It took her a few seconds, but Skye finally realized that the cause of her breathing problem was Bingo. The feline was curled up on her chest with his tail over her mouth and nose. After removing him, she looked at her watch. It was nearly three in the morning.
Stretching, she got to her feet and rubbed the crick in her neck—the love seat was way too short to sleep on. As she passed through the kitchen on her way to bed, she checked her answering machine. The little red zero glowed steadily, which meant Wally hadn’t phoned.
She dug her cell out of her tote bag, but there were no messages on it, either. She knew that the search of Kyle O’Brien’s home would have taken several hours, and if the police had found the photographer hiding inside, the interrogation would also be a lengthy process. Still, she had hoped for an update on the situation.
As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, Skye wondered what had been found at Kyle’s residence. More important, how would he explain Alexis’s car being parked in front of his house?
Tuesday morning Skye was scheduled to attend the junior high’s Pupil Personnel Services meetings at eleven thirty. Homer had thrown a hissy fit when Skye had informed him she wouldn’t be able to talk to the girls who had been caught playing the Pass Out game until that afternoon.
All the principals that Skye worked for felt that their problems should take priority, and they jealously fought for her time. Since the girls weren’t in any imminent danger, and their parents were fully aware of the situation, Skye couldn’t justify missing her regular hours at the junior high.
She spent the time before the PPS meeting evaluating a sixth grader who had moved to Scumble River the week before. His mother had presented Skye with paperwork indicating that a case study was in progress. Although the boy had left his old school before the psychologist could complete the required testing and observation, the clock was still ticking toward the sixty-day deadline for the case study’s completion.
Finishing up with five minutes to spare, Skye sent the student back to his class, gathered up her appointment book and legal pad, and hurried to the PPS meeting. It was being held in the art room, which was free during the first thirty-minute lunch period but was used as a study hall for B lunch.
The purpose of PPS meetings was to discuss kids who were experiencing learning or behavioral problems. The committee was composed of the principal, the special ed teacher, the speech therapist, the school psychologist, and the nurse. In addition, any regular ed teacher with a student on the agenda was required to attend.
As the others trailed in, Skye studied the names of the three kids on today’s list. They’d have ten minutes per child. Unless, of course, there was an emergency add-on.
As was her habit, Neva Llewellyn, the junior high principal, arrived precisely on time. Skye often wondered if the woman waited just out of sight until the second hand clicked on the twelve.
Neva took her seat, looked around, and asked, “Is everyone here?”
Skye struggled to maintain an attentive expression and to keep a giggle from escaping. Did the principal really think a missing team member would speak up? Neva ran a tight ship, but even she couldn’t force her employees to respond when they weren’t physically present.
“Good.” Neva was a tall, lean woman in her forties who wore expensive suits and expected everyone to be as perfectly groomed and as good at their jobs as she was. “Let’s get to our first student.”
Before she could begin, a banshee-like whooping came from the hallway.
As the group turned toward the strident sound, a small red ball with a burning green wick sailed through the art room’s open transom.
Everyone stared as if mesmerized until Skye jumped to her feet and yelled, “Holy crap!”
From behind the door came a noise that might have been laughter, or a cat hacking up a hairball. A split second later a bright flash and a resounding boom echoed through the room.
CHAPTER 12
The Cat Will Meow
Skye stood in the middle of the art room and looked around. The others still sat, stunned. Luckily, the cherry bomb had landed near the door, which was in the back, and the women had been sitting at two long tables near the front, so no one appeared to be hurt. And with the exception of a small scattering of red paper and the lingering smell of the flash powder, there was no visible damage to the classroom.
After making sure that everyone was all right, Skye pulled Neva aside and told the principal that she had a good idea of the identity of the cherry bomber. She also revealed her strategy to apprehend him. Once Neva agreed to Skye’s plan, albeit a bit reluctantly, and said she’d call the student’s parents, Skye rushed from the room in pursuit of her quarry.
That distinctive asthmatic hyena laugh could belong to only one boy, so after briefly considering her options, Skye headed left. The art room was just a few feet from the cafeteria/gymnasium, and students on their way to lunch passed right in front of its door.
She entered the room at a trot, but once inside she slowed to scan the cavernous space. Rows of picnic-style tables were set up on the gym’s floor, and nearly two hundred seventh and eighth graders were talking in strident adolescent voices. The sound was nearly as deafening as her brother’s band when they had played acid rock under the name Pink Elephant.
Skye and her target spotted each other at precisely the same moment. He swiveled his head in search of an exit. There were only three choices—through the kitchen where the lunch ladies would grab him; over the stage and into the PE teacher’s office, which was a dead end; or through the main entrance, where Skye stood waiting.
Shrugging, he remained seated, glaring at Skye as she walked toward him and ordered him to his feet. He waited several heartbeats before complying. Although Skye’s expression didn’t show it, she had been worried that he would refuse and the situation would escalate.
