I’m definitely going to scream or throw up. Maybe both. She tried to lie still and silent, but she could almost feel hot breath on her neck. No way would she be able to handle being closed in for long.
The situation reminded her of when she was six, and her cousin Hugo locked her in her grandmother’s hope chest. They had been playing hide-and-seek, and instead of finding her, he had turned the key and left her. She had screamed and screamed, but the chest was in the closet and no one heard her. Luckily, Vince missed her and forced Hugo to tell what he had done.
I’m going to faint. Skye tried to quiet her breathing. Bad move; now she could hear every rustle of the satin and every creak of the metal. Was that something gnawing on her ankle?
I can’t stand this. This is like my worst nightmare come to life. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m dreaming.
She couldn’t hear anything. How would she know when it was safe to come out? Or worse yet, what if the lid wouldn’t open? Skye felt the hysteria building and couldn’t control it. When they finally found her in this thing, she’d be either stark raving mad or dead.
Without warning, the top was flung open, and light flooded in, blinding her. She shrieked, thinking for a moment that some chainsaw-wielding maniac was after her.
She vaguely heard a shout, “What in blazes?” before she lost what little control she possessed.
Screaming, she fought the arms that reached for her. Despite her struggle, she felt herself being lifted from the casket.
A familiar, soothing voice said, “Skye, it’s Simon. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re fine.” He patted her back and smoothed her hair until she calmed down. He handed her his handkerchief and waited for her to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
Skye took a deep breath and focused on the gentle concern radiating from Simon’s features. “Sorry,” she hiccuped. “I don’t know what came over me.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “I was convinced you were Norman Bates. Isn’t that stupid?”
Instead of the response she hoped for, the mask she had grown to recognize descended, and Simon said, “What in the hell are you doing inside a casket, inside my funeral home, at midnight?”
“Would you believe a scavenger hunt?” Her voice was shaky.
His expression darkened. “You have two minutes to tell me the truth, or I’m calling the police. Even your precious Wally would have trouble finding a reason not to arrest you this time.”
What could she say? “Well, um, I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you thought a casket would be more comfortable than your bed?”
“No, don’t be silly.”
His eyebrows shot into his hairline, and Simon said through closed teeth, “That’s not the attitude I’d take right now if I were you.”
Skye quickly tried another tack. “I’ve been missing you.”
“And you got confused between my house and the funeral home?” Simon’s tone remained unamused.
“No.” Skye tried to refocus his attention. “What are you doing prowling around here at midnight?”
“I own the place.”
“True. I didn’t say you didn’t have a right to be here. I just asked why?”
“You’d ask the Pope whether he were celibate after he heard your confession for murder, wouldn’t you?” Simon allowed a fleeting look of admiration to cross his face.
“Maybe. If I had a good reason. So, why are you here?”
“Because I left the book I was reading in my office, and when I couldn’t sleep, I decided to come get it. As I crossed the street, I saw a light bobbing around the back door. I’ve had trouble with kids and vandalism before, so I decided to investigate. Then I heard something thumping in the casket-display room. And you know, the sad thing is, I wasn’t even that surprised when I opened the lid and saw you.” He raised a brow. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” Skye edged toward the door. “Sorry about all this. I was in the neighborhood and—”
He cut her off with a snarl. “Just tell me the truth for once.”
“Okay. Fine.” Skye had run out of both excuses and patience. “I wanted to see Lorelei Ingels’s autopsy. Wally is being stupid about the whole thing, and I knew you’d never let me look at it.”
“This is Wally’s and my fault?” His voice rose.
“In a sense, yes.” Her fear had been replaced with exasperation. “If you men would just cooperate. It’s not like I haven’t helped the police out before. Without me, they would never have figured out who killed Honey Adair or my grandmother.”
“So, now you want me to make a copy of the autopsy and send you on your way, so you can solve this crime for us, too?” A pulse became visible in Simon’s temple.
“That would be a step in the right direction.” How far could she take this before he exploded?
“Get out of here before I lose my temper, as well as my mind. I’m not calling the police, only out of respect for your family.” Simon took her arm and led her to the door. “If I ever catch you doing something like this again, I will press charges.”
He thrust her outside, but didn’t release her. “One more thing. How did you learn to pick locks?”
Skye forced a carefree smile, not willing to let Simon know how bad she really felt. “Hey, if I waited to get keys to the rooms at school, I’d never get anything done.”
Simon made a growling noise deep in his throat, stepped back inside, and closed the door in her face.
Skye took a shaky breath. Now, if only Justin were okay. She didn’t dare try and get back inside, and there were no windows to peer into. Her only choice was to see if he had made it home.
She walked toward the house he had pointed out earlier. What should she do? She couldn’t exactly ring the bell and ask for him.
As she approached what she hoped was his window, she heard, “Psst, over here.”
Skye turned around. The only thing she could see in the pitch-black backyard was a tree house.
Justin’s face appeared in the doorway. “Up here, Ms. D.”
“Come down,” she half whispered.
He grinned. “No, you come up. My parents might hear us down there.”
