With all the two- or three-acre lots surrounded by a fairly thick band of trees, none of home buyers had noticed that there was an old cemetery on the other side of the woods. And evidently the developer had made sure that prospective buyers were only shown the property when the wind was blowing away from the water treatment facility.
There was nothing the new owners could do about the sewage plant, but they had fought long and hard to have the bodies in the old graveyard moved. When they had lost the fight, many had erected huge fences, as if they expected the corpses to rise from the ground and attack.
At the time, Wally had wondered why they’d never bothered to explore the area where they were building. It wasn’t as if the tombstones had popped up overnight. Even though he and Skye were limited by already owning the acreage on which they were erecting their house, they had certainly considered every possibility when they’d selected the site for their new home.
Shaking his head, he turned onto Shamus Wraige’s street. His place was on a cul-de-sac at the far edge of the development, which meant it had one of the largest yards but was also the closest to the graveyard. Wally wondered how the superintendent had taken that news.
Pulling the Hummer into the driveway, Wally noted that the area seemed deserted. The homes on either side were separated from the Wraige’s house by lines of evergreens forming a natural barrier, as well as dense foliage that afforded even more privacy. In addition, there was a six-foot-tall wooden fence along the back.
Wally parked, exited the vehicle, and strode up the sidewalk. Ringing the doorbell, he examined the premises. On the two previous break-ins, the burglar had jimmied open the kitchen’s sliding doors that led out onto the deck. Wally had recommended replacing them with sturdier French doors, but he doubted his suggestion had been heeded.
Several minutes went by and no one answered the bell. Wally frowned and knocked. Again, he waited three or four minutes, but there was still no response.
It was odd that after demanding that the mayor send the police right over, Wraige wasn’t responding to either the bell or the knocks.
Wally pulled out his phone and dialed the superintendent’s cell phone. He was thankful that he’d put both that number and Wraige’s landline in his contacts after yesterday’s fiasco at the high school.
Normally, he’d have gotten that type of information from the dispatcher when she sent him out on the call. However, the superintendent had circumvented the system. A system that was in place for that very reason.
Wraige didn’t answer either of his phones and eventually they went to voicemail. Wally left the same message on both, then sent a similar text.
After waiting another five minutes, during which he rang the bell and knocked repeatedly, Wally approached the front windows. The interior was in shadows, but there didn’t appear to be anyone in the living room or dining room—all he could see through the glass.
He tried the front door and found it locked, then as he circled the house, he peered into each window in turn. It didn’t look as if anyone was home. Had the superintendent grown impatient and left?
Reaching the backyard, Wally climbed the steps leading up to the deck and tried the sliders. He frowned when they slid right open.
Stepping inside, Wally cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Dr. Wraige, are you here? It’s Chief Boyd, responding to your attempted break-in call.”
Nothing.
Wally stepped around the oak table, moved farther into the room, and tried again. “Dr. Wraige, it’s Chief Boyd. I’m here to help you.”
The same silence that greeted his first shout met his second.
The kitchen looked as if the family had had breakfast and left for work. There were dirty cereal bowls in the stainless steel sink, a discarded paper muffin cup crumpled on the granite counter, and a Mr. Coffee with an inch or so of brown liquid in the carafe. When Wally checked, the appliance was off. He felt the pot. It was cold.
Recalling the house’s layout from his previous visits, Wally continued to call out the superintendent’s name as he walked out of the kitchen into the combination living room–dining room.
There was no sign of Wraige. Hand on his weapon, Wally headed down a short corridor to his left. This held two bedrooms that shared a Jack and Jill bathroom. The last time he was here, the superintendent had informed Wally that his son was occupying one of the bedrooms and his wife’s friend Colleen Vreesen was in the other.
According to Wraige, his son had recently moved to the area to start a new job. At the time, Wally hadn’t known that the job was working for the school district, but Skye had given him the scoop last night.
Ms. Vreesen was staying with them because she was going through a messy divorce and had nowhere else to go. To repay her friend, she was working as the office manager at Mrs. Wraige’s accounting firm. With tax season starting, the business could use the extra pair of hands.
Finding the guest wing vacant, Wally turned on his heels and approached the master suite. It was located on the opposite side of the house and he continued to call out as he walked.
In between shouts, he listened closely, but the place definitely had an empty feel to it. There was no sound of breathing or movement or anything else.
Wally made his way down the corridor, the polished hardwood floor echoing with his footsteps. The door to the master bedroom was ajar and after knocking and announcing himself, he pushed it fully open.
Peering around the room, it seemed untouched. The white-and-gold brocade spread on the king-size bed was smooth and a puffy quilt was neatly folded near the foot. There was a pile of artfully arranged pillows near the oversized tufted cream leather headboard.
From where he stood, Wally could see the entire bedroom. The space in front of the white-and-gold dresser and matching chest of drawers was empty. The two walk-in closets were full of clothes and shoes but otherwise unoccupied, as was the master bath. Unless Wraige was hiding under the bed, he wasn’t there.
That left a small sitting room separated from the bedroom by closed louvered doors.
