“And you shouldn’t have to,” Skye reassured her. “But if it were offered free at the school, you’d sign up?”
“If I could, yes. I take care of my mother, so it really depends on the time.”
Skye nodded. “When is good for you?”
“Right after school. I could get the lady who sits with her to stay late.”
Skye made a note of Opal’s preference, and when she looked up, a woman in her early thirties had appeared. Small white teeth bit into a full bottom lip coated in frosted pink gloss, and long nails painted to match her lipstick gripped the edge of the counter.
She was tiny, probably not more than five feet tall, and she wore her platinum blond hair parted in the middle and straight down her back. Both her stature and hairstyle made her look about sixteen years old, if not for the wrinkles bracketing her mouth and eyes.
Skye took a not-so-wild guess and asked, “Mrs. Craughwell?”
“Yes.” Heavily mascaraed lashes framed worried corn-flower blue eyes. “I’m here to see the school psychologist and the principal.”
Skye took a step forward and held out her hand. “I’m Skye Denison, the psychologist. We’ll meet in the principal’s office.”
“I’m Raette Craughwell.” The woman had taken the tips of Skye’s fingers and was giving them a weak shake when the second period bell rang. She let go as if Skye’s hand had turned into a cattle prod.
“Sorry.” Skye made small talk as she led the woman down the short hallway to Homer’s office. “The bells are a bit loud, aren’t they?” As she chatted, she wondered. Raette.
Where have I heard that name before? It’s fairly unusual, but I know someone said it to me not too long ago. Who was it?
Suspending her rumination in favor of the task at hand, Skye gave a perfunctory knock on the principal’s door and ushered the woman inside.
When Skye introduced Raette Craughwell to Homer, he glanced at her disinterestedly, then down again at the file he’d been reading, then quickly looked back at her. Popping up from his chair, he stumbled in his haste, but managed to approach the two women without falling.
Homer grasped Mrs. Craughwell’s hand and said, “I’m Homer Knapik, the principal here. Have a seat. Get comfortable.”
She sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, clutching a little pink purse and a large manila envelope in her lap.
Homer took the chair next to her, looking at her as if she were a dinner roll and he was a man on a low carb diet.
Finally he licked his lips and said, “Now, tell me what I can do for you.”
Skye, feeling totally ignored, but not altogether unhappy with that status, sat in a chair against the wall and observed.
She made a bet with herself that at some point Homer would actually drool.
“I moved to Scumble River last June. I —”
“Then where has your daughter been since school started?” Homer interrupted. “We’ve been in session a month already.”
“I was homeschooling her.” Raette paused, then said,
“I’m sure I didn’t do as good a job as your teachers would have, but it seemed to be the best thing at the time.” He patted her hand. “Now don’t underestimate yourself.
Remember, amateurs built the ark and professionals built the Titanic.”
Skye bit back a comment. Homer was well known for his negative views on homeschooling, but apparently if the mom was pretty enough he could overlook anything.
“Thank you. What a sweet thing to say.” Mrs. Craughwell smiled before asking, “I was told this is a quiet community with safe schools. Is that true?” Homer nodded vigorously, his hair flapping like the ears of a basset hound. “We are very vigilant against gangs, drugs, and violence.”
Skye coughed. Yeah, so vigilant that they had completely missed the infiltration of methamphetamine last year. She hoped they had stopped the drug’s use in the high school, but she wouldn’t bet her parents’ farm on it.
On the other hand, she was pretty sure they were free of gangs, with the exception of the usual cliques and groups.
Violence? So far, so good. They had had no major incidents in the school and only a few minor ones on the bus.
Homer patted Mrs. Craughwell’s hand. “Your little girl will be safe with us.”
“But will you be safe from her?”
“What?” Homer jerked back as if she had squirted him with pepper spray.
“Xenia has had some problems in her past schools,” Mrs.
Craughwell answered.
Skye raised an eyebrow, noting the woman had said
“schools,” not “school.”
“I see.” Homer floundered, moving his chair away from the mom. “Uh, what kind of trouble?”