“As long as you’re okay. I’ve got to get going anyhow.” Skye turned. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“Ms. Denison.”
She turned back. “What?”
“I think you might want to see this right away.” He held up a sheaf of papers.
“What’s that?”
“Lorelei’s autopsy. I copied it while you and Mr. Reid were yelling at each other.”
She sighed. She was way too old to be climbing trees.
CHAPTER 13
Tryst for the Mill
Lorelei had been pregnant. Not even two months along, but definitely with child. So that was the big secret. Skye could see how the police would want to keep that quiet. It pointed the finger at a whole slew of new suspects. Troy Yates, the boyfriend, jumped right to the top of the list. And maybe her pregnancy explained why her parents were so against the autopsy.
The document contained nothing else of interest. Lorelei had been a healthy eighteen-year-old. No cause of death was listed. The medical examiner was waiting for the results of the toxicology tests.
Skye suspected that Justin was lying when he claimed he hadn’t had time to read the report. He had handed it over too easily. He’d either read the packet of papers or made another copy. But that was an issue she’d have to deal with another time.
It was after two by the time Skye got to bed. When her alarm rang at six o’clock, she hit the snooze button. She kept hitting it until seven, when Bingo added his vocal displeasure to the cacophony, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Another day without her morning swim. This had to stop. She needed to get back into her routine.
She was supposed to be at school by seven-thirty. No way could she call in sick. First of all, there was too much to do as the school year neared its end. Most importantly, today was PPS at the junior hi
gh. No one missed the Pupil Personal Services meeting without a really good excuse—like death. If you weren’t in attendance, you were the one assigned all the crappy duties.
Too tired to care what she looked like, Skye pulled on the first thing she grabbed from her closet—a knit pantsuit that, although extremely comfortable, bagged at the knees after a few hours of wear. She swept her hair back with a long clip, shoved her feet into flats, and ran out the door.
She was five minutes late arriving at the junior high school, and the principal, Neva Llewellyn, commented as she handed Skye a stack of message slips. “Looks like you had a hard night.”
Neva and Skye were on friendly terms, but the principal was a perfectionist and expected everyone else to be flawless also. Tardiness was one of her pet peeves.
Skye skidded to a halt. “Sorry.” She never was a morning person, and less than eight hours of sleep made her cranky. Less than five hours made her downright crabby. “Bad morning.” She had to be careful or she’d say something snippy she’d regret later. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Neva raised an eyebrow. “Do you have appointments this morning before PPS?”
“I’ve got kids lined up to test. I need to get the reevaluations finished so I can get started on annual reviews.”
“Go get settled, but before you start, come talk to me,” Neva ordered.
Skye tucked her purse in her desk, prepared the room and materials for the first child she would evaluate, then sat down and leafed through her messages. One from Charlie stated the wake for Lorelei Ingels was being held that afternoon and evening. He wanted her to be there in case a student needed her help, and also to continue her investigation. The funeral would take place the next morning. Charlie again suggested that her presence was required.
A note from Homer said almost the same thing, although no snooping was mentioned.
After giving Ursula Nelson, the junior-high secretary, a pass for the student she wanted to test when the first bell rang, Skye knocked on the principal’s door.
Neva had redecorated when she took over from the last occupant, and the office had gone from utilitarian to tasteful. Skye seated herself in a Queen Anne chair and faced Neva across a gleaming wooden desk, breathing in the pleasant odor of vanilla that wafted through the air from a small bowl of potpourri tucked away on a butterfly table next to the ivory wall.
Neva straightened the sleeve of her flax-colored suit and leaned forward. “I don’t like it.”
Skye’s heart jumped, but she forced an unperturbed look on her face. “What?”
“The way the co-op coordinator has thrust his work onto us.”
“You mean the annual reviews?” Skye hazarded a guess.
“Yes, that’s his job.”
“That’s what I said, but the superintendent backed him up.”
“The old boys’ network, no doubt.” Neva tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the desktop.
“Probably, but to be fair, the coordinator is assigned to three other school districts.”
Neva ignored Skye’s comment. “So now we have to do all the paperwork, make the appointments, and run the meetings?”
“That’s what I was ordered to do. I was told to pick the dates with the special-education teachers, fill out the forms, send them to the co-op, where the secretary would type them and put together the file. Ursula would receive the packages and call the parents. If they couldn’t make the appointment, the whole process would start over.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Neva stood up. “I’ll look into it.”
Skye rose, too. “You might mention that since I have to do a ton of reevals, write the reports, and attend all the annual reviews, I’ll have to stop the counseling sessions at the end of this month, instead of continuing until the end of the year.”
Neva frowned as they walked out the door together. “That isn’t right.”
“No, it isn’t, and I’ll have to do it in all three schools.” Skye started down the hall, but stopped and said over her shoulder, “We really need a social worker. The board’s got to raise the beginning salary so we can attract one. I can’t do my real job the way it should be done because I’m always trying to make up for missing staff members.”
