hall. She looked at her watch. It was nearly four-thirty. She had forgotten to ask Trixie about that cheerleading meeting when she talked to her earlier, and the librarian would have left for home a half hour ago. She needed to speak to Kent, too, but if he weren’t gone, he’d be tied up with Mrs. VanHorn.

Skye left the health room and looked toward Homer’s office. To her surprise, the lights were still on and she could hear voices. This was not a good sign. The principal usually beat the kids out the door when the final bell rang.

It was time to head home before another crisis was dropped in her lap. Her purse was still in the guidance room. She had taken only one step in that direction when a booming voice asked, “Is that you, Skye, honey?”

It was Charlie standing in Homer’s doorway. She turned and walked back. “Hi, Uncle Charlie. What’s up?”

Homer was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, Charlie guided Skye to a chair and sat opposite her. “Homer was telling me how he handled the parent situation today. That was quick thinking.”

Skye skewered Homer with a look he didn’t see. “Did everything work out all right with the buses?”

Without lifting his head, Homer talked to his desktop. “Yes, all the cars were moved, and most of the parents left.”

“Good.”

Homer stole a peek at Charlie. “Skye was a big help.”

“I’m sure she was. I know she always is to me.” Charlie stared at Homer. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Homer grabbed a file and flipped frantically through its contents. “Well . . . ah . . . things will probably be pretty much back to normal tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

Charlie looked at Skye. “What’s your guess?”

“Until we know for sure what happened to Lorelei, and the police release her body so there can be a funeral, I doubt things will be back to normal.”

“Any idea what we should do?” Charlie asked.

Skye struggled to concentrate and formulate a thoughtful answer. “We need to know where the police are on this. Are they ready to say officially she was murdered? The chief won’t say, but his actions sure point to it. I don’t think he’ll share much information with me this time.”

Charlie took a small spiral notebook and a stubby pencil from the pocket of his white shirt. “I’ll talk to Wally and get back to you before school starts tomorrow.”

“Also, I have a list of about twenty kids who should be talked to again tomorrow, to make sure they’re okay. Can we get one of the co-op social workers back?” Skye’s gaze bounced between Charlie and Homer.

“No.”

“Sure.”

The men’s voices overlapped each other.

“Charlie, we have to pay extra for them,” Homer whined. “We don’t have the budget.”

“Take it out of the fund for administration’s raises if you can’t find the money anywhere else.” Charlie turned back to Skye. “Anything else, sweetheart?”

She tapped the arm of the chair. “One more thing. We ought to be ready for another onslaught of parents.”

“How can we prepare for that?” Homer asked.

“Well, we could call an informational meeting ourselves. Tell them what we know, answer their questions, maybe even persuade Chief Boyd to speak.”

Charlie jumped up. “That’s a good idea. Let’s call it for first thing in the morning. I’ll get the PTO to put the announcement over their phone tree.”

The Parent Teacher Organization always came through, whether they were asked to raise money for a new science lab or spread the word about an early closure.

It was after five by the time Skye and Charlie left Homer’s office. They had started toward the front door when Charlie suddenly pulled her into an empty classroom. “Listen, I didn’t want to say this in front of old Homer, but I need your help.”

Skye nodded cautiously. It was easier to agree with Charlie than argue, but his requests usually meant trouble.

“If it turns out that girl was murdered, I need you to find out who did it. Wally’s a good cop, but he’s not part of the school, so he’s bound to miss some of the less obvious clues. Besides, a psychologist should be pretty good at getting at the truth.”

“Uncle Charlie, I really don’t think—”

“You solved Honey’s and Antonia’s murders. And that mystery at the recreational club last summer. I just thought you’d want to help out your old Uncle Charlie.”

“But . . .” she trailed off.

“I remember when I called you in New Orleans to let you know you had a job in Scumble River. You were so happy. You said, ‘If there’s anything I can do to repay you, I’ll do it.’ But I guess that was a long time ago.”

“I’m not sure what I could do,” she said lamely. It really was useless to argue with Charlie.

“I want the school absolved of all responsibility. There is no way I’m letting Al Ingels say it was our fault.” Charlie crossed his arms. “Besides, there’s something funny going on with Al, and I need to keep an eye on him.”

The rivalry between Charlie and Al Ingels was well-known. Mr. Ingels had run against Charlie for the school board—a sin not easily forgiven.

Skye let her weight sag against the teacher’s desk. “What if I do investigate, and we are responsible?”

“We’ll deal with that later,” Charlie said. “I have a gut feeling this has nothing to do with the school.”

Skye’s head ached, her stomach growled, and her feet hurt. She wanted to go home. And Charlie was probably right. It would take an insider to uncover all the inner workings of the high school. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll see what I can turn up. But be prepared. Lorelei deserves to have the truth about her death exposed, even if other people’s secrets have to come out, too.”

“Whatever you say. All I ask is that you tell me first.”

They started out of the classroom. “Homer won’t be too happy about me poking around,” Skye said.

“You don’t have to worry about Homer. The wheel’s spinning, but the hamster’s dead. He won’t even notice what you’re doing.”

The principal’s blue Taurus was pulling out of the lot when Charlie and Skye emerged from the building. A storm front had passed through, prematurely darkening the sky. The outdoor lights shed an eerie green gleam on the two remaining cars. Charlie and Skye headed toward the white Seville with the bumper sticker that read: AT MY AGE I’VE SEEN IT ALL, DONE IT ALL, HEARD IT ALL . . . I JUST CAN’T REMEMBER IT ALL. But before they reached the Cadillac, the other vehicle started up and headed in their direction.

It stopped a few feet in front of them and Kent Walker slid out of the driver’s side. “Good evening, Mr. Patukas.”

“Hey.” Charlie’s halfhearted greeting conveyed his opinion of Kent.

“Need a ride home?” Kent asked Skye.

“Thanks. Charlie’s going to drop me.”

“I thought we could get a bite to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m really tired.”

“You’ve got to eat. We’ll just go to the Feedbag.”

Skye frowned. She was hungry, and as usual, her refrigerator was bare. “Okay.” She turned to Charlie. “Why don’t you join us?”

Both men scowled. Charlie answered, “No, I’ve got to get home. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make.”

Skye kissed Charlie good-bye and squeezed into Kent’s car. The Acura NSX was slung so low that one practically had to know how to levitate to get in and out of it.

Kent shoved the gearshift into drive, and they roared out of the parking lot. “Why doesn’t Charlie like me?”

“You’re not from town. He’ll warm up eventually.”

“He likes Simon, and he’s not from Scumble River.” Kent turned to look at Skye, and the NSX veered sharply to the right, narrowly missing a parked car.

She bit her tongue to stop from screaming at him to keep his eyes on the road. “Simon’s got roots here. That gives him an in.”

“There’s more to it than that.” Kent screeched into a parking space directly in front of the restaurant.

“Maybe it’s your accent. He just needs time to get used to you.” Skye levered herself out of the low seat. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. He doesn’t influence my opinions.”

Kent ushered her through the glass doors. “Yeah, but he does control a lot of what happens in Scumble River.”

“I see.” Skye wondered, not for the first time, if Kent was dating her because he liked her or because he wanted to get in good with Charlie. Their relationship had started out nicely. Kent was a great conversationalist. He could discuss literature and travel, and some of his quips about Scumble River citizens were hilarious. But lately Skye had begun to notice his flaws. He was too much like her ex-fiancé—shallow and snobbish. It was probably time to end it before they got in any deeper.

The restaurant owner showed them to a table. Mauve upholstery and walls intermixed with wooden tables and brass accents. Neither the decor nor the food had changed in the two years she’d been home. Skye didn’t need to look at a menu to know what she wanted.

The waitress approached them. “What can I get you?”

“Is your fish fresh or frozen?” Kent asked, studying his menu.

Skye stiffened. They went through this every time they ate here. She could recite the server’s part from memory.

“Gee, let me check.” The waitress hurried away.

“Why do you do that?” Skye asked.

“What?”

“You always ask stuff like that, and I’ve explained that you can’t do that in Scumble River. Believe me, it’s frozen. Nothing on the menu is fresh. Everything is frozen here.”

A stubborn look settled on Kent’s features. “I’ve spoken to the owner. He said he’d think about changing that.”