As Wally approached them, he heard a noise.
“Are you there, Dr. Wraige?” Wally tried the knob, which turned, but when he tried to open the door it refused to move. “It’s Chief Boyd. Are you hurt?”
There was another sound, but Wally couldn’t quite make it out. Worried that after talking to Dante, Wraige had had a heart attack and was unconscious and was unable to move or call out for help, Wally put his shoulder to the door and shoved.
Once the opening was large enough for him to squeeze through, Wally stepped inside. Facing him was a fireplace. A fancy love seat and chair faced the fireplace across a large, low table holding used coffee cups.
As Wally surveyed the scene, he heard a loud meow coming from behind the partially opened French door. He rolled his eyes and chuckled. He’d pushed his way into the room for a cat!
Laughing at himself, he moved around the door and stumbled to a stop.
The biggest Maine coon he’d ever seen was lying next to Shamus Wraige. The man was sprawled in a pool of blood and there was an object sticking out of his neck.
Wally immediately called for an ambulance, then stepped closer and examined the prone figure. There was no pulse or sound of breathing, but he’d have to wait for the paramedics to arrive before the superintendent could officially be declared dead.
After closing up the cat in the bathroom, Wally inspected the scene. Near the body, there was a large metal statue that had toppled off its white marble stand. Squinting, Wally realized the statue was of cupid. The arrow that had been a part of the artwork had broken off, and that was what was buried in the superintendent’s throat.
Chapter 7
Secret Valentine
Feeling a vibration against her hip, Skye’s glance involuntarily jerked away from the student she was observing and down
to where she was concealing a forbidden treasure. Technically, all cell phones were supposed to be turned off during school hours, and she was generally a by-the-book kind of gal, but having five-month-old twins being cared for at home by a housekeeper had motivated her to break the rules.
However, because she was in violation of the district’s mandates, she couldn’t just take the device out of her pants pocket and check to see who was trying to reach her. Only four people had the number to this cell phone—her housekeeper and nanny, Dorothy Snyder; her father-in-law, Carson Boyd; Wally; and Skye’s mother, May.
Although May had sworn on her grandchildren’s lives that she would only call in an emergency, she was unquestionably the one most likely to bother Skye at work. May’s definition of a crisis and her daughter’s description were as far apart as the current political parties’ viewpoints.
When Skye’s phone vibrated again, she stealthily slid it from her pocket, and keeping it below the level of the student desk she was occupying, she swiped the screen with her thumb. Her husband’s good-looking face appeared.
Anxiety sped up her pulse. Wally knew that she wouldn’t be free to talk at this time. She always emailed her schedule to both him and Dorothy at the beginning of the week. He would only be calling her now if there was a problem—otherwise he’d wait until her lunch break.
Catching the teacher’s eye, Skye nodded her thanks, rose to her feet, and slipped out of the classroom, then hurriedly walked toward her office. Once she was behind that closed door, she’d have the privacy to check her phone.
Although worried about the unexpected call from her husband, as Skye walked into her new office, she couldn’t help but smile. Up until a couple of months ago, she’d been assigned to a space that had originally been a janitor’s closet. It was windowless, with walls painted a disgusting rotten-egg yellow. And no matter what she’d tried, she’d never had been able to rid the room of the smell of ammonia.
It had contained a battered desk, a single metal folding chair, and a file cabinet that had probably been used to hold battle plans during World War II. She might have been able to find additional furniture, but just those three pieces had barely fit into the small room.
However, per the superintendent’s agreement with her last December after she had successfully kept the district from being sued, Dr. Wraige had arranged for her to move into the junior high’s old typing lab. With keyboarding as a part of the computer studies curriculum, that space had been sitting empty for several years.
The room had been used to store various pieces of broken furniture, boxes of old paperwork, and sports equipment that was long obsolete. When the original typewriters and other junk had been removed, Skye had ended up with a fairly spacious office, and the custodian reclaimed his storage area.
Settling into her new ergonomic chair—a budget for furnishings had also been part of the superintendent’s agreement with her—Skye quickly checked her phone. There was a brief text from Wally asking her to call as soon as she was able to do so.
Something must have happened with Uncle Charlie!
Skye’s heart launched itself into her throat and she could barely breathe. She had been none too happy with Wally last night when he’d explained her godfather’s predicament. It wasn’t that she blamed Wally for Charlie’s arrest—well, maybe a little—but what upset her was that he hadn’t told her about the sting going on in her town.
Wally’s explanation that he was under orders from the state police didn’t excuse him. He should have told her. He knew she could keep a secret.
It wasn’t as if she would have rushed over to tell May. There was no possible chance on earth that Skye would voluntarily be the one to inform her mother that the man she thought of as a father was in trouble.
Skye wouldn’t have warned Charlie, either. Well, maybe a teeny hint or suggestion that he pay more attention to whom he was renting his cabins. But she certainly wouldn’t have blown the whistle on the sting.
Fingers trembling, Skye tapped the little receiver emblem and waited for Wally to answer. With each unanswered ring, her stomach fought to empty itself of the English muffin she’d had for breakfast.
