Both now and during that earlier crisis, Homer saw no need for such an intervention, but then again, he wouldn’t. As she had before, Skye insisted on providing services. She’d pointed out that with any deaths associated with the school, many of the students could suffer emotional trauma.
For the majority of kids, it was their first taste of mortality. And although most of the teens would act as if the death didn’t bother them, if the situation wasn’t handled properly, studies showed that the students would be vulnerable to suicide attempts, substance abuse, and other risk-taking behaviors.
On this occasion, with the passing of a teacher rather than a fellow student, fewer of the kids might be affected by the death. But it was likely that the faculty would be more upset. Even staff members who weren’t fond of Blair would probably have a reaction to her passing. Feeling ashamed that they hadn’t liked her could be just as hard to deal with as grieving. After all, guilt was almost as powerful an emotion as affection. Maybe stronger.
Skye’s current plan was to ask the social worker from the special ed co-op to handle the faculty while she saw the students. She figured that the teachers might be less inhibited with someone they didn’t have to face in the lounge every day. And she was definitely more comfortable dealing with the kids. In order to inform anyone who hadn’t heard the news about Blair, Homer had agreed to get the teachers together at 7:20. When Skye arrived at school, she had ten minutes to get organized before the meeting, and she didn’t want to be late.
Hurrying through the front door, Skye found Risé Vaughn waiting in the lobby, balancing several bright pink-and-orange bakery boxes in her arms. She and her husband, Orlando Erwin, owned Tales and Treats, the local bookstore and café. And although the store didn’t usually deliver, Skye had called Risé and asked her as a special favor to bring over an assortment of pastries for the gathering, figuring that the sugary snacks would help offset the staff’s feelings of shock.
After paying the shopkeeper and thanking her for her help, Skye rushed to the home-ec area. The meeting was being held in that classroom because it was one of the few spaces big enough to hold the entire faculty. The other choices were the lunchroom—but students who arrived at school early were seated in that area—and the gym. However, considering that Blair had been murdered in the PE wing, using the gymnasium hadn’t seemed like a good idea.
Skye laid out the goodies on a back table, along with the napkins she’d brought from home. Paper plates would have been better, but she didn’t have enough on hand and she hadn’t made it to the store to buy them.
A lot of the teachers were already assembled, and because she didn’t want to answer their questions or start the meeting until everyone had arrived, Skye distracted them with the pastries. She pointed out the varieties and praised Tales and Treats for providing the baked goods on such short notice.
While Skye waited for everyone to select their snack, she suddenly felt her own grief and despair fighting their way to the surface. Her experience with Blair had been negative, but the death of anyone, especially someone who had barely begun her life, was almost too much to bear. Who knew what the young woman might have accomplished or how much she might have grown and changed if she’d had the chance to live to a ripe old age?
Pushing her sorrow away, Skye stepped up to the front of the room and said, “For those of you who haven’t heard, there’s some sad news that I need to share with you. Blair Hucksford’s body was found yesterday morning at the bottom of the pool.” There was no reason to announce that she was the one who had found Blair, since that fact hadn’t been released. “It has been determined that she died under suspicious circumstances. As of this morning, the police are investigating her death.”
Skye waited for the whispers to die down, then resumed the speech she’d rehearsed in front of her bathroom mirror. “If you feel a personal sense of loss and think you can’t handle your classes, please let me know immediately. I’ll inform Homer, and he’ll make other arrangements to cover your absence.”
Skye paused, but no one came forward. She had noticed that Thor Goodson was not present, and after Trixie’s account of Blair’s relationship with the other staff, Skye hadn’t expected anyone else to be overcome with grief. Although some of the teachers might feel the need for help dealing with their emotions later, right now there was a good chance they were still processing both the event and their feelings.
Skye continued. “Because we’re a small school, when the bell rings to signal the beginning of classes, we’ll assemble all the students in the cafeteria. I will announce Blair’s death and give the kids what little information we have regarding the circumstances surrounding it. At that point, all teachers should return to their homeroom assignments. Any students who want to talk more about Blair’s death will be asked to stay in the cafeteria. The rest will be dismissed to their classes.”
Skye added, “As the need arises, kids will be seen in small groups or individually. A social worker from the special ed co-op is scheduled to arrive before the student assembly. He or she will be available exclusively for the staff and will be in the library office.”
Most of the teachers looked as numb as Skye felt. One or two had tears rolling down their cheeks. Skye paused to let everyone absorb what she’d said, then asked, “Any questions or concerns?”
“If Blair was murdered, how do we know the rest of us are safe?” Pru Cormorant demanded, narrowing her watery blue eyes. “There might be a serial killer who targets teachers running loose in Scumble River High School.”
Skye took a breath before answering. Most of her interactions with Pru were like being poked in the eye with a sharpened number two pencil. The English teacher regularly sent parents insulting notes—a recent one had included the unforgettable line, “Your child might be an honor student, but you’re still an idiot.”
