Ignoring her dig about the phone, Homer said, “Why did you do that? Now we’ll have a bunch of parents running around here and interfering with us.” Homer sneered at Skye. “I suppose you felt compelled to defend the little brats’ rights.”
“It also protects the school district from a lawsuit,” Skye pointed out. “You could be held liable.”
“No way.” Homer shook his massive head from side to side, looking a lot like a buffalo trying to get rid of an annoying fly. “I assume full responsibility for my own actions, but not those that are someone else’s fault.” He paused and smacked his rubbery lips together. “Which are most of them.”
“And that’s why I called the parents.” Skye blew out an exasperated breath.
“Yeah.” Homer jeered. “Right. You’re a real peach and deserve a medal. Now, as long as all the classes are covered, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of it.” Homer nearly pushed Skye out of his office.
When Skye heard the lock click behind her, she stood staring at the closed door. Evidently, Homer was indifferent to what had been happening in his absence or what was currently occurring in his school. She had half a mind to go home and let him cope.
It was a shame that if she jumped ship, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Squaring her shoulders, she headed down the hallway at a jog. She could see a light at the end of the tunnel, and really hoped it was the bathroom.
Once she’d taken care of her most urgent need, she washed her hands, then went into the faculty lounge, bought a soda from the machine, and went back to her office to eat her lunch.
By three fifteen Wally and Quirk had talked to everyone on their list. Before leaving, Wally stopped by Skye’s office and said, “I’m heading back to the PD now. Don’t wait dinner for me. I have no idea when I’ll be home.”
“Did you find out anything?” Skye asked.
“Just that everyone claims to have alibis, but most are from spouses or significant others, so not too reliable. Nothing new about motives.” Wally paused in the doorway. “But the crime-scene guy did get a couple of unidentified prints from the electrical panel in the boiler room. They don’t match either of the custodians, so we’re hopeful they belong to the killer.”
“Well, that’s good news.” Skye frowned when Wally didn’t smile. “Isn’t it?”
“It will be once we have a suspect.” Wally shrugged. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a match to anyone on IAFIS.”
“Oh.” Skye nodded. IAFIS was the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System used by the police to find perpetrators who already had a criminal record. “Right.”
Knowing Wally had been at the school all day and that he hadn’t had any lunch, Skye reminded him to eat something; then she kissed him good-bye and headed down the hallway. She was running late for the newspaper staff’s after-school meeting. They met in the library because that was where the computer lab was set up.
She and Trixie got the kids settled down and on task, and then Skye updated her BFF on everything she knew about the murder. Or at least everything Wally had told her she could share. Trixie didn’t have a chance to ask too many questions because the newspaper staff was wrapping up the April issue and both she and Skye were kept busy helping the kids meet their deadline.
A couple of hours later, when they’d completed the monthly edition, Skye announced that she was looking for volunteers to assist with the rubber duck race. Fortunately, they were all good kids and happy to pitch in to support Trixie’s fund-raiser.
Once the students said good-bye and left, Trixie turned to Skye and beamed. “See. Easy-peasy. The kids all agreed to help number the ducks.”
“Big surprise.” Skye raised a brow. “After you showed them all the sad puppy and kitten pictures, how could they say no?”
“Yep.” Trixie hooked her thumbs into the material of her shirt on either side of her chest. “The idea of putting together an album of the adorable shelter animals was pure genius on my part.”
“When did you have time to do that?” Skye moved around the computer lab tidying up the space. “You only told me about the race two days ago.”
“You know that when I get an idea in my head, I can’t rest.”
“True.” Skye wasn’t certain whether she admired her friend’s energy or if she should suggest that Trixie be evaluated for hyperactivity.
“Well, you’re usually a pushover, so when it was so hard to persuade you to help me, I knew I’d need to bring out the big guns in order to get everybody else on board.” Trixie twisted a short strand of hair around her finger. “Monday afternoon, while I was surfing the net looking for ideas to help inspire me on ways to publicize the event, I popped over to I Can Has Cheezburger?”