“Never mind.” Skye didn’t want to argue about seafood. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to eat with him tonight. She had just about made up her mind to stop seeing Kent. The relationship wasn’t working for either of them. Still, the realistic part of her had argued that she needed to talk to him about Mrs. VanHorn and about the rehearsal Lorelei was supposed to attend. It felt a little mean, but the practical part of her won out. “Did Priscilla VanHorn find you this afternoon?” she asked.

“No, why?”

“She wants Zoë to play Sleeping Beauty.”

“Well, she was my second choice, but she makes a wonderful evil fairy.” Kent stood up. “Where is that waitress?”

“Punishing you for asking a stupid question,” Skye muttered under her breath. Aloud she said, “Speaking of Zoë, she said something that confused me.”

Kent walked over to the kitchen and stuck his head through the opening. “We’d like to order now,” he called.

Skye covered her face and considered bolting for the door. “Sit down,” she hissed.

Kent came back to their table, followed by their waitress, who said, “Frozen.”

He opened his mouth, but Skye kicked him before he could speak, and said, “We’ll both have the steak sandwich, medium rare, and fries. Iced tea for me, red wine for him.”

After the waitress left, Skye interrupted Kent again. “Did you have a rehearsal scheduled yesterday, during seventh and eighth periods?”

“Yes, for Sleeping Beauty and the Prince, but Chase didn’t show up, so I told Lorelei she could go back to study hall.”

“What did you do then?”

“Chief Boyd wanted to know that, too,” Kent complained. “I went back to my classroom and graded some essays.”

“Did Lorelei leave the gym while you were there?”

“No, she said she had a headache and didn’t want to go back to a noisy study hall, so I said she could lie down for a bit.” Kent looked guilty. “I know I’m not supposed to leave a student alone, but she said she’d only stay a little while.”

“Was anyone else around when you left?”

“Not that I saw. I wasn’t paying much attention. Why are you asking all these questions? Are you working for Wally?”

Skye laughed uncomfortably. “Nope, I’m just curious.”

She changed the subject to the new rules on copy-machine use at the high school. They chatted about school issues until they finished their meal. To ease her conscience, Skye insisted on paying for her half of the check.

Once they were settled in the car and headed toward her cottage, Skye ventured one more inquiry. “Why did you need to get into the gym so badly yesterday afternoon, and why did you disappear when I went to get Wally?”

Kent reddened. “I wanted to get some personal items from backstage, but then I realized how silly I was being and left.”

“What personal items?”

“That was the silly thing. Just some poetry I had been working on. I was afraid the police would make fun of it.”

“Oh, did anyone say anything?”

“No, I doubt they even noticed.”

“Wally’s pretty good about keeping things confidential.” Skye laughed. “Unless your poems were to Lorelei, he wouldn’t mention them.”

Kent’s attention seemed focused on pulling the car into her driveway. “That’s good to know.” He walked her to her door and turned to go. “Well, good night.”

“See you tomorrow.” During all the time they’d been dating he’d never once indicated a desire to accompany her inside, which now that she thought about it was a little strange. Skye stared at his retreating back. There was something odd about Kent Walker, no doubt about it.

CHAPTER 7

Finger in Every Why

Two eyes glowed eerily in the dark foyer as Skye opened her front door. A small shriek escaped her as she fumbled for the light switch, hit it, and saw Bingo sitting on the top of the hall table.

She scooped up the cat, bringing him nose to nose with her. “Never do that again. If you give me a heart attack, you’ll have to live with May, and you know how my mother feels about animals in the house.”

Bingo yawned, revealing needle-sharp white teeth and a tongue like a pink emery board. He wiggled out of Skye’s grasp and trotted into the kitchen.

She checked his bowls. Water and dry food were available, but Skye knew that the feline was waiting for the canned stuff he preferred. A few months ago, the vet had suggested giving Bingo only dry diet food. Bingo had refused to eat for a week and never lost an ounce. Skye eventually caved in and gave him what he wanted.

It occurred to her that perhaps Bingo’s supposed weight problem was similar to her own. Maybe, like Skye, the cat had reached his set point, and the only way he would shed pounds would be to exist on so few calories that life wouldn’t be worth living.

As she was dishing out the cat’s dinner, Skye noticed the light on her answering machine blinking like a drunken firefly. How many calls were there?

Skye resisted the urge to play the messages immediately. She needed to get out of the clothes she had put on fifteen hours ago, and wash off whatever remained of her makeup.

After a quick shower, she slipped into her robe and poured a silken pearl of lotion into her palm, smoothing it over her face. It was such a luxury to be entirely comfortable. Now she was ready for round two of the day from hell.

Skye settled at the kitchen table with a glass of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, a pad of paper, and a pen. She pressed the play button and listened to the first message.

“This is your mother.” May didn’t believe in answering machines and had only recently been persuaded to speak into them; she drew the line at leaving any actual information.

The next few missives were from parents who had somehow gotten Skye’s unlisted number. Not a truly difficult feat in a small town, where everyone knew someone who knew the person you wanted to track down.

Skye decided to return their calls from school. They weren’t emergencies, and if she started talking to parents from home, she’d end up working twenty-four seven.

The next three messages were from May again. On the last one she actually said something besides her name. “Skye, call me at the police station. I’m working three to eleven tonight.”

Skye turned to the wall unit and dialed. Her mother hadn’t sounded like herself on the tape. She hoped another relative wasn’t under arrest, as had happened more than once before.

The phone didn’t ring even once before it was answered. “Scumble River Police Department, May speaking.”

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Where have you been?”

“I was at school until after five, and then I grabbed a bite to eat with Kent.”

“You’re not really interested in that boy, are you?”

“Ma, he’s nearly forty. I think he qualifies as a man.” Skye wondered how they had gotten so far down this road when she didn’t even remember making the turn.

“He acts about fifteen. You need to get back together with Simon.” May paused. “Heck, now that Wally’s divorce is almost final, I’d rather see you with him than Kent ‘my shit doesn’t stink’ Walker.”

“What in heaven’s name did Kent say to you at Christmas to tick you off so badly?”

“I’m not saying. Just stop seeing him.”

Skye considered telling her mother that she was about to quit dating the English teacher, but decided it was only fair to Kent to let him be the first to know. It was highly unusual for May to take such an intense dislike to an eligible bachelor. Ordinarily she was happy with any male Skye dated, as long as he was single and breathing. She just wanted to see her daughter married with children.

“Let’s change the subject,” Skye suggested. “Why were you trying to find me?”

“I figured you’d want to know the latest on the Ingels case.”

“Why would I want to know that?” Skye hedged.

“Charlie told me he wants you to investigate, on behalf of the school. And since you’ve upset Wally and broken it off with Simon, I figured your list of informants is getting mighty short.”

Her mom had a point. This time Wally would not sit down and tell her what was going on. And even when they were dating, Simon had never revealed much. May might be the only source she had left.

“You’re right, Mom. As usual, I need your help.” Skye reached down and scratched behind Bingo’s ears as he twined around her ankles.

Skye could almost hear May purr over the phone as she said, “Did you know that Kent Walker was the last person to see her alive—if you believe his story? You see why I want you to dump him? He’s probably the killer.”

Skye took a sip of soda pop and considered how to answer that statement. Ignoring it was always a good option. “Interesting. Anything about cause of death? Time-wise there was a pretty small window of opportunity. Kent left her at the beginning of seventh period, and I found her about fifteen minutes before the end of eighth period. That leaves nearly an hour and fifteen minutes for whatever happened to take place.”

“They found fragments of pills in the bottom of a bottle that was near her body,” May answered. “The pills and bottle have been sent to the lab for analysis. No clear fingerprints, except Lorelei’s, and the label was peeled off.”

“I saw that bottle. It looked sort of familiar—it had an unusual shape.” The connection Skye was searching for wouldn’t surface.

“Wally sent officers to check both grocery stores, the liquor store, and the gas stations. They didn’t find anything like it.”

“So, they’re pretty sure it’s murder?”

“Like you pointed out with your Aunt Minnie last year, how many people crush tablets and put them in a drink if they’re going to commit suicide? I imagine the same is true for an accidental overdose, and Lorelei’s father claimed she didn’t have any trouble swallowing pills.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope. Wally plans to talk to some more kids tomorrow and check out where everyone was during seventh and eighth periods.”