Even though the boy walked docilely down the hall beside her, Skye didn’t relax until they reached her office. The windowless room was painted road-stripe yellow and was only slightly larger than a refrigerator box or a port-a-potty. Crisp white curtains hung over a travel poster scene of the Rocky Mountains did little to lessen the claustrophobic feel of the space. Having originally been used to store cleaning supplies, the place gave off a faint, lingering smell of ammonia no matter what air freshener Skye tried.
Still, she was grateful for the private office. It was a blessing many school psychologists would give up their laptops and next raise to possess, especially in a situation such as this one. Dealing with a recalcitrant teenager was always better without an audience.
Once Skye had settled in the seat behind her desk and the boy was sitting across from her, she demanded, “Junior Doozier, what in the world were you thinking of?”
“About what?” He folded his arms, tipped his metal chair onto its two back legs, and stared at the brown marks on the white ceiling tiles.
Skye considered asking what he saw in those blots. Would his responses tell her anything about his personality? Or did he just see stains?
It took longer than with most kids—usually students couldn’t stand the silence and hurried to fill it—but finally Junior said, “It weren’t only a cherry bomb, Miz Denison.” He wrinkled his heavily freckled nose. “Nothing but flash powder inside a paper cup. No reason at all for you to get so worked up.”
“You could have blown off a finger.” Skye narrowed her eyes. “Not to mention injured me or one of the others in the room.”
“I didn’t know you was going to be there.” Junior’s milk white complexion became paler. “Honest. I’d never hurt you. Pa would kill me.”
Junior’s father, Earl Doozier, was the king of the infamous Red Ragger clan, which made Junior the crown prince. The Red Raggers were difficult to explain to anyone who hadn’t grown up in, or at least lived many, many years in, Scumble River. Their version of reality rarely matched other people’s. And their sense of right and wrong never did.
Like feral cats, the Re
d Raggers were untamed predators who stalked anyone more vulnerable than themselves. And they survived despite local law enforcement’s attempts to either domesticate or eradicate them.
For some reason Earl considered Skye a part of his family. Perhaps he thought of her as his liaison between the kingdom of Doozierland and the rest of the world. She certainly hoped it wasn’t anything more personal than that. The last thing Skye needed was Earl’s wife getting jealous and plotting her demise.
“Fireworks are dangerous.” She lectured Junior, knowing she was wasting her breath but unable to stop herself. “What if you’d blinded yourself?”
“Look, Miz Denison.” Junior ran grubby fingers through his unevenly cut red hair. “From the time you light the fuse, youse have about three, four seconds afore the cherry bomb goes off. Evens a girl can throw it by then.”
“Let’s put the safety issue aside.” Skye blew out a frustrated breath. “Why did you throw an explosive into the art room?”
“She disrespected me.” Junior’s large ears vibrated with indignation.
“Who?”
“Miz Wormwood.”
“The art teacher?” Skye wondered what the woman had done. She was new this year, straight out of college and still learning how to control her class. “She wasn’t even there.”
“Well, how was I suppose to know that?” Junior huffed. “It’s her golldurn room, ain’t it?” He crossed his arms. “I heard someone that sounded like her talkin’ and figured, hey, here’s my chance.”
“I see.” Skye hadn’t realized that Neva and the art teacher had similar-sounding voices, but now that she thought about it, both were originally from Boston. “So what did Ms. Wormwood do to you, anyway?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Junior frowned. “You’ll take her side.”
“Look, we have maybe ten more minutes before your folks get here.” Skye decided to lay it on the line. Counseling techniques didn’t seem to work with the Doozier family. “And our school district has a strict policy about weapons. You could be expelled.”
“It weren’t no weapon.” Junior bristled. “An AK-47 is a weapon.”
“Junior!”
“Fine.” He slumped back in his chair. “Our assignment was to draw a comic strip. And I’m good at drawin’ so’s I did it. And it was on time and everything.”
Skye nodded. Turning in homework when it was due was a major accomplishment for Junior.
“But she says, ‘This is unacceptable, young man.’” His voice sound eerily like the teacher’s.
“Why?”
“My comic hero was a dude called Moonshine Man.” Junior grinned. “He can outrun any police car, handle hot copper tubing with his bare hands, and is stronger than a liquored-up redneck.”
“Ah.” Skye was beginning to understand. “So what happened?”
“She scrunched it up right in front of everyone and told me not to try to be smart.”
Oh, oh. Skye was willing to bet her engagement ring that Junior had not taken that comment the way the art teacher had meant it.
“I knows I ain’t the smartest one in the class, but she don’t have no call to say I’m stupid.” Junior blinked his muddy brown eyes.
Skye nodded again, more sympathetically. Junior had a severe learning disability, which made reading extremely difficult for him, but his IQ was above average. Skye knew this for a fact since she had tested him twice in the past six years.
“That was a good drawin’.” Junior sat forward, his expression earnest. “So I says to her, ‘I ain’t the dumbass. You is.’”
“And?”
“And she sent me to the principal’s office.” Junior slumped back in his chair, clearly defeated by a system he didn’t understand. “But Miz Llewellyn weren’t there, so’s Mrs. Nelson told me to come back after lunch.”