“You were hungry?” Skye threw away some trash and stared at her friend.
“No.” Trixie shook her head, then shrugged. “Well, yes. I’m always hungry, but ICHC is a website with pictures of mostly cats, but other animals, too. And all the photos have funny captions.”
“O-kay.” Skye stretched out the word. Where was this leading? “And?”
“This site gets as many as a million and a half hits per day.”
“You’re kidding me.” Skye had grown fonder of technology, but clearly she still didn’t quite grasp the enormous impact of the World Wide Web.
“Nope.” Trixie hopped to her feet and started putting the chairs on top of the tables so the custodian could vacuum more easily. “Which made me realize that there’s nothing more persuasive than cute animals.”
“And that’s when you dropped everything, drove over to the shelter, took the pictures, and came back here to make up the scrapbook,” Skye guessed. Between the newspaper and yearbook committees, all the equipment Trixie needed to print photos and create an album was available in the school’s computer lab.
“Exactly.” Trixie beamed. “And it’s worked like a charm. I put together several copies, and the GIVE kids have been using them to solicit prizes for the race and to sell ducks. We already have a savings bond from the bank, dinner for six from the Feed Bag, a mani-pedi from the spa, a hundred-dollar check from the Fine Foods Factory, a book and muffin basket from Tales and Treats, and a case of wine from the Brown Bag Bar and Liquor Store.”
“Extremely impressive for two days of effort.” Skye slid the last chair into place. The library was ready for the next school day. “Have you gotten the permit from the city council yet?”
“Of course.” Trixie pumped her fist in the air. “How could you doubt me? As of three p.m. we are an officially sanctioned event.”
“That’s amazing.” Skye started to walk toward the door, but Trixie blocked her path. Skye frowned and said, “I need to get going.”
“Just a second.” Trixie gripped Skye’s arm as if she were afraid her friend was about to make a run for it. “There’s one more thing.”
“Oh.” Skye didn’t like the fact that her BFF couldn’t look her in the eye.
“Actually”—Trixie’s cheeks reddened—“getting the permit turned out to be harder than I thought. Your uncle is a total jerk.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” Skye tried to free herself from Trixie’s grasp. “Dante is the king of the skunks.”
“And I was getting sort of desperate.” Trixie continued as if Skye hadn’t spoken. “When one of the GIVE kids came up with a solution.”
“That’s great.” Skye started to pry Trixie’s fingers off her arm. “The whole point of extracurricular activities is for the students to learn problem solving and enhance their social skills.”
“Precisely.” Trixie refused to allow Skye to escape her hold. “Anyway, the girl said that her pop could get the permit for us.”
“Is her dad on the city council?” Skye asked, trying to recall which member had children in high school. After a second, she still couldn’t come up with an
yone. They were mostly in their fifties and sixties. Maybe the councilman was the girl’s grandfather.
“No.” Trixie shook her head. “Considering the family, I didn’t ask too many questions. Normally, I might not have even agreed to request this parent’s help, but I was getting desperate.”
“Oh. My. Gosh! You can’t be freaking serious!” Skye yanked her arm free, not caring if she got scratched in the process, and rushed toward the exit. “Tell me the father you’re talking about isn’t—”
“Miz Skye, as I live and breathe. I ain’t seen you since your weddin’ reception.”
Earl Doozier strolled into the library, a huge grin in his toothless mouth. Earl was the top dog of the Red Raggers, an assorted family of misfits who always seemed to be around when there were nefarious activities brewing. They didn’t usually make the first move, but they were quick to take advantage of any opening to beat the crap out of someone or exploit a profitable situation.
Dooziers didn’t have savings accounts—they had jars full of cash buried in their backyards. Their kids took chemistry in school not because they were premed, but so they could make pipe bombs. Skye was sure that if they won the lottery, they’d invest the money in a trip to Las Vegas, a lifetime supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a trailer truck full of Marlboros for the men and Virginia Slim Menthols for the ladies.