“Well, she wouldn’t go a lot of the time.” Homer’s shoulders relaxed and Skye could read his mind. If the girl wasn’t in school, she couldn’t cause problems. Homer’d simply call the truancy officer and have him handle it.
“And . . . one of her schools claimed she had formed a gang.” Mrs. Craughwell’s high-pitched laugh was not convincing.
“What sort of gang?” Homer asked, his hairy brows meeting in the middle.
“It was silly really. She got this bunch of kids to go on strike.”
“Strike?” Homer’s eyebrows went from straight lines to exclamation points.
“You know, not do any homework.”
“Is there more?”
“In her last school, she somehow convinced this group of girls that all of their fathers were evil and should be killed.” Homer popped from his seat like the next Kleenex in the box and backed toward his desk. He finally remembered Skye’s presence and said to her, “This sounds like something in your job description.”
Skye barely stopped herself from snorting. To Homer, anything he didn’t want to deal with was in her job description. Instead she said, “Sure.” She moved up and sat beside Mrs. Craughwell, then asked, “What happened?”
“They picked a day, bought rat poison, and were all set to do it when one girl came to her senses and told her mother about the plan.”
“Did she call the police?” Skye was both appalled and curious. Xenia must have an enormous amount of charisma.
“Yes. The police put the girls under house arrest for six months. They could only go to school and home. No com-munication between them, and all the girls had to get counseling. If they broke those rules, they went to the juvenile facility.”
“How long ago was this?”
“The six months ended four months ago. We moved here as soon as school was out. Everyone was so mad at Xenia and me, I thought it was best to try for a fresh start.” Skye paused to consider how to word her next question, then asked, “How did Xenia’s father react to all this?” Skye waited, but the woman didn’t answer. Finally after a full minute of silence, Skye tried again. “Did Xenia’s father move here with you?”
“No.” Mrs. Craughwell looked down at her purse. “I never married Xenia’s father. I was sixteen when I had her, and he was only seventeen. He always refused to admit she was his child, and he left us when she was two years old.”
“I see. And you’ve had no contact since then?” Mrs. Craughwell shook her head.
“Does Xenia know his name?”
“I haven’t told her.”
Skye gestured at the envelope the woman was holding.
“Are those Xenia’s school records?” Mrs. Craughwell nodded, then after a brief hesitation handed them to Skye, who opened the flap and quickly scanned the first few pages.
She said, “So, Xenia is turning sixteen in October? Then she’s a sophomore?”
“Yes. Well, no. I mean she should be, but she didn’t earn enough credits last year. That’s why I’ve been trying to catch her up by homeschooling her. But she’s really smart and she scores very high on the group achievement tests.
Her previous school did some other kind of testing and they said she was fine, no learning problems. The papers are all in the en
velope.”
Skye was suspicious of Mrs. Craughwell’s true motives for keeping her daughter home until now, but she was relieved to hear that Xenia had already had a case study. One less thing to hurry and get done. All she would have to do was read the report and see what had been recommended.
“How did Xenia feel about moving here?” Mrs. Craughwell smiled for the first time. “She’s excited.
In fact, when I decided we had to move, Xenia was the one who found Scumble River and wanted to live here.” Skye felt another sizzle of shock. Why would a troubled teenager choose Scumble River?
At Seventeen
Two hours later, Mrs. Craughwell finally left. Homer and Skye sat stunned, staring at each other. It was difficult to believe that a fifteen-year-old had wreaked the havoc Raette Craughwell had described.
Xenia had attended eight schools in her ten-year career as a student, and from what Skye could piece together from Mrs. Craughwell’s rambling, most of the moves were made in order to avoid retention or expulsion.
Once Mrs. Craughwell got started talking, she had told Homer and Skye more about Xenia than they really wanted to know, and after her departure it took them several minutes to regroup. This girl would definitely be the toughest teenager either of them had ever dealt with. She was smart, resourceful, charismatic, and angry at the whole world.