The morning went quickly. Most kids were very cooperative when tested. A lot even seemed to like the one-on-one attention and praise. One of the last tasks Skye had the student attempt was a written language sample that consisted of a short essay. During this time, Skye usually started to score the measures already administered, but today she was distracted and let her gaze wander over her office. She remembered the fight it had taken to obtain this space, when she had first come to work for Scumble River Junior High.
The room had originally been a janitor’s closet, and on damp days she could still smell the peculiar combination of bleach and mildew. Skye had covered the egg-yolk yellow walls with travel posters. Since she had no window, she had created a faux one using old curtains and a poster of a forest scene.
Her battered desk doubled as a testing table because the office was too small to accommodate both. She sat on a metal folding chair, and when she brought in a second chair for a student to use, there was no way to get to the door without crawling over something or somebody.
Still, it was her own space. She didn’t have to share it or beg for a room every time she came to the building. Many school psychologists would see that as a luxury.
Her student finished writing and pushed the form toward Skye. “It’s not very good.”
“Did you do the best you could?” Skye found this to be a better response than a meaningless “I’m sure it’s fine.”
The boy nodded.
“Well, I know you worked hard for me this morning, and I really appreciate your effort and concentration.” Skye reached into her drawer and pulled out a fistful of pencils and pens with team logos. “You may choose one for doing such a good job.”
The student hesitated, then selected a pen with the Chicago Bulls insignia. “Thanks. Will I see you again?”
“No, we finished everything this morning.” Skye filled out a pass and handed it over. “You can go back to class now. Bye.”
After the boy left, Skye straightened everything up, grabbed her PPS binder, and headed for the rest room. One of the first lessons she had learned as an intern was never to enter a meeting with a full bladder.
Skye reached the high school at twelve-fifteen and caught Trixie just as she was on her way to lunch. Skye grabbed a salad from the cafeteria, while Trixie fetched two sodas from the machine in the teachers’ lounge. They settled in the guidance office to eat and catch up.
“What did you think of that pageant last Saturday?” Trixie asked, biting into an Italian beef sandwich that she had brought from home.
“Interesting. But I hear this coming Saturday’s will be even more so.” Skye forked a piece of lettuce into her mouth. “It’s for the older girls. The one Lorelei would have competed in.”
“Mmm.” Trixie swallowed another huge bite. “Speaking of Lorelei, have you found out anything new?”
“Not really.” Skye was extremely tempted to tell Trixie about Lorelei’s pregnancy, but decided it wasn’t either ethical or smart to share that information—considering how Skye had come across it. “But that reminds me, I wanted to ask you about the cheerleader meeting last Wednesday, the day of Lorelei’s death.”
“We all got together to discuss replacing a girl who had moved.”
“Did you pick someone?”
“No, we couldn’t agree.” Trixie frowned. “We all have an equal vote, and it’s too much power for the girls to have.”
“I heard what happened to Frannie Ryan.” Skye was curious as to Trixie’s view of that incident.
“That was a disgrace. I’m going to change the selection process next year.” Trixie was silent as she crunched on potato chips. She finally asked, “What are you doing about it? The murder, I mean.”
“Wally’s blocking
me, and Simon won’t help, so I’m talking to the kids and trying to find excuses to nose around.” Skye pushed away her barely eaten salad. The lettuce tasted slimy. “I need a reason to hang around Lorelei’s group on an informal basis.”
“Like cheerleading practice?” Trixie took a Ding Dong from her bag and peeled back the foil.
“Like cheerleading practice.” Skye eyed the chocolate cake and Trixie’s size-four figure. Life was not fair, Skye decided, as she settled for the saltines that had come with her salad. “Need an assistant coach?”
“Know anything about cheerleading?” Trixie licked frosting from her upper lip.
“Nope.”
“Perfect. We meet tomorrow after school.” Trixie got up and threw away her trash. “Wear sweats or a leotard.”
“Really?” Skye rose and dumped her garbage, too. “I have to dress? This sounds suspiciously like gym. I hated gym.”
“If you want to hang out with the girls and get them comfortable enough to talk in front of you, you’ll have to make the sacrifice.”
“Wonderful.” Skye thought of how attractive she looked in sweats. A leotard was out of the question.
“Deal with it,” Trixie said, and shot out the door.
Skye checked her watch. She had just enough time to talk with Homer before she ran home and changed for the wake. Charlie’s note had said it was being held from two to four and six to eight.
Homer was in his office surrounded by stacks of test papers. He waved Skye inside. “Yeah?”
“Just wanted to ask you about Lorelei’s funeral and wake. What is the school doing?”
Homer eyed her as if she were posing a trick question. “We sent flowers,” he answered cautiously.
“Good. But are we allowing students to leave school? Are we offering transportation to the funeral home?
“Well, I didn’t find out about the wake until late last night. The parents didn’t notify us. Surprise, surprise. So, we’ll let kids with notes from their parents go today.”
“How about if tomorrow we provide a bus to the funeral?” Skye held out her hand like a traffic cop. “There are a lot of good reasons to do this. For one, we can control the amount of time the kids are gone from school. Doing it my way, they’ll be gone for a couple of hours, max.”
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