Pru had also flat-out refused to have children with special needs in her classes. She was the speech and debate team sponsor and preferred to deal only with the intellectually gifted and extremely motivated students.
Pasting on a fake smile, Skye said, “There is no indication of any risk to the rest of us.” She saw that other faculty were now murmuring their concern and assured everyone, “Blair’s assault showed no signs of the kind of ritualistic behavior associated with a serial killer.” Skye crossed her fingers, hoping the information she’d gleaned from Criminal Minds and CSI was accurate. “If we were in danger, I’m sure my new husband, the police chief”—she didn’t hesitate to emphasize Wally’s title—“wouldn’t have let me go blithely off to work today without an armed escort.”
“Now that Chief Boyd has been married to you for several months, I think he might be glad to be rid of you,” Pru muttered, raising an overly plucked brow.
“Don’t believe everything you think,” Skye retorted, then stared at the annoying women.
Finally, Pru ran her fingers through her stringy dun-colored hair, harrumphed, and turned away.
Noting that the rest of the staff appeared to be reassured, Skye dealt with the usual inquiries, such as who should say what to the students. Then she announced, “A letter with information about Blair’s death and what the school is doing in response to the tragic event will be sent to all parents this afternoon via e-mail. A duplicate message will go home with the students to ensure that those families without Internet service are also kept informed.”
Asking again if there were any more questions, Skye waited while the teachers shuffled their feet and looked at one another. When no one spoke, she dismissed the staff, boxed up the remaining refreshments, took them to the faculty lounge, and hurried to her office.
She had three things she wanted to do before the day started. First, order the doggone rubber ducks before she forgot about them again. Second, find out if the crime-scene techs had found anything of interest in the boiler room. Wally had gone into the PD early to check on the results of the
search, and she had just enough time to give him a call. And third, make sure that the co-op social worker had arrived and was ready to see clients.
Ten minutes later, the ducks were ordered and the social worker had been installed in the library office space that he would be using for his counseling sessions, but Skye hadn’t been able to reach Wally. He wasn’t picking up either his private line or his cell, and she was reluctant to go through the dispatcher. She really didn’t need to know right away, and if Wally was busy, she didn’t want to bother him.
As she hurried toward the lunchroom, she wondered if the fact Wally wasn’t available was a good or a bad sign. Had the CSTs found a useful clue that he was busy following up on? Or had that lead been a dead end, returning the investigation to ground zero?
When the students filed into the cafeteria, there was none of the joking, laughter, or raised voices that Skye had come to expect at an assembly. The kids found seats at the picnic-style tables without the usual fuss of who was next to whom and sat there silently, staring at her.
Wishing she’d thought to grab a bottle of water, Skye forced herself not to fidget. Her mouth was dry and the butterflies in her stomach had formed a conga line. Normally, public speaking didn’t bother her, but this was different. She was about to face four-hundred-plus kids who might or might not already know one of their teachers had been murdered in their own school.
Skye stood near the serving window where food trays were usually handed out and waited for the stragglers to find a seat. 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 humor. Skye blinked and hid a smile. Was that cucumber wearing a condom? How had Homer missed that little piece of adolescent wit and artistic flair?
A heavy odor of burnt cheese and canned green beans hung in the airless room, and Skye felt her tummy roll. Shoot! Was her morning sickness back? She took a shallow breath. No. She was fine. She opened her mouth, but suddenly she couldn’t remember her planned remarks. The students’ unnerving stillness and intense gazes were giving her the heebie-jeebies. Had one of them killed their teacher?
There were a lot of tough parts to her job as a school psychologist, but this might be the most difficult. In order to create an atmosphere in which the students would feel safe to expose their feelings, she needed to keep her own emotions under control. If her demeanor wasn’t self-possessed, unflustered, and relaxed, the kids would feel scared and insecure.
It was a struggle, but she held on to her composure and said, “Most of you know me, but for those who don’t, my name is Mrs. Denison-Boyd and I’m the school psychologist.” Skye paused. “A lot of you have probably heard the sad news that Ms. Hucksford was discovered dead yesterday in the school swimming pool. The police are investigating her death, and we’ll share with you any information they provide to us in the future. But one thing they already know is that there is no reason to believe there is any danger to anyone else.”
Skye examined the expressions of the teens. Most were staring back at her silently, but she could hear whispers, so she quickly continued. “When Mr. Knapik rings the bell, you should go to your first-hour classes. But if anyone feels too upset to go to class, you are welcome to stay here and we’ll talk some more. I would also like all the volleyball players to remain.”
When the students were dismissed, Skye counted how many had decided to linger. Twenty-six kids were left behind. Skye assumed the nineteen clustered together were the volleyball team. The seven other students were scattered among the tables either singly or in pairs.
Twenty-six kids were way too many for an effective group intervention. She would have to send some of them to see the social worker. As it had seemed that none of the staff was anxious to use the man’s services, she’d put him to work with the students.