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“No, not until Monday.”

“I’ll call this time Monday night, and you can update me.”

“Oh, before I forget, I promised Gillian you’d call her tonight, no matter how late I spoke to you.”

“What does she want?” Since this was the cousin who had abducted Skye last summer, they weren’t on casual chatting terms.

Skye could almost hear her mother’s shrug. “She didn’t say, just told me it was vital she talked to you. Maybe it’s something about the Ingelses. They’re in that beauty-pageant circuit together. Linette is in the eight-to-ten-year-old age range, same as Kristin and Ginger’s daughter, Iris.”

Ginger, Gillian’s twin, had been in on the kidnapping scheme, too.

“Okay, let me hang up and call Gillian. Bye.”

“Dad has to pick up a part tomorrow in Brooklyn, so if you can be ready by seven, he’ll give you a ride to school.”

“I’ll be ready. Bye.”

“Bye, honey.”

Skye smiled. She could tell her mother was thrilled that they were on a “case” together. May hardly ever used endearments.

After listening to the rest of her messages, Skye punched in her cousin’s number. It rang several times, and she was about to hang up when a little girl answered. “Hello. Who is this?”

“This is Skye. Can I talk to your mother?”

“She’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh. Could you tell her I—?”

Before Skye could finish her sentence, she heard the phone thunk down and a high-pitched voice scream, “Mom, it’s Aunt Skye.”

The minutes ticked by, and Skye was considering hanging up when her cousin finally said, “Skye, glad you called. Ginger and I need a huge favor. Don’t say no until you hear the whole deal.”

“I’d be glad to help you if I can,” Skye forced herself to respond. Her New Year’s resolution was to be nicer to her aunts, uncles, and cousins.

“Here’s the thing. Both Kristin and Iris are signed up for the Junior Miss Stanley County pageant this weekend. Ginger and I can take them Friday, but we need you for Saturday. We were supposed to be off work, but since the bank was turned over to its new owner last week, all vacation days have been canceled for the first month, and anyone who doesn’t show up is fired.”

“Didn’t you know this was going to happen? The bank was bought out last year sometime.”

“No, they didn’t tell us slaves when the change was going to be made. Only the big shots knew.”

“Oh.” Skye thought fast. “How about their grandmas?”

“Mom’s going back down to Carle Clinic to get her meds adjusted and you know our husbands’ mothers don’t live in town.”

“I don’t have a car and wouldn’t have any idea what I was supposed to do at the pageant.”

“You can drive our minivan. The thing is, the entry fee is nearly three hundred dollars, and we can’t afford to just flush that down the toilet. Especially since the new owners at the bank cut everyone’s salary last year.”

“I see.” Skye considered what May had told her earlier. “Is Linette Ingels in this pageant?”

“Yes, although she’ll probably have to miss because of her sister. That’s another reason I’d hate for Kristin and Iris to have to drop out. Without Linette, they both have a decent chance of winning, or at least finishing in the money.”

“Sure, I’ll take them.” Skye doodled a tiara on her yellow legal pad. “Anything special I should know?”

“We’ll drop the TransSport and the girls off at your place at seven on Saturday. You have to be at Laurel High School by eight, and ready to go on by nine. Kristin and Iris pretty much know what to do, but I’ll jot down some instructions for you.”

“Seven a.m.?” Skye squeaked. She was not a morning person.

“Sorry about that.” Gillian didn’t sound sorry. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Thanks a million for helping out. Bye.”

Friday morning Skye walked through the deserted high school. Although she had arrived nearly half an hour before anyone else was due, she wouldn’t have time for a swim this morning. She headed directly to the guidance office and unlocked the door. Once inside she thumbed on the desk light, opened her appointment book, and put her purse into the right-hand drawer. Settling into the butt-softened leather chair, Skye reached for a pad of passes and started filling them out. She would give these to Opal, who would hand them out to the kids during homeroom.

The old wooden desk was big enough to spread out files and sort through forms. Skye had managed to keep her tiny office in the junior high, even though she was supposed to have had it for only one year. This year, the elementary school had given her a space to work, but she had to share it with the speech pathologist. The high school was the only holdout in providing her with a room, but she was still working on Homer.

Skye had just finished writing the passes when Charlie entered her office. “Wally’s going to talk to the parents at three-thirty. He was busy this morning.”

She noticed today that Charlie looked every one of his seventy-plus years. His normally fluffy white hair lay flat, and his usual vigorous gait was slow and plodding. She had to find the murderer before the stress killed her godfather.

“Should be okay if the parents were notified.” Skye reached for her appointment book and made a note.

“The PTO phone tree got the message out.”

Skye nodded. She knew that the PTO phone tree was a better communication device than anything in the Department of Defense. Once the president made the first call, it would take the end of the world to stop the rest of the ladies from calling their designated list of names, who would then call their lists, and so on, until every parent in Scumble River had received the message.

Charlie paused at the door. “I’ll be back after school. Give me a jingle if you need me any sooner.”

A few minutes later, at precisely seven-thirty-five, starting time for teachers, Coach poked his head into the guidance office and groaned. “You here again?”

“Yes. Do you need something?”

“My office back,” he grumbled.

“Sorry. How about using your office in the gym?”

“Have to share it with the other PE teacher,” he complained.

“I certainly know how hard it is to have to share space.” The barrel-shaped man backed out, muttering.

“Let’s chat again,” Skye trilled to the slammed door.

She hurriedly delivered the passes to the school secretary and grabbed a cup of coffee, sliding back behind her desk just as the first bell rang.

A few minutes later Elvira Doozier, her first appointment, erupted into the room. “Yeah, what do you want?”

The girl looked almost exactly as she had the day she ran into Skye’s office and announced that Sleeping Beauty was dead. Same type of low-riding pants and belly shirt. Same pierced navel. And same long, straight, two-toned hair.

“Have a seat, Elvira. When you weren’t at school yesterday, I was concerned that maybe finding Lorelei like you did might have upset you.”

“Nope, just didn’t want to talk to the cops.” The teen glared at Skye. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I can understand that.” Skye paused and changed her direction. “So, are you related to Earl and Junior Doozier?”

“Earl’s my brother and Junior’s my nephew. You know them from the time they pulled you from the river, right?”

“Right.” Skye smiled. “Junior helped me out a couple of times.”

“Yeah, by helping you out last year, he got my other brother, Hap, thrown in jail.”

“Are you saying that was a bad thing?”

“Well, it kept him off of hitting on his boy,” Elvira admitted. “Earl takes care of my nephew Cletus now.”

“Sounds like maybe things turned out for the best.” Skye leaned forward. “So, tell me about finding Lorelei.”

“Like I told you that day, I cut class to sneak a smoke in the gym, saw her laying there, and grabbed you.”

“How close did you get to Lorelei?” Skye was sure Elvira would have gone up for a close-up look.

“I never stepped much past the door.”

“How could you tell she was dead?”

Elvira’s smile was that of a very old woman. “I’ve seen dead people before. Dead people is easy to spot.”

Skye didn’t particularly want to know why the teen had such an intimate knowledge of corpses. “Did you see anyone in the hall when you were going in and out of the gym?”

“No one was around.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Just me and the dead cheerleader.” Elvira fingered the ring in her navel.

“Why, out of all the adults, did you come get me?”

“Remembered seeing you here on my way to the gym.” Elvira spoke to her lap. “And Junior thinks you’re okay.”

“Did you know any of Lorelei’s friends?”

“No way, man.” Elvira shook her head so hard that her long hair formed a cloak. “Those girls are brutal.”

Frannie Ryan marched into the guidance office and sat down facing Skye. “I didn’t kill her.”

Skye fought for a neutral expression. “Do you mean Lorelei?”

“How many dead bodies have you found around here?”

“Should we be looking for others?” The hair on the back of Skye’s neck rose. She could feel this girl’s anger from across her desk.

“None that I know of, but I wouldn’t be unhappy to see a few more princesses added to the list.” Frannie’s long lashes veiled her expression.

“They’ve hurt you?” Skye had seen firsthand the devious, self-esteem-destroying tactics commonly used on some teenage girls by the more popular girls.

Frannie snorted. “Their brand of social fascism is so galactically brutal, you end up bleeding to death before you even feel the knife go in.”