“And on your way to the cafeteria you thought you heard Ms. Wormwood, who had insulted you, so you retaliated by throwing a cherry bomb,” Skye recapped, wanting to make sure she was clear on the sequence of events. “Do you always carry one around in your pocket?”
“Yep.” Junior nodded. “Ya never know when a fella might need a little distraction.”
“Okay.” Skye stood up and motioned Junior out of his seat. “Let’s go see if your folks have arrived, and what we can do about this mess.”
As she and Junior walked toward the principal’s office, Skye tried to formulate an argument that would dissuade Neva from kicking the boy out of school. She had a bad feeling that if Junior was expelled, they’d have a hard time getting him to come back.
Neva surprised Skye. The principal was sympathetic to Junior’s plight, and promised to speak to the art teacher about how she had handled the situation. And because of the extenuating circumstance, Neva suspended Junior for only three days rather than expelling him for the rest of the year or longer.
Once Earl and his wife had taken their son home, promising the boy wouldn’t sit in front of the TV or play video games all day, Skye headed to the high school. She was running more than an hour late, but still hoped to see the Pass Out game girls before the end of the day.
While she crossed the expanse of grass separating the schools, Skye mentally thanked Neva for not making her bring up Junior’s disability in order to save him from expulsion. She definitely didn’t want to have to go through the Manifestation Determination process.
The procedure to determine if a student’s behavior was or was not due to the student’s handicapping condition involved a long, drawn-out, often excruciating course of meetings, paperwork, and more meetings, requiring time that everyone involved could put to better use.
Skye sprinted into the high school. Seventh period started in ten minutes, so she grabbed the stack of papers from her mailbox and dashed to her office. As she raced down the hallway, she shuffled through the pages, counting the consent forms.
Shoot! Only eight of the girls’ documents were present. Now she’d have to call the other parents and ask why their daughters’ permission slips were missing. Which meant she’d have to put off talking to the girls until tomorrow. Homer would not be happy.
What with the crisis at the junior high and having to track down the moms and dads of the last three Pass Out game girls, Skye didn’t have a chance to call Wally. By the time she got off work, she was dying to know what had happened with the Kyle O’Brien situation.
As she slid into her car, she was already digging through her tote bag for her phone. While she waited for it to power up—cell phones had to be switched off while in the school building—she fastened her seat belt, started the Bel Air, and turned on the heat. The temperature had dropped again and her new spring trench coat, while cute, wasn’t lined.
Wally didn’t answer his private line and his cell went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Skye dialed the PD’s nonemergency number.
After several rings, Thea Jones, the daytime dispatcher, answered, “Scumble River police, fire, and emergency. How can I help you?”
Skye identified herself, then spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with Thea before asking, “Is the chief around?”
“No.” The dispatcher paused, and Skye heard her say to someone else, “Hold your horses. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Thea turned her attention back to Skye. “Sorry, hon. People just don’t have any manners nowadays. They see you’re busy and think it’s still okay to butt in.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you.” Skye didn’t want to get involved in whatever squabbling was going on at the police station. “I just wondered if you knew why Wally isn’t answering his cell.”
“He’s probably in a dead zone.” Thea dropped her voice. “About half an hour ago, we got a tip regarding Elijah Jacobsen’s whereabouts. The chief and Quirk and Martinez lit out of here quicker than a squirrel crossing a road in front of a semi.”
“Oh.” Skye’s chest tightened. She hoped that Elijah would come in peacefully and no one would get hurt. “Thanks for your help.”
&
nbsp; Now what? Surely, she had better things to do with her time than hanging around the PD waiting for Wally and the others to return. She’d already left him two messages, so she knew he would call when he had a chance. She certainly didn’t want to seem like a pathetic loser who had no life or interests outside of her fiancé.
She could go visit someone. But who? Just before the final bell had rung, Trixie had stopped by Skye’s office for a quick chat and had mentioned that she and her husband, Owen, were going out to dinner and then to a movie in Joliet. So Skye’s best friend was out.
Too bad her mom would be reporting for her four o’clock shift in a few minutes. Now that it seemed as if May was okay with the idea of Wally and Skye getting married, Skye really needed to talk to her about the wedding plans before May rented Buckingham Palace for the reception and hired the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to play at the church.
There was her brother, Vince. They used to hang out together a lot, and even though his new bride was Skye’s friend and sorority sister, dropping in on the newlyweds unannounced seemed tacky.
Oh, well. Skye shrugged and put the Bel Air in reverse. Bingo would be glad to see her, if only because he’d get an early supper.
Five minutes later Skye pulled into her driveway and skidded to a stop behind a shiny red antique pickup that was blocking the way to her garage. As she got out of her car, Sonia and Sandy Sechrest climbed down from the truck’s cab and headed toward her.
Today the twins were dressed in identical jeans, blue plaid blouses, and denim jackets. Skye could tell them apart only by their cowboy boots. As she had previously noticed, Sandy’s had a higher heel than her sister’s.
“See, I told you if we waited a little bit, she’d come home,” Sonia scolded her sister. “But you’re always so impatient.”
“And I told you we should have called first,” Sandy admonished. “But you always think everyone will be at your beck and call.”
Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery Page 11