Most of the kids Skye had worked with possessed one or two of those traits, but having all four made Xenia dangerous.
Homer plucked at a tuft of hair growing from his ear and said, “What are we going to do with her?”
“I wish I knew.” Skye felt as if she had just participated in the longest therapy session on record. It was clear that Mrs. Craughwell was at her wit’s end, and it was equally clear that the solution didn’t lie within the school’s purview.
“I’ll read the case study report from her last school and see if they made any suggestions.”
“We need a plan before she gets here tomorrow for classes. Did the mom say if she was riding the bus?”
“No.” Skye shivered, imagining what could happen on a thirty-minute bus ride. “If she does, we’ll need a plan for that, too.”
“Shit.” Homer closed his eyes and started to move his lips in and out. “I knew I should have retired last year.” Skye recognized a dismissal when she heard one. As the door closed between her and Homer’s office, she heard him pick up the phone and say, “Opal, get me the superintendent right now. Tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him Lizzy Bor-den Junior is starting school here tomorrow.” Trust Homer to put the most negative spin possible on the situation — not that Skye felt all that positive herself. Still, as she headed down the hall, she was trying to come up with an idea to help Xenia fit in and start fresh. Normally Skye would try to pair the girl up with a classmate, but with Xenia’s persuasive powers, that didn’t seem fair to any other student. There had to be something that would channel Xenia’s talents into more appropriate activities.
Skye’s musings had brought her to the junction in the corridor. If she went left she’d return to her own office; if she went in the opposite direction, she’d walk past the art room. It was nearly eleven, the beginning of fifth period, which was Alana’s plan time and the perfect moment to talk to her.
As Skye headed right, she rationalized that she was really checking to see if Alana was okay. She would not pump the woman for information on Beau’s clients and/or girlfriends — although if the conversation went in that direction, and Skye got a lead in her investigation, she figured that was simply a twofer.
Alana’s room was in the oldest part of the school, at the end of a row of lockers. Although the heating was iffy and there was no air conditioning, it did have a couple of cov-eted advantages over the newer classrooms — a working door to the outside and windows.
When Skye approached, she smelled the customary odors of turpentine, clay, and permanent markers, but she also heard the unusual sound of raised voices. She accelerated her steps as the man’s tone grew harsher.
Half afraid that Sheriff Peterson had returned to harass Alana, Skye dashed in. She stopped abruptly when she saw Neville and Alana standing by the outside door. Neville had his hands wrapped around Alana’s upper arms and looked as if he were shaking her, but before Skye could be sure, his hold turned into an embrace.
Skye hesitated, not sure of what she had seen. She didn’t want to interfere with a lovers’ quarrel, but she also didn’t want to let Alana down if she needed help. Compromising, Skye said, “Alana, are you okay?”
Neville answered, “Alana was feeling a little faint, and I was trying to get her outdoors for some fresh air.” Skye looked at Alana, not willing to let Neville answer for her. “Is that true, Alana?”
The art teacher nodded, her complexion pale and gray.
“I told you not to come to work today,” he chided her, then turned to Skye and explained, “I was worried, so I came to see how she was doing. When I walked up, I saw her standing by her desk swaying, so I shouted for her to unlock the door. She managed to get it open, but as I stepped through she started to go down. I only managed to grab her before she hit the floor.”
Skye relaxed. “Timing is everything.” She had to stop seeing boogeymen everywhere. Neville was merely a caring boyfriend who got rattled when he saw his lover nearly pass out. “Evidently great minds think alike. I was checking to see how Alana was doing, too.”
“I guess teaching today wasn’t such a good idea.” Alana smiled wanly from Neville’s arms. “I felt okay this morning, but as the day went on I felt weaker and weaker. I sure wish they’d release Beau’s body so I could plan his funeral.”
“It shouldn’t be too long now,” Skye soothed.
Alana nodded, then asked, “Do you think Homer can get a sub for this afternoon?”
“I’m sure he can figure something out,” Skye assured her.
“I’ll go tell him you had to leave. Is there anything else I can do?”