“Was Lorelei like that?” Skye asked. Talk about a motive for murder.

“She was more subtle. Most kids think she was so nice, but they didn’t realize that anything her posse did, she approved beforehand.” Frannie sat rigidly, waves of hostility pouring off of her.

“That sounds like a lot of power.”

“Lorelei Ingels was the sun, and the student body of Scumble River High revolved around her.”

“And she didn’t like you?” Skye asked.

“In her world, I didn’t even deserve that much respect. I’ve been taking dance since I was six, and I’m good. Despite my size, I’m also good at gymnastics. Obviously with these boobs, I’ll never make the Olympic team, but I have talent. Mrs. Frayne noticed me at a dance recital, and asked me to try out for the cheerleading squad. I was so up.”

“You thought this was your chance to fit in,” Skye ventured.

Frannie nodded, color rising in her cheeks. “I’ve never seen my dad so proud of me. I practiced and practiced until I knew the routines cold. I was great at the tryout.”

“What happened?” Skye was afraid she could guess the answer.

“The next day Mrs. Frayne took me aside and said she was sorry, I didn’t make the squad.” Frannie looked at Skye with tears shining in her eyes.

“That must have been painful.”

“I couldn’t figure what I had done wrong until the other cheerleaders surrounded me after school. Zoë was the one who talked, but they were all there. She said if I ever told anyone that they had even let me try out, she’d make my pathetic life even more miserable.” Frannie bit back a sob.

Skye handed her a tissue. “What did you do?”

“I asked why.” Frannie shot Skye a look. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

“It’s hard to make good decisions when you’re experiencing that kind of hurt.”

“Zoë said it would be too humiliating for the school to have it known that a fat girl was even considered for cheerleader.” Frannie sat back. “She said she didn’t know what Mrs. Frayne was thinking when she asked me to try out. That it was a good thing all the cheerleaders got to vote, or Mrs. Frayne would load the squad with fat girls.”

“How devastating.”

“I’m just so tired of always being on the outside looking in,” Frannie whispered. “Your destiny is determined by the color of your hair, the shape of your body, and the label on your clothes. Despite all the crap you endure, they always pick someone else.”

There was little Skye could say to that, but she gave it a try. “I know this sounds bogus, but things usually get a lot better once you’re out of high school. In college you have a much wider choice of friends and can find other kids who think like you do. A lot of times the princes and princesses of high school find the rest of life a lot different. For them the best time is their teenage years, but the rest of us are happier as adults.”

The girl looked at her skeptically. “I sure hope you’re right.”

“Me too.” After a moment, Skye gently asked, “Frannie, where were you seventh and eighth period Wednesday?”

The girl sat up. “Art and math, with about forty other kids. Hard to say if anyone would remember me or not.”

“The bell is going to ring any second. If you ever want to talk again, just leave me a note, and we’ll set something up.”

Frannie got up from the chair and gathered her things. “They say you should never say anything about the dead unless it’s good.” She waited for Skye’s nod. “Lorelei’s dead. Good!”

CHAPTER 8

Sin and Bare It

Skye didn’t have any time to recover from the session with Frannie before Troy Yates, Lorelei’s boyfriend, arrived. The blond Adonis with a buzz haircut strode into the office as if he owned the place and was considering selling it.

He nodded at Skye and sat. “You wanted to see me, Ms. D.?”

“Yes, I wanted to check and see how you were today. Sometimes a loss doesn’t hit a person right away.” Skye noticed the boy sat perfectly straight in his chair.

“I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Had you been dating long?”

“We’ve gone steady since eighth grade.” He dug his wallet out of his pocket. “These are pictures of us at every dance.”

Skye shuffled through the small pile of photos. “They’re wonderful.” She handed them back to Troy. “Were you planning on attending the same college?”

A cloud crossed Troy’s face. “I’m going to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. Lorelei tried to get into their theater department, but she didn’t make the cut.”

“Did she have backup plans?”

He shrugged. “She didn’t like to talk about it.”

“No, I imagine that would be a difficult subject for someone who’s used to winning.”

Troy nodded and launched into a story about Lorelei and a game of Trivial Pursuit. Skye made encouraging sounds, and the teen reminisced for the rest of the period.

Skye noticed they were almost out of time, and said, “Troy, do you think you need to talk to someone a few more times about Lorelei’s death?” During his talk about their past he’d seemed sad, but not devastated. Of course, with adolescents it wasn’t always easy to tell how they really felt. They often put on a cool demeanor that covered up their real feelings, sometimes even from themselves.

“No, I think I’m okay.”

“If you change your mind, leave a note for me with the secretary.” Skye pointed toward the main office.

“Okay.”

“Just a couple more things. Was Lorelei in the habit of bringing bottled beverages from home?”

“No, we’re not supposed to bring any drinks into school except milk.”

“And she never tried to sneak something in?” Skye had always thought this was one of those stupid, unenforceable edicts that small schools seemed to love. She knew the truth behind this particular policy—Scumble River High got a kickback from the milk vendor.

“No, ma’am. Lorelei wasn’t one to break the rules.”

Skye hated being called “ma’am.” It made her feel older than dirt and half as attractive. “Where were you Wednesday, during seventh and eighth period?”

“Study hall and baseball practice.”

“Does Chase Wren play on your team?”

“Sure. We’re in all the sports together.”

“Was he there Wednesday?” Skye had a sudden inspiration to ask.

“No. And Coach was mad.”

Mmm. Chase hadn’t shown up for either of the activities he was scheduled for. Skye made a note to follow up on that.

As soon as Troy’s session ended, Skye scooted out of her office to make sure things elsewhere were running smoothly. When she stuck her head around the corner of the band room, the co-op social worker gave her a thumbs-up.

In the library, Trixie was deep into a conversation with a student. Skye didn’t want to interrupt, so she wasn’t able to ask about the cheerleading meeting, as she had planned to.

Since she heard no sobbing or screaming in the building, she concluded the situation was under control and went back to her office.

Zoë strolled in nearly ten minutes after the bell rang. By rights she should have been issued a detention, but Skye was in an awkward position. Follow the school rules to the letter or establish rapport?

“I hope you’re okay,” Skye said, as Zoë took a seat. “I was worried when the bell rang and you weren’t here.”

“I had to fix my eyeliner. It had totally smudged.”

“Were you upset about Lorelei?” Skye wondered if maybe the tough act was just a veneer, and Zoë really was grieving over the other girl’s death.

The teen looked surprised. “No. We were cooking in Home Ec today, and that old-maid teacher made us chop onions rather than use the food processor. She has no concept that hers isn’t the only class, that I have to look good for the rest of the day, too.”

“Oh, your mom dropped by yesterday afternoon and said you were very upset.”

“Yeah, well, things change.” Zoë slouched in her seat.

“So, you don’t need to talk about Lorelei’s death?”

“I don’t need a shrink, if that’s what you mean.” Zoë straightened. “Listen, between you and me, our mutual-admiration society was screeching to a halt.”

“You and Lorelei were fighting?”

“No. Like they say in court, irreconcilable differences. She was starting to bring the group down. She bagged on a bunch of parties.”

“Oh.”

“We were going to different cheerleading camps this summer and different colleges in the fall. We were, like, drifting.”

“One last question and I’ll let you go.” Skye studied the teen. “Did Lorelei bring any beverage in a bottle to school?”

“No. She was always trying to get rid of water weight, so she didn’t drink much of anything.”

“Okay. Well, if you change your mind about talking to someone, leave me a note.”

Zoë paused at the door. “Can I be blunt with you?”

A voice inside her head was yelling no, but Skye’s curiosity made her say, “Yes.”

“FYI about your clothes. Whatever kind of look you were going for . . . you missed.”

The door closed behind the teen. Skye gazed down at her navy pin-striped skirt and vest, and wondered where she had gone wrong.

After a delicious lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—she really had to go grocery shopping—Skye saw Farrah Miles and Caresse Wren, the other two cheerleaders.

It was hard to keep straight which was which. They both wore their cheerleading uniforms, had straight blond hair and blue eyes. They both had been in study hall Wednesday during seventh and eighth periods, and neither remembered Lorelei with a bottled drink in school. And they both managed to cry without ruining their elaborate eye makeup. Skye was impressed. At least they showed some emotions about their friend’s death.