Despite all this, through her job as a school psychologist, Skye had established a good relationship with Earl. She’d worked to ensure his many children, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews made it through the public-education system with as few problems as possible.
And in turn, Earl and his kin had managed to save Skye on a few occasions. By now they treated her almost like one of their many pet hound dogs—with casual affection and neglect. That is unless someone bothered her. Then it was all-out war.
How in the world had Earl managed to get the permit from the city council for Trixie’s fund-raiser? Skye cringed. Did she really want to know? Before she could decide, a woman with blond hair from a box of Clairol, a Pamela Anderson bust, and the personality of a honey badger barreled into the room.
Skye groaned. Earl’s wife, Glenda, had arrived.
Ignoring Skye and Trixie, Glenda glowered at her husband and screeched, “What in the hell is takin’ you so long, Earl Doozier?”
Earl, evidently having a death wish, said, “Aw, ain’t that sweet? She misses me.”
“Like I miss cramps once my period’s over with.” Glenda put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “You said you’d only be a second, but I listened to Kenny Chesney sing ‘Beer in Mexico’ and Craig Morgan belt out ‘International Harvester,’ and you still ain’t back.”
“But, honey pie, I gots myself a little lost. The hallways confused—”
“Don’t make me break a nail slappin’ some sense in you,” Glenda shrieked.
Skye’s gaze was drawn to the bright orange talons Glenda was using to poke at her husband.
“I said I’d be a minute.” Surprisingly, Earl didn’t seem afraid. There was a stubborn expression on his typically slack-jawed face when he said, “This is important to Bambi, and I ain’t lettin’ her down. Besides, I’s got a plan for our future.”
“The last time you told me you was plannin’ for our future, you bought two cases of beer instead of the usual one.” Glenda tapped a safety-cone-orange stiletto on the worn carpet. “I’m countin’ to three and you better have your skinny butt out of here and back into the Buick or I’m leavin’ you to walk home. It’s clear you don’t care about me.”
“But sweet cheeks, you’s knows that my love for you is like diarrhea.” Earl clasped his hands to his heart. “I just can’t hold it in.”
“Well . . .” Glenda hesitated.
“’Cause you’re prettier than a beer truck pulling up in the driveway.”
“You say that to all the girls.” Glenda batted her false eyelashes at her husband.
While the lovebirds were cooing at each other, Skye murmured to Trixie, “Bambi Doozier is a member of your community service club?” Bambi was the last of Earl and Glenda’s brood—at least so far—and this was her first year attending Scumble River High School. She was a quiet girl and one of the few Doozier offspring who hadn’t been referred for any special education assistance—thus Skye hadn’t had much to do with her.
Tugging at the crotch of her skintight jeans, her low-cut tank top exposing a large expanse of chalk-white cleavage, Glenda glared at Skye and said, “What are you implyin’? That we ain’t civic-minded?”
Skye made sure she was out of reach of Glenda’s claws and said, “Of course not. It’s just that few freshmen are interested in helping others.”
Earl looked from his wife to Skye and back. “Two seconds. I promise.”
Glenda scowled, nodded her agreement, then squawked at Earl, “Okay, Mister. Give Miz La-Di-Da Skye her precious permit, but if you ain’t in the Regal by the time the next song is over, come lovin’ time, I’m gonna learn from your mama’s mistakes and start using birth control.”
“Give me the permit now.” Skye held out her hand. She so didn’t want to hear about Earl and Glenda’s sex life.
“I gotta explain somethin’.” Earl shot Trixie a crafty look. “Right, Missus Frayne?”
“Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself, and possum takes a long time to bake or it’s tougher than your old leather work boot,” Glenda announced, and stomped away.
Skye was uncertain as to why Earl would need a work boot since as long as she’d known him, he’d never had a job, but she said, “We don’t want to keep you and Glenda from your dinner.”