Alana pointed to her desk drawer. “Could you hand me my purse? Oh, and throw out my lunch. It’s in the fridge in the teachers’ lounge.”
“Sure.” Skye fetched the stylish black leather Prada satchel from the drawer and handed it to Alana. “How about if I stay with you while Neville brings the car around?”
“You don’t need to. I’ll be fine,” Alana protested at the same time that Neville said, “Actually, since I wasn’t going to be long, I parked right at the curb. We’ll just nip out this door and you can lock up.”
Skye nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll take care of Homer and get rid of your lunch.”
The couple waved as they left. After making sure the door was locked and nothing valuable was lying around, Skye retraced her steps to the office. Lucky for her, Homer was at lunch, so she was able to leave a message with Opal about Alana needing a sub.
Skye had been afraid if she told Homer in person, he would order her to teach art for the rest of the day, not caring that she was busy with her own work, or that her entire artistic ability consisted of tracing her hand to make a Thanksgiving Day turkey decoration.
Since she had avoided the wrath of Homer, Skye decided to take care of Alana’s lunch disposal before she forgot.
The teachers’ lounge was decorated in garage sale castoffs. Skye headed directly to the avocado-colored refrigerator huddled in the back, next to a counter with a sink full of used coffee mugs. She wrinkled her nose as she opened the door. The slight odor of spoiled milk and rotten lettuce lingered no matter how many times the fridge was cleaned.
Skye scanned the packed interior. Brown sacks, bright thermal carriers, and every type of takeout container crowded the shelves, but she unhesitatingly reached for a mini Gucci shopping bag. Examining it, she saw “Alana” in perfect calligraphy on the front.
Previously, Skye had never quite figured out how the art teacher could afford the designer labels she sported, but having now met Alana’s wealthy boyfriend, Skye guessed they had all been gifts.
Resistin
g the temptation to peek inside to see what good-ies Alana had brought for lunch, Skye lifted the cover of the big black trash can and upended the sack. She replaced the lid and moved a few steps away. As she paused to fold up the Gucci bag, intending to return it to the art teacher, the bell for first lunch rang.
Instantly the lounge was flooded with teachers. Several crowded around an old library cart, which contained a huge brown microwave, circa . The stained exterior did not dissuade them from battling to be first to use it.
Others went immediately to the three long metal tables that had been put together down the center of the room, intent on claiming one of the orange molded-plastic chairs that lined both sides. Each lunch hour was like playing a game of musical chairs; there were never quite enough seats for everyone, so the tardy were forced to sit on the sofa to eat.
The couch was covered in a prickly plaid fabric that could withstand a direct nuclear hit, and occupied the opposite wall, making conversation awkward. A sofa seat at lunch was like being stuck at the kiddie table during Christmas dinner.
Skye hesitated. Part of her said to get out of the lounge before the teachers started questioning her about the murder.
Another part urged her to hang around and listen to see if the staff had any good gossip about Beau.
When the telephone located on a child-sized desk off in one corner rang, and one of the teachers who had occupied a sofa cushion was called away, Skye saw the opportunity as a divine sign and sat down.
First to notice Skye was Pru Cormorant, the English teacher Homer wanted Skye to “fix.” Pru raised an over-plucked brow and said, “Skye, we don’t see you in here often. We’re honored you chose to join us today.” Skye didn’t usually eat in the teachers’ lounge, primarily because in order to maintain her mental health she needed to be alone and regroup after a morning dealing with her high stress job. This was not a reason most of the staff would appreciate, so instead Skye smiled and voiced a more accept-able motive. “Thanks, Pru. It’s so crowded here, I hate to take a seat from someone.”
The English teacher narrowed her watery blue eyes.
“That’s very sweet of you. No wonder so many students on my speech team are switching to your little newspaper.” The kids were joining the newspaper staff because Skye and Trixie treated them fairly. The best story got the front page, not the story written by the teenager who kissed up to them the most. Pru was known for letting her favorites rule the speech team, and the teens were rebelling.
Murder of a Real Bad Boy Page 15