Skye’s last appointment for the day was with Chase Wren. He sauntered into her office and ran his eyes up and down her body. She immediately hit the record button on the small tape player she kept in her top drawer. She usually used it so she wouldn’t have to take notes, but in some cases it was good to have an exact record of what transpired.

Chase was cast from the same mold as Troy, but made of inferior materials. His hair wasn’t quite as golden, his muscles were overdeveloped, and when he opened his mouth, it was obvious he had been shorted in the brains department, too.

“So, Chase, I just wanted to check and see how things were going with you today.”

“Huh? Okay, I guess. Why?”

“Well, you were a friend of Lorelei’s, and I wanted to see if you were upset by her death,” Skye explained slowly, trying to use one-syllable words he could understand.

“Gee, that was real sad. But we got to go on. That’s what Coach and Mr. Walker say.”

“Speaking of Coach and Mr. Walker, on Wednesday you didn’t show up for rehearsal or practice. Where were you?”

Chase screwed up his face. “Do I gotta tell you?”

“No, not if you’d rather not. I thought it might help to tell me first, so you have a little practice before Chief Boyd asks you.”

The big teen was silent for a moment before saying, “Look, I ain’t never said I was a genius. I know I’m no Delbert Feinstein, but I’m going to graduate this year, no matter how many semesters it takes.

“I see.” Skye tried to follow the athlete’s convoluted thinking.

“So, I’m not doing so good in math, so my teacher tutors me during seventh hour, and that day we ran over into eighth without noticing. But I don’t want the other guys to know I need help.”

“I’ll make sure that doesn’t get around,” Skye vowed. “I have one more question. Have you ever noticed Lorelei with a bottle of water or juice or something at school?”

“Nah, that chick followed all the rules.”

As the adolescent exited her office, Skye checked the time. An hour of school remained. Time to make the rounds again.

Everything seemed back to normal. The co-op social worker reported no concerns. Skye didn’t see any parents in the halls, and the parking lot held the usual number of cars. Even Homer was back to his usual routine—she could hear a baseball game blaring from the radio behind his closed door. Now they just had to make it through the parent meeting.

There were two people she still wanted to talk to. Kent had seventh and eighth period as plan times, so he was free. Her questions for Trixie about the cheerleader meeting would have to wait. Skye wanted to ask Kent about Lorelei’s bottle before talking to Wally. She had forgotten to ask about it last night.

As she approached Kent’s room, she heard voices and wondered if he was rehearsing. She knew the stage was still off-limits, but maybe he had decided to run lines with some of the students. He hated being interrupted or observed during rehearsals, so Skye hung back.

“Kenny, darlin’, Lorna Ingels told me about you two. No need tryin’ to pretend with little old me.” Skye recognized Mrs. VanHorn’s distinctive drawl.

“Priscilla, you know that isn’t true.” Kent’s voice was pitched low and persuasive.

“Well, if my Zoë were to play the lead in Sleeping Beauty, I just might believe you.”

“Of course, Zoë shall have the lead. She deserves it. It was a tight contest between her and Lorelei.” Kent’s tone was soothing.

“It was the hair, wasn’t it?” Mrs. VanHorn demanded. “I told Zoë it was a mistake to cut her hair.”

“It makes no difference now. I shall begin working with Zoë this very afternoon.”

Kent and Lorna Ingels! A couple? Stunned, Skye leaned against the wall for support.

If it was true, Mrs. VanHorn’s accusations filled in pieces that Skye had only suspected. She had wondered why Kent had continued to ask her out long after it was obvious there was no chemistry between them. She’d thought his reasons were the same as hers—no one else halfway interesting around—but maybe she’d been wrong.

As Skye hurried back to the guidance office, part of her felt shocked and betrayed, but her cooler, more rational side was asking if she really was all that surprised.

If he’d been having an affair with Lorna, Kent had been using Skye as a front—someone appropriate to date so no one would suspect he was sleeping with a married woman. That might explain why Skye had never heard any rumors about him. Either he had covered his tracks well, or she had never cared enough about him to notice.

The dismissal bell had sounded ten minutes ago. Normally the halls would have begun to quiet, but today Skye watched as parents drifted in, mostly in pairs, some in sizable groups. Voices were subdued, but there was a steady drone. They beelined to the cafeteria and carefully felt their way onto the picnic-style tables with the attached benches. Many a panty hose would be ruined before this meeting ended.

Little changed at Scumble River High. The pea-green cinder-block walls and matching linoleum were the same as when Skye had attended high school. Even the smell was what she remembered—pine cleaner mixed with overcooked mystery meat.

Chief Boyd entered exactly on time, and the already-quiet murmur faded completely. He was dressed in uniform, and his gold shield glinted in the drab room. A small podium had been set up in the front, near the serving windows.

Charlie emerged from the kitchen area and grabbed the mike. “I’d like to thank Chief Boyd for taking the time to speak to us. He’s going to give us a brief summary of what the police know and will answer a few questions. After he leaves, we’ll answer any school-related questions you have.”

Wally took the mike from Charlie and said, “Wednesday afternoon, Lorelei Ingels was found dead on the gym stage here at Scumble River High. Certain pieces of evidence led us to believe this was not a death by natural causes. The coroner ordered an autopsy. Our preliminary finding is that she was poisoned. A toxicology screen takes some time, so we do not know the nature of the poison. We are acting as if this is a homicide.

“Because of the suspicious manner of death, we have had to interview many students and staff. I understand that some of you are upset because we’ve spoken to your child without your presence. Legally a parent doesn’t have to be in attendance unless we press charges.”

Wally waited a few minutes for the buzz to quiet down, then asked, “Any questions?”

“Do you got a suspect yet?” asked an old man in the back.

“There are several people we are considering.”

“Any motive?”

“Several possible motives have come to our attention.” An emaciated woman waved her arm frantically.

“Yes?”

“I heard this was part of a satanic cult ritual. That her blood had been drained, and she was holding an upside-down cross.”

The audience gasped, and an immediate roar of voices was heard.

“That is absolutely not true,” Wally shouted above the noise.

“I heard it was part of a serial killing,” said a man in front, shooting to his feet. “They say there’s already been three others, but the police are covering it up.”

“Again, there is not a shred of truth in that rumor.” Wally wearily ran his fingers through his crisp hair. “Sorry to cut things short, but I have another appointment. Be assured, the Scumble River Police Department is on top of the investigation. There is no need to worry about the safety of your children.”

Skye wondered if he really believed that. She caught the chief’s arm as he passed her, and whispered, “Do you have a second? There’s something I want to share with you.”

He scowled, but nodded, and they walked into an empty classroom.

“I’m pretty sure Lorelei did not bring the bottle with her from home.”

“Oh, and how did you come to that conclusion?” His voice was deceptively gentle.

“I asked her friends if they had ever seen her bring something like that to school. Since it’s against the rules to bring beverages other than milk into the building, I was sure they would notice.”

“I see, so you’ve been tampering with suspects?”

“No, I was trying to help you.” Skye frowned. Had she done something wrong?

“Keep out of this, Skye. Since you can’t be trusted to work as a team player, just stay the heck out of it.” Wally turned on his heel and marched out the door, his back rigid.

She felt her throat clench. It was so painful to see Wally act like that, and know it was at least partly her fault. He was normally such a sweet guy.

“Skye, Skye, are you okay?”

Skye opened her eyes and raised her head. After Wally left, she had slipped into a desk. A wave of hopelessness had washed over her, and she had put her head down for a second. Now she was staring up at Trixie. “What time is it?”

“Four-thirty. What are you doing sleeping in a classroom?” Trixie shook her head. “Why don’t you go home if you’re tired?”

“Because there’s something I want to do first.” Skye shoved the hair from her eyes. “Are you busy?”

“Not right now,” Trixie said.

“Let’s go visit the Ingels.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it will be awkward, and I don’t want to. Why do you need to go?”

“I need to get a better impression of them and get a look around their house.” Skye frowned. “I understand the police are still unable to get a search warrant, but a condolence call is altogether different.”

“That seems pretty cold.”

Skye sighed. “You’re right, and I do feel bad, but why wouldn’t parents want to do everything in their power to help find their daughter’s killer?”

“It does make you wonder, doesn’t it? But why do I have to come?”

“You’re my best friend, and I have no car.”