After some thought, Skye decided to send the social worker the non-volleyball players. However, before she dismissed that group, she wanted to get a sense for who was distressed with the idea of death and who was distraught over their personal loss.
Skye scanned the faces of the students. Although with recent world events, she was sure things had changed, but back when she’d been in graduate school, her program hadn’t provided much training for this type of incident. After the last crisis, she had supplemented her knowledge and skills with articles she’d read online or in the Communiqué, the National Association of School Psychologists newsletter.
Still, this wasn’t in her usual wheelhouse, so crossing her fingers that she was on the correct path, she said, “Before we break into smaller groups, I’d like each of you to tell me a little bit about how you knew Ms. Hucksford.”
The teens clustered together at the front table whispered among themselves. Then a girl with her hair in a long black braid raised her hand.
Skye pointed to the student and asked, “Would you like to go first?”
“I’ve known Ms. Hucksford since she started coaching us. She helped me become a better player.”
Skye thought she heard someone say, “Not out of the goodness of her heart.”
No matter what the tragedy, and despite the old saying, people often spoke ill of the dead. Skye thanked the girl, then nodded to the other young women in the bunch around her. “Were you all on the team, too?”
They bobbed their heads.
A young man sitting with the only other male who had remained in the lunchroom caught Skye’s attention, and she walked over to him and asked, “Were you in one of Ms. Hucksford’s classes?”
“I was. She was helping me with my college applications. I want to go to U of I and major in physics.”
“That was really nice of her.” Skye smiled reassuringly. The boy seemed okay. A little upset with the loss of his teacher but far from distraught.
“How about you?” Skye indicated the other young man. “Was Ms. Hucksford helping you, too?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “She helped the whole football team with our science classes.”
Skye talked to the rest of the kids, ending up with one last girl who was sitting in the back all by herself. She had a long brown ponytail whose end appeared to have been dipped in red ink, three earrings in each lobe, and wore a headband decorated with tiny pink skulls. She was staring into space and seemed startled when Skye approached her and asked about her relationship with Blair.
“My name’s Keely Peterson, and at one time,” the girl said slowly, “I thought she was wonderful.”
Skye looked at her quizzically.
The girl rose from her seat. Her hazel eyes blazed. “But then I found out what she was really like. Which makes it hard for me to feel sorry that she’s dead.”
CHAPTER 12
RUOK?—Are You Ok?
It was eight fifteen and the first-period bell had just rung as Skye led the volleyball players into her office. Nineteen was really too large for a normal group session, but because they were teammates, she thought it would be best for them to be seen together. None of them appeared to be overly upset, although a few were noticeably sadder than the rest of the group.
While Skye had seen the others around the school, she knew only one of the girls. Juliette Inslee was a sophomore and this was her second year on the school newspaper’s staff. While Juliette made an effort to come across as unintelligent, Skye had found her to be a lot smarter than she pretended.
Juliette had shown a real talent for writing insightful pieces about everyday adolescent life, recently tackling the subject of favoritism in the school system. At the time Skye had figured the girl had been the victim of favoritism in one of her classes. Now she wondered if Blair’s coaching style had been what inspired Juliette’s article.
Since Blair hadn’t forced Juliette to choose between working on the Scoop and playing volleyball, the coach must not have thought being o
n the paper’s staff was a threat to the bond she wanted her team to form. Either that, or the girl hadn’t informed the possessive woman about her other extracurricular activity.
As the volleyball players settled into the folding chairs that Skye had asked the custodian to set up, she was glad that her room at the high school could accommodate such a large number. In her grade school or junior high office, two or three kids were maximum occupancy.
Once all the girls had found seats in the double circle, Skye asked them all to introduce themselves. The young woman with the braid turned out to be Roxy Alvarez, the team captain and the daughter of the guy Skye had chatted with at the dry cleaner’s.
Skye concentrated on trying to remember all the names, but because so many wore similar clothes and hairstyles, her efforts were probably as pointless as trying to judge the winner of a karaoke contest. Teenagers claimed to want individuality, but few had the nerve to stand out. It was a shame she couldn’t ask them to wear name tags.
Looking around the circle, Skye announced, “Everything we discuss here today is private. That means none of you should talk about it to anyone outside the group or within earshot of anyone outside the group. I’ll keep whatever is said in this session confidential unless I feel that there is a danger to someone. Do you all understand?”
They all nodded. A few glanced at each other with raised eyebrows and giggled.
“The only other rule is that we all be respectful of each other.” Skye’s voice was firm. “You may not feel the way someone else does, but that doesn’t make how they feel any less important.”
“Like if I was sad, but Keely was mad,” a bubbly blonde offered, darting a glance at the girl with the red-tipped ponytail.
“Exactly.” Skye looked at Keely, who sat in the back row as far from the rest of her teammates as the small space allowed. “Do you want to talk about why you changed your mind about Coach Hucksford?”
“Maybe later,” Keely said, chewing on the end of her hair. “For now let’s just say that I’m a flamingo in a flock of pigeons.”
Murder of an Open Book Page 10