After what seemed like forever, Wally’s warm voice washed over her, soothing her fears. “Nothing’s wrong with any of your family or friends. This concerns your role as the police psych consultant and as the district school psychologist.”
“Thank goodness.” Skye willed her breathing back to normal, picked up a pen, and said, “Okay, I’m ready to be professional. Go ahead.”
“Shamus Wraige is dead.” Wally paused as Skye gasped, then recapped his discovery and ended with, “It is highly likely that he was murdered.”
“Wow!” Skye had not been expecting that. She would have guessed heart attack. “What makes you think it wasn’t a natural death?”
“The arrow in his throat.” Wally’s tone was dry.
Skye thought he was kidding and quipped, “I hope you aren’t accusing Bambi.”
“Thank the police gods, there is no indication of any Doozier involvement.” Wally sobered and explained the situation, then said, “The county forensic team is examining the scene and they believe he was pushed into the statue.”
“Oh my. Couldn’t he have stumbled?” It was difficult to believe that Dr. Wraige was dead.
Skye’s mind flew to the students. Would they need crisis intervention? Probably not. Very few would have any real connection to the superintendent. When the announcement was made, she’d make it clear she and Piper were available to talk, but she’d be surprised if any of the kids took her up on the offer.
“The ME’s preliminary examination leads her to conclude that he couldn’t have harmed himself in this way by accident. As of yet, she hasn’t given me the details as to why,” Wally answered, then asked, “Would it be possible for you to meet me at Dr. Wraige’s house?”
“Gosh. I don’t know.” Skye chewed her thumbnail as she mentally reviewed her to-do list. “I have a meeting in a few minutes, it will be over at twelve ten. I could probably come to the Wraige’s then.”
Neva Llewellyn was the junior high principal and she was extremely possessive regarding the assigned psych time at her building. There was no way she would excuse Skye from the weekly Pupil Personnel Services conference.
“Couldn’t you have your intern cover it?” Wally urged.
“No. Piper has a parent interview,” Skye said, flipping through her appointment book. “As it is, I’ll have to get Homer to give me the afternoon off.”
“Remind him that they owe you tons of flex time. If I recall correctly, that was the arrangement they made with you when you ended up working during your maternity leave.” Wally’s tone changed and he coaxed, “I’m about to send Quirk to find Wraige’s wife and son and bring them here, and I think it would be best if you were with me to help break the news to them.”
“Can you hold off for a bit?”
“I suppose.” Wally didn’t sound happy.
“Sorry, but that’s the only solution that I can see working for both of us.” Skye glanced at her watch, hurriedly gathered the various files and notes that she’d need for PPS, and got to her feet. Neva didn’t tolerate tardiness. “I’m guessing that I shouldn’t say anything about Dr. Wraige’s death?”
“Right.” Wally inhaled noisily. “Luckily, we didn’t put anything out over the radio, which why I can put off sending Quirk to round up the family until you’re available.”
“Got it.” Skye started toward the door, then paused and wrinkled her brow. Wally hadn’t insisted she drop everything to consult with the police before. “Why do you want me there so badly? I’ve never met Mrs. Wraige and only saw the superintendent’s son from a distance.”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure.” Wally sighed. “But my gut is telling me the motive for this murder is more up your alley than mine.”
; “Okay. I’ll send you a text when my meeting is over. Love you. Bye.”
After disconnecting, Skye stashed her phone back in her pants pocket, dashed out the door, and flew down the hall toward the art room.
As she entered, Skye sniffed, then wrinkled her nose to hold back a sneeze. The students must be doing oil paintings. The room smelled of linseed oil, and when she looked around, easels lined the walls.
The faded blue linoleum was decorated with brightly colored splashes that had escaped the young artists’ brushes. And when the windows rattled with the gusts of wind and the cold air seeped around the frames, it rustled the rough charcoal drawings that were thumbtacked to the walls next to the student’s work stations.
Per her habit, Neva occupied the teacher’s desk while the other members of the Pupil Personal Services team sat at small tables for two arranged in an arc facing her. When Skye entered, no one was speaking and all eyes turned toward her as she slid into an empty chair.
Her tablemate was Violet Lawrence, the special education teacher. Ever since Wally’s ex-wife, the former special ed teacher, had left town, they’d had a new one every school year. For some reason—perhaps the low salary, poor working conditions, or lack of respect—it was hard to keep good educators in Scumble River.
Violet had lasted two years, twice as long as most, and Skye wasn’t sure why she stuck around. Perhaps it was because she’d been fresh out of college when she took the job and didn’t realize there were higher paying, less demanding positions she could nab.
Whatever it was, Skye hoped Violet would remain with them.
Hmm!
Maybe she should try a little matchmaking. Getting Violet involved with a Scumble River guy might ensure the teacher’s continued loyalty to the area.
Skye was impressed at how well the young woman managed her students. Her caseload consisted of kids with behavior disorders and learning disabilities. The majority of them were male and the petite teacher had her hands full with the testosterone-loaded class.
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