“You need to get a car,” Trixie said flatly. “How have you been getting around the last eight months or so?”

“I used my cousin’s scooter until the weather turned bad in November. Then my Grandma Denison let me use her car until March—she spent the winter down in Florida with her sister. So really I’ve only been without transportation for a few weeks.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to bite the bullet and buy a car?”

“I was going to tomorrow, but I got roped into helping the twins. Maybe I should just take whatever monstrosity my father has dug up. At least I know it’ll run.”

Trixie shuddered. “Don’t do anything hasty. Your last car looked like it had finished last in a demolition derby.”

“Well, then I really need a friend who doesn’t mind driving me for a few more days.” Skye stood and put her arm around Trixie’s shoulders. “Please?”

“Okay, but if we’re going to make a condolence call, shouldn’t we bring a dish?”

“You’re right. What can we bring?” Skye bit her lip. “I know. Mom left a chicken-and-rice casserole in my freezer last weekend. We can grab that.”

“Do you know where the Ingels live?”

“Oh, yes. I was out there Wednesday with Wally and Homer. It’s on South Basin, past McDonald’s, past that little subdivision, and backs up to the cemetery. It’s all by itself on ten acres. Every time I drive past, I expect to see a moat. Wait till you get a load of this place.”

Trixie wheeled her Mustang through the wrought-iron gates and onto the concrete driveway that curved in front of the Ingelses’ redbrick manor-style home. She parked the car on a paved apron that already held a red BMW.

As she got out of the Ford, Skye noted the huge trees and perfectly trimmed bushes. The house was less than five years old, and mature landscaping like that did not come cheap. How much did a bank president make?

The women approached the double front doors. Trixie glanced uneasily at Skye before pushing the bell.

A long minute passed before the door was swung open by a middle-aged woman in an apron who spoke with a Polish accent. “Yes? May I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Ms. Denison, we met a couple of days ago, and this is Mrs. Frayne. We’re from the school. We brought this for the family.” She handed the casserole over. “Are the Ingelses receiving visitors?” Her time in New Orleans society was finally paying off. She knew the right words to use when calling on the rich and snobbish.

The woman ushered them into a soaring two-story foyer with a curved staircase. She indicated that they wait, and then disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned, minus the casserole dish, opened a pocket door to the right, and led them into the library.

Mr. and Mrs. Ingels sat in matching wing chairs flanking a massive stone fireplace. Mrs. VanHorn was perched on a sofa situated between the two chairs.

The housekeeper withdrew silently, leaving Trixie and Skye to introduce themselves. Skye observed Trixie’s frozen expression and took over. “Mr. and Mrs. Ingels, Mrs. VanHorn, I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Skye Denison, school psychologist at the high school, and this is Trixie Frayne, the librarian. We stopped by to offer our condolences, and see if there is anything we can do for you.”

Allen Ingels rose from his chair, his face expressionless. “Yes, I do remember you.”

Skye braced for another attack about why she hadn’t saved his daughter, but the man continued. “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness the other day. We realize now there was nothing you could have done to prevent Lorelei’s death.”

“Thank you.” Skye’s heart returned to its normal beat. “We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment.”

Mrs. Ingels spoke from her chair. “Won’t you have a seat? Anna is getting coffee.”

Skye and Trixie squeezed in beside Priscilla VanHorn. Today Mrs. VanHorn wore a tight black suit with crochet cutouts circling the sleeves and the hem of the short skirt. Her red hair was arranged in an array of curls that flowed past her shoulders.

Trixie was still silent, so Skye said, “Nice to see you again, Mrs. VanHorn.” Even after a couple of years in the school system, it still seemed awkward to Skye to use Mr. and Mrs. instead of first names. It was one of the quaint customs that those in education seemed to cling to. Probably so the kids wouldn’t take to calling their teachers Debbie and Robin.

Skye turned to Lorna Ingels. “Is there anything I can help you with in regard to school-related matters?”

Before she could answer, Allen spoke. “Right now we can’t do anything. The police have managed to tie our hands at every turn. We can’t clean out her locker, we can’t collect her belongings, we can’t even plan the services, because they won’t tell us when they’re releasing the body. For all we know, they’re cutting open our beautiful daughter as we speak.”

At his last sentence, Lorna gasped, then crumpled in a sobbing heap. Everyone froze and stared at the distraught woman. Finally, Mr. Ingels leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. This seemed to release the rest of the group from their paralysis, and Skye and Priscilla leaped to their feet. Priscilla reached Mrs. Ingels first and guided her out of the room.

Trixie rose from the couch and uttered her first words since their arrival. “We’ll leave you now. We’re sorry for your loss.”

Skye plastered a look of embarrassment on her face, which wasn’t far from how she really felt, and said, “I’m sorry to be a bother, but could I use your powder room before we go?” She had come here to see Lorelei’s room, and she would fulfill her mission, come hell or high water, as her grandmother used to say. She’d show Wally what she could accomplish without him.

Allen Ingels’s expression grew colder, but he nodded. “The guest bath down here is being remodeled. You’ll have to use the one at the top of the stairs. It’s to your right.”

Skye quickly backed out of the library and ran up the steps. How could she tell which bedroom was Lorelei’s? The house was so huge. Plus, she had to worry about where the two women and the housekeeper had gone.

Since Mr. Ingels had just told her the bathroom was to the right, she went left—if confronted, she would act confused. The first door she tried, she struck gold. It had to be Lorelei’s room. It was full of pageant trophies, crowns, and pom-poms. Done in ice blue and silver, it was a stunning setting for Lorelei’s blond, snow-princess looks.

Skye didn’t dare go in, but she tried to get a sense of the teenager from the posters and memorabilia. When she eased open the next door, she caught her breath. It was a huge dance studio, complete with barre and mirrors. These people didn’t kid around with their daughters’ futures.

She checked her watch. She had been gone only a couple of minutes. She’d check out one more room, then flush the toilet. Skye turned and found herself facing a miniature version of Lorelei. If possible, this rendition was even more beautiful. She wore an ice-blue leotard and silver tights. Skye wondered briefly if those were the family colors.

Skye gathered her wits and said, “Hi, you must be Linette. I’m Ms. Denison. Could you show me where your bathroom is?”

The ten-year-old was silent. Her perfect face remained expressionless. She turned and walked down the hall a few feet, stopping in front of a closed door. “Here it is.”

Skye wondered what was going on behind the child’s exquisite exterior.

CHAPTER 9

It’s the Shame of the Game

“Tell me again why I’m here,” Trixie demanded into her coffee cup. The oversize red velour seat of Gillian’s TransSport swallowed Trixie’s tiny figure, and she looked like a cameo nestled in a jewelry box. A cranky cameo.

Skye, Trixie, and the twins’ daughters, Iris and Kristin, were on their way to the Junior Miss Stanley County pageant in Laurel. For fourteen of the fifteen minutes they had been on the road, at least one of Skye’s passengers had been complaining, yelling, or crying. She was ready to turn the minivan around and head back to Scumble River. Only the fear of her cousins’ wrath kept her going in the opposite direction.

Skye glanced at the rearview mirror. The girls had finally settled down and were busy talking, not paying attention to the adults in the front seat. Still, she lowered her voice. “I told you last night, this is the perfect way to find out the real scoop on the Ingels.”

“I understand that,” Trixie retorted, “but why am I here?”

“Because I can’t go off and leave the girls alone. One of us needs to stay with them while the other investigates.”

“Great.” Trixie took a big gulp of her coffee. “This is going to be like yesterday when you left me with Allen Ingels, isn’t it? The man kept looking at his watch. I finally had to tell him you had irritable bowel syndrome.”

“Gee, thanks.” Skye grimaced, imagining that rumor flying through town. That would certainly attract eligible bachelors to her door. “Is that the high school over there on the left?”

Trixie squinted. “Yes. The sign says, ‘Contestants please park by the south entrance.’ ”

“Which way is south?” Skye had no sense of direction.

“Around back, Aunt Skye,” Iris instructed.

Skye cringed. Since her stint as a lifeguard last summer, her cousins’ kids had started calling her “aunt.” Even though it was kind of sweet, it made her feel old. But it would be too Grinch-like to tell them to stop. She was stuck with the title.