“We got time.” Earl scooted farther into the library and carefully closed the door.
As he scouted the perimeter, Skye took a good look at the skinny little man dressed in camo sweatpants and a torn T-shirt. He almost looked like a ten-year-old boy, until you noticed the dense tattoos up and down his forearms and the basketball-shaped gut hanging over his trousers.
“What’s going on?” Skye glanced between Trixie and Earl. “What’s to explain?”
“You tell her, Missus Frayne.” Earl took off his dirty baseball cap, revealing muddy brown hair that formed a horseshoe around a bald spot the size of a cantaloupe. “You know what I need.”
Trixie shuffled her pink-and-black-high-top–clad feet, sucked in a lungful of air, and finally blurted out, “Earl graciously agreed to use some information he knew about the mayor to get the permit for the duck race.”
“So Earl blackmailed Dante?” Skye lasered the little man with a hard look. “What’s in it for you?”
Trixie glanced sideways at Skye and answered for Earl. “If I agreed to let him run a teeny-tiny little cornhole tournament as part of the event.”
“Cornhole?” Skye knew, or at least hoped, it wasn’t what it sounded like.
“Beanbag toss,” Trixie clarified. “It’s very popular right now.”
“And you want to have a competition?” Skye asked Earl. “Why?”
“’Cause it’ll be fun.” Earl widened his bloodshot eyes innocently.
“And?” Skye prompted. “I know you, Earl. Your idea of fun is scamming the city slickers, starting fights, and drinking beer.”
“Now, don’t be that way, Miz Skye,” he whined. “You got me all wrong.”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Skye knew Earl was up to something; she just couldn’t figure out what. “Describe this cornhole tournament.”
“It’s nothin’ special.” He scratched his head. “Just good clean fun for the whole family.”
“It’s up to you, Trixie.” Skye gave up. Getting the truth out of a Doozier was harder than squeezing the last bit of toothpaste from a tube and a lot more frustrating. “Your decision.”
“I have no choice.” Trixie held out her hand to Earl. “You’ve got a deal.”
Earl shook, gave Trixie the slip of paper, and put his cap back on. “I’ll just skedaddle before Glenda skins me alive.” Over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll see you ladies on Sunday.”
“Terrific.” Skye waited for him to leave, then said to her friend, “You do know that Earl’s up to something, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Trixie shrugged. “But I’m sure it’s nothing Team Skyxie can’t handle.”
Skye winced. She really needed to get off that team.
CHAPTER 14
F?—Are We Friends?
After saying good-bye to Trixie, Skye got into her Bel Air and watched her friend’s Honda roar out of the school parking lot. In order to make ends meet when she and her husband had had some unexpected expenses, Trixie had sold her beloved Mustang. But the high-spirited librarian drove as if she were still behind the wheel of a hot rod and was competing for first place at the Route 66 Raceway.
As Skye put on her seat belt, she wondered how the investigation into Blair’s murder was going. Earlier that afternoon, when Wally had popped into her office, he’d been in too much of a hurry to bring her fully up to speed, but he had promised to fill her in when he got home.
It was good to know they’d found some fingerprints on the electrical panel, but she’d forgotten to ask if they’d talked to Thor Goodson. According to the police shows on television, when a woman was murdered, the husband or boyfriend was usually the killer.
Her stomach growled, and Skye checked the time. It was nearly five thirty. Hmm! Wally wasn’t going to be around for supper. Maybe she’d treat herself to a meal at the Feed Bag—Scumble River’s only sit-down restaurant. She never had made it to the supermarket or written a list for Dorothy, and she was too tired to go grocery shopping right now. Besides, it had been quite a while since she’d been to the diner, and it would be nice to relax and read a book instead of going home and scrounging for something to eat.
Murder of An Open Book: A Scumble River Mystery (Scumble River Mysteries Book 18) Page 12