Skye eased the minivan into a pull-through spot. The long pointy nose on the vehicle made it difficult to park in a regular slot. The girls tumbled out, and the two women followed at a slower pace. Skye opened the back hatch and started handing out boxes, suitcases, and garment bags.

The four staggered toward the entrance, balancing enough luggage for a world cruise. Once inside, the girls led the way to the registration desk.

Skye let her burdens fall to the floor and said, “Hi, I’ve got Iris Allen and Kristin Tubb checking in.”

The woman behind the table had big hair, big breasts, and a short, sequined gown. She looked over her rhinestone-edged glasses and frowned. “And you are?”

“My name is Skye Denison. I’m their guardian for today.” Skye leaned closer to peer at the woman’s name tag, half-hidden by the marabou feathers that trimmed her neckline. “Ms. Reiter.”

“I’m afraid that’s a problem. A parent must be present.”

“Really?” Skye held on to her temper as the girls started to cry. She picked up a blank entry form and turned to the rules. She read them twice and turned back to Ms. Reiter. “I can’t seem to find that rule. Could you point it out to me?”

Ms. Reiter snatched the papers from Skye’s hand, and flipped through them furiously. “It’s not here. It’s just understood.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Skye started to pick up her things. “Which room do we report to?”

“I can’t let the girls compete. It wouldn’t be fair.” Ms. Reiter’s bosom puffed out like dough rising.

“If I put these things down again, somewhere other than our dressing room, it will be to make two phone calls.” Skye paused to make sure she had the woman’s attention. “The first will be to our attorney, and the second to the Chicago Tribune. You know how popular these kiddy pageants are ever since the JonBenet murder. I’m willing to bet the Trib would love to do an article on how unwholesome this contest is.”

Ms. Reiter’s mouth formed an outraged O.

“Where did you say our dressing room was?”

“Room 102.

“Great. You have a real nice day now.” Skye led her little band away.

Trixie didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Not one of the sharper crayons in the box, is she?”

From the constant chatter Kristin and Iris engaged in, Skye learned that Friday had been the Talent portion of the pageant. Kristin had performed a gymnastic routine, and Iris had demonstrated fly-fishing. This morning would be Modeling and Interview. In the afternoon there was Beauty and Crowning.

Skye’s gaze swept Room 102. Monday through Friday it held Laurel High’s Home Ec class. Cubicles had been made by rolling in portable blackboards. Since their group had two contestants, they had been assigned adjoining spots. Skye quickly pushed the center divider against the wall to give them more space.

Even though she knew that the pageant was being held in a high school, Skye was disappointed to see how drab everything was. If these girls were going to exhibit themselves, shouldn’t there be some glamour involved? This setup reminded her more of her Scholastic Bowl team than a beauty pageant. Not that she approved of these contests.

While Skye was brooding, the girls changed into their costumes for Modeling. They led Skye and Trixie to the backstage area, where they were supposed to wait for their cue. A dozen eight-, nine-, and ten-year-olds milled around in a space not much bigger than a spare bedroom. Each of the girls was fussed over by one or two adults. The whole scene reminded Skye of an anthill.

Skye watched as a tiny, raven-haired beauty dressed in a red-and-white-striped halter top jumpsuit, red bolero jacket with ruffles at the wrist, and white hat, stood as her mother made last-minute adjustments.

The girl finally shook her mother away, protesting, “Get off me. You’re always hanging on me.”

The mother took the girl by the upper arms and shook her. “This is for you, it’s not for me. We went to McDonald’s. I got you the whole Pretty Kitty kit. We stopped and bought you the little box with the key. So now all you got to do is walk through this itty-bitty dance.”

The girl stuck out her lip and started to cry.

Skye turned to Kristin, who had been watching the same scene. “Do you feel that way?”

“No, me and Iris like to dress up and go to the pageants, but lots of kids don’t really want to.” Kristin put her hand in Skye’s. “Lots of moms are real mean if their kids don’t win. But Mom and Aunt Ginger are okay. They swear a little sometimes at the judges, but they don’t yell or get drunk.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Skye squatted to Kristin’s level.

“If you ever want to quit doing this and your mom won’t let you, tell me. Okay?”

“Sure.” Kristin swung their joined hands. “We better get in line now. It’s about to start, and I’m number two.”

Skye checked that Trixie had Iris, who was number eleven, and they moved into position. Each girl had three minutes to strut her stuff in front of the judges. The music started, and the first contestant moved on stage.

This girl wore a silver leotard with a cape that had the U.S. flag done in sequins across the back, a Statue of Liberty crown, and silver shoes.

Skye watched in fascination as the ten-year-old pranced gracefully around the stage on three-inch heels. She herself could hardly wear two-inch pumps without falling on her face.

Kristin was next, dressed in a sleeveless hot pink dress, matching hat, and muff. The outfit had marabou trim around the neckline, hem, and accessories. Kirstin moved across the stage in rhythm to the music, twirled in front of the judges, and winked.

Skye let her mind wander as the other girls performed. She was startled out of her reverie by Trixie tapping her on the shoulder. “A woman wants to know if Iris will trade numbers and go on next. One of the contestants just got here, and she needs to have the last spot so she has time to change. Is that okay?”

“If Iris is ready, go on and trade. It’s no big deal.”

“She’s all set.”

A few moments later Skye watched as Iris danced onto the stage. She swirled her blue jacket like a cape and popped her sunglasses on top of her head without missing a beat. Skye was sure Iris would win this portion of the competition.

The girls wanted to change clothes, but Skye wanted to see the rest of Modeling, so Trixie volunteered to take them back to the dressing room.

Skye found a seat in the rear of the auditorium just as a buzz spread through the audience. She craned her neck to see what was happening. The curtain parted, and Linette Ingels strutted out. The little blonde was dressed in silver Spandex tights with a white fur jacket and a white-and-silver circlet holding back her hair.

The audience gasped as she started her act. The sinuous movements reminded Skye of a striptease, and when the little girl peeled off her jacket to reveal a plunging neckline and backless top, Skye heard herself exhale.

The lady sitting next to her poked her in the ribs with an elbow. “Can you believe Lorna Ingels’s gall, having one sister perform when the other’s barely cold?”

“It sure is a surprise,” Skye agreed. “Is that a typical costume for Linette?”

“No, in fact, that looks a little like one Lorelei wore in the last pageant—just made smaller.”

It was only ten-thirty, the girls had finished with their interviews, and Beauty didn’t begin until after lunch. Skye checked the dressing room and found Iris and Kristin playing Hungry, Hungry Hippo, and Trixie reading the latest Charlaine Harris mystery.

“Are you guys okay?”

They all murmured yes without looking up.

“I’m going to poke around. I’ll be back at noon, and we can eat lunch. Okay?”

As Skye left the dressing area, she heard laughter and animated voices to her right. A couple doors down, a classroom was crowded with women and girls. Up front, a man with his back to the room was working on the hair of a nine-year-old girl.

Skye wiggled her way through the crowd. “Vince, what the heck are you doing here?”

He whirled around. “Skye, what the heck are you doing here?”

Her brother, Vince, was one of the handsomest men Skye had ever met. He was also charming and a talented hair-stylist. Why he remained in Scumble River was a mystery to Skye, who had escaped for several years before being forced to come crawling back.

“I’m chaperoning the twins’ daughters,” she said.

“I’m doing hair. The contest organizers pay me to be available, and the moms pay for the appointment.” He twirled the little girl in the barber chair. “What do you think?”

Skye bit her tongue. The only substitute for good manners was fast reflexes. “She certainly looks . . . perfect.” Skye thought that the little girl looked like a Barbie clone, only less animated. “How do you get her hair that big?”

Vince smiled thinly, obviously not fooled by Skye’s words. “That’s called the ‘pageant pouf.’ To get that effect you need extensions.”

The little girl jumped off the chair, and another one took her place. At six-foot-two, Vince towered over his tiny customer. He tightened his ponytail and narrowed his green eyes. Muscles bulged as he flexed his shoulders.

Skye knew he was about to go into a creative trance. “If you get a lunch break, come eat with us. We’re in Room 102.”

He nodded distractedly, and Skye moved away.

As she walked the hallways, she saw several familiar faces. From what she overheard, the whole pageant was buzzing with talk of Linette Ingels’s performance so soon after her sister’s death.

“Skye!”

That sounded like Charlie’s voice. Was everyone she knew here? Skye turned back to the door she had just passed. Sitting in what was normally the teachers’ lounge were a group of men and women eating boxed lunches. Charlie held center court.

He motioned her to a chair at his side. “What are you doing here? You usually preach against exploiting little girls.”

When her cousins had asked her to take their daughters to this contest, Skye had felt a momentary tug of conscience. She had been talking against the whole pageant idea for many years, but the lure of investigation had been too great, and she had stomped down that little voice.

“Well, the twins were in a bind,” she told Charlie. “They had already paid the fee, but it turned out both Gillian and Ginger had to work. So I said I’d take the Iris and Kristin so the girls wouldn’t be disappointed.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pursue the matter.

“What are you doing here, Uncle Charlie?”

“I’m a judge. They always ask me, the mayor, and the newspaper editor.” Charlie motioned with his thumb.

Skye lowered her voice. “Who are the women?”

Charlie’s voice boomed. “This here is Miss Stanley County 1978, and that lady in the corner is Miss Central Illinois 1960.”

Skye nodded to the former beauty queens. “Come out in the hall a minute,” she whispered to her godfather. “I need to ask you something in private.”

Charlie lumbered to his feet, grumbling.

“Did you know that Linette Ingels competed today?” she asked.

“I heard.” Charlie shrugged. “I’m not surprised. The Ingels seem to think that because they got money and power, they don’t have to play by the rules.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say no one in town will play poker or buy a used car from Al, and the missus isn’t welcome at any bridge game.”

“So how does he stay bank president?”

“That’s a good question. One I’m going to find the answer to.” Charlie turned and walked back into the lounge before she could ask anything more.

Skye stood stunned at what Charlie had said. Was he really implying that Allen Ingels was a crook? What did Charlie know that he wasn’t telling her?

“Skye Denison!”

Who was it now? Skye looked up in time to see Abby Fleming, the school nurse, sweeping down on her. Abby was Vince’s ex-girlfriend, and although the breakup had not been pleasant, she and Skye had stayed on good terms.

“Abby,” Skye greeted her. “Before you ask, I’ve got Gillian and Ginger’s girls entered, that’s why I’m here.”

“Me too.” Abby smiled. “I’ve got my niece, I mean. Her mother’s not interested, but since I used to do the pageant circuit, I take her.”

Skye was surprised to hear Abby had been in beauty contests. Abby was a stunning woman—tall, thin, with white-blond hair and aquamarine eyes—but she was more striking than pretty and didn’t seem the type the judges usually chose.

“Hey, you want to get a pop and meet some of the other pageant moms?” Abby asked.

Skye checked her watch. It was eleven-forty-five, and she had time before she had to get back to Trixie and her charges. “Okay.”

Abby led Skye through the maze of corridors and into the cafeteria. After they each purchased a can of soda, Abby approached a table occupied by several women. “Hi. This is a friend of mine from work, Skye Denison. It’s her first contest. Mind if we join you?”

A brunette in red leggings and an oversize T-shirt spoke for her friends. “Pull up a piece of bench. Did you see Linette Ingels’ performance?”

Skye couldn’t believe her luck. That was exactly the subject she wanted to discuss. She kept her mouth shut and listened, wishing she could take notes.

“No, but I certainly heard about it,” Abby said.

One of the other moms chimed in, “I’m not surprised. My daughter competes in the same age range as Lorelei, and that mother would do anything to make her other daughter win.”

The brunette tsked. “That’s for sure. My daughter used to compete with that crowd, and Lorna Ingels deliberately stepped on the hem of her formal and ripped it, right before she was supposed to go onstage.”

“Lorna Ingels is famous for that type of thing,” an older woman added. “She grabbed my granddaughter and gave her a big old hug just as she walked on stage. I didn’t notice until it was too late that she had smeared bright red lipstick down my grandbaby’s sleeve. And it wasn’t no accident. The lipstick Lorna was wearing was pink.”

“I’m surprised Linette was never kicked out of the pageant,” Skye said.

“Lorna’s sneaky. It’s hard to prove that she deliberately sabotages the others,” Abby explained.

“We almost caught her in the act last year,” chirped a birdlike woman at the end of the table. “Someone stole my daughter’s makeup case. Lorelei’s space was right next to ours. We all went to the stage for Talent, and when we came back, the case was missing. Lorna had been the last one out of the room, and she refused to let us search her things.”

Skye couldn’t contain herself. “So, what happened?”

“The contest coordinator was going to throw her out, but she came up with an alibi. Priscilla VanHorn came forward and said Lorna had been with her the whole time the girls were onstage, and they had walked to and from the dressing room together.”

“That’s odd,” Abby said. “Wouldn’t Priscilla have been thrilled to eliminate Lorelei from competing against Zoë?”

The other women murmured their agreement.

Skye asked, “Did they ever find out who stole the makeup?”

“We figured it out later,” the brunette said. “Maybe Lorna was with Priscilla, but Linette was in and out of that dressing room, and no one thought of checking on her.”

“I was under the impression Linette wasn’t too fond of her sister,” Skye said, confused. “I’m surprised she’d steal for her.”

The bird woman piped up, “This wasn’t for Lorelei. This was against my family. My youngest daughter competes against Linette, and she had won the last contest they were in together.”

“Boy, this is more cutthroat than graduate school,” Skye commented.

“There’s more at stake,” Abby said.

“What? I understand that it’s a rush to compete, and winning is really ego-building, but the level of intensity I’ve seen here today seems way more than what I would expect. What’s the deal?”

Abby lowered her voice and leaned closer to Skye. “Money.”

“Money? You mean there’s big money up for grabs?”

“Yes. Not so much at these little contests, but as you go up the line we’re talking cars, trips, clothes, scholarships, and thousands of dollars in cash.” Abby paused to take a breath. “And that’s not all. There’s also a lot of money spent. You’ve got to have pictures, a professional coach, costumes, makeup, and hairstylists. Add to that the travel expenses and the fee to enter the contests. Then figure that many of these people enter a contest nearly every week. You can easily spend twenty thousand a year.” Abby shook her head. “I know of women who have taken a second mortgage on their houses, or work another job, just to pay for these pageants.”

“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Skye added money to her list of motives for Lorelei’s killer. “I’ve heard a lot about Lorna Ingels, but no one says much about Lorelei. Any idea why?”

“Not really, but if you want to know about Lorelei, you should come to next week’s contest, Miss Central Illinois. It’s for the older girls, over seventeen. If Lorelei had won that one, she’d be a sure bet for Miss Illinois, which is a step away from the big one. I’m one of the judges.” Abby’s eyes gleamed.

“Was Lorelei a contender for Miss Central Illinois?”

“From what I’ve seen of the circuit, it was between Lorelei, Zoë, and another girl.” Abby shrugged her tanned shoulders. “Of course, there’s always a chance a wild card will show up.”

“A wild card?”

“Some girl from east of nowhere who has never done a pageant but is such a natural she takes the prize,” Abby explained.

“All this work and money, and someone can come out of left field and take it away.” Skye glanced at the clock. “Hey, I’ve got to go get lunch ready for the girls. See you later.”

The remainder of the pageant went without incident. Kristin won the Talent section, but Linette took Modeling, Interview, and Beauty. No one was surprised to see her win the crown.

When Linette’s name was called, Skye studied her expression. After puzzling for some time, Skye could best describe it as a look of entitlement. It seemed that Linette never had any doubt that she’d win.

CHAPTER 10

Cut to the Chick

The Mass is ended. Go in peace,” Father Burns intoned. The congregation responded, “Thanks be to God,” as they gathered their belongings and started to edge out of the pews.

Skye smoothed down her new blue linen dress. She had bought the dress to wear for Easter, but couldn’t resist this warm, bright Sunday. Looking around, she noted that a lot of people had had the same idea. Most of the women were dressed in spring pastels.

A snippet of conversation about the Ingels, coming from somewhere in front of her, snared Skye’s attention. As she merged into the exiting crowd, straining to hear more, the heel of her sandal caught on the edge of the carpet running the length of the aisle. She tripped, falling into the person behind her. Warm, masculine hands gripped her arms and steadied her.

Blushing, she turned to thank her rescuer. Goldenhazel eyes gazed into hers. Simon Reid smiled at her.