Between a Book and a Hard Place

by Denise Swanson

  “What a surprise,” Jake muttered, then asked, “Has he ever been violent before?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “He lashed out at Jett in anger, not with premeditation.”

  “He seemed like such a charming man.” Yvette reached across Meg and clutched my father’s arm. “The day after Jett’s murder, when he approached me at the coffee shop, he said he was a friend of my husband and had a message for me, but needed to speak to me in private.”

  “Is he who you were expecting the night Jake and I visited you?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Yvette sighed. “I guess I should have been suspicious that he only told me he was Jett’s lawyer after I said that I had no idea what my husband had been researching.”

  “According to Chief Kincaid, because of Gabriel’s confession, the DNA evidence they expect to find on his walking stick, and his criminal history, his attorney and the county prosecutor are working on a deal.” I paused, then added, “It looks as if they’ll agree to voluntary manslaughter and drop any charges related to his attacking Poppy, Noah, and Boone.”

  “How long will he get for that?” Yvette asked.

  “With his record, probably the full fifteen years.” Boone took a swig of his beer.

  Noah stretched his arm on the cushion behind me and asked, “How did Gabriel find out that Boone’s mother had been seeing mysterious lights in the sky?”

  “He probably Googled Shadow Bend when he and Jett were planning their treasure hunt,” I answered.

  I could hear Jake’s growl, so I moved out of the reach of Noah’s caressing fingers. The last thing I wanted was the two of them fighting over me in front of my parents and friends. Although I wouldn’t mind Meg seeing Jake’s interest in me. I glanced at her, and she shot me a little smile. What was up with that?

  “Mom always posted her extraterrestrial sightings online,” Boone said. “All Gabriel had to do was type ‘Shadow Bend’ into a search engine and her stuff would pop right up.”

  I got up to refresh my mojito, and Jake joined me at the portable bar. I felt his hand on my back as he whispered, “Meg has admitted she’s better but not ready to live completely on her own. She’ll rent an apartment in Shadow Bend for a while and start seeing a therapist in Kansas City until she feels more like herself.”

  “Great.” I was truly happy that Jake’s ex-wife was getting better.

  As to her sticking around town, I had mixed emotions. I could understand her fear about returning to St. Louis, but I wasn’t convinced that was her only motive.

  While I contemplated my feelings, Jake and I returned to the group.

  As we sat down, Jake asked, “Did the police ever figure out if that magnesium they found at the crime scene was related to the murder?”

  I nodded. “One of the ways the professor encouraged the whole alien-invasion theme was by shooting off fireworks in the distance. The magnesium was residue that had been trapped in his pant cuff and spilled out when he and Jett struggled.”

  Poppy finally heaved herself from the water and joined us in time to hear my last comment. As she toweled off she asked, “How about that scrap of paper your stepfather was clutching? Did the cops ever figure it out?”

  “It was from a handwritten document Jett had found in the archives,” I explained. “The crime scene techs discovered similar paper among a group of letters that referred to the Union soldier who had been captured. The letter writer complained that Colonel Underwood allowed only Major Boone and himself to interrogate the prisoner.”

  “Jett must have put the dates together with the rumors about Captain Sinclair’s claim that he failed to intercept the Union train,” Noah said. “Which is when Benedict became desperate to see the colonel’s diaries.”

  “And once he drugged Nadine and took pictures of the journal, he was able to figure out the code and find the secret room.” I took a sip of my drink. “If he hadn’t gotten greedy and decided to keep all the gold for himself, he could have slipped out of town with a fortune, melted the gold down, and sold it with no one being the wiser.”

  I looked at my mother, who shrugged. She didn’t seem at all upset that her husband had been such a scoundrel. I just hoped she wasn’t planning to stick around Shadow Bend to try to get her hooks into my father again. Although considering how broke the Sinclairs were, I doubted she’d be interested in renewing her vows with Dad.

  As if reading my mind, Yvette got to her feet and said, “Thanks for inviting me, Noah, but I need to get going. I’m catching a plane back to Texas tomorrow morning, and I haven’t packed a thing.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Noah smiled. “Have a good trip.”

  She walked over to me, bent down, gave me a hug, and whispered, “Don’t let him get away this time. Jake may be a hunk, but Noah is the whole package.”

  Before I could respond, she said her good-byes and was gone. I was glad to see that Dad hadn’t left with her. Maybe I could finally relax.

  After Mom’s departure, we snacked and chatted. Just as I popped a chip into my mouth, a question occurred to me, and I hurriedly swallowed, then said, “What I don’t understand is why the mayor allowed Gabriel carte blanche around town.”

  “I can answer that.” Boone rolled his eyes. “My mother made a large campaign contribution to ensure Egger’s cooperation.”

  “That explains it.” I grinned. I knew there was some way Hizzoner had lined his pockets. “Has Janice learned her lesson?”

  “Who knows?” Boone shrugged.

  “What I don’t understand is how Dev figured out the secret way into the hidden room,” Poppy said, then stuffed a taco chip full of salsa into her mouth.

  “I . . .” I paused, not really sure how I’d done it myself. Suddenly, that same cold gust of air that I’d felt in the library archives surrounded me, and I shivered.

  Meg stiffened and shot to her feet. She pointed to a spot near me and screamed.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jake swore. “What’s wrong?”

  We all looked to where Meg was staring, but there was nothing there.

  As abruptly as she’d stood, Meg sagged back onto the couch. She blinked and asked, “What happened?”

  Jake explained and then said, “I’d better get her home.”

  We all nodded, and after pressing a hard kiss to my lips, Jake led Meg away. After they left, the rest of us said our good-byes, too. Part of me wanted to stay behind with Noah, but I was exhausted and needed some time alone to recover from the past few days.

  Noah put his arm around me as he walked me to my car. He opened the door, gave me a sweet kiss, and waved as I drove away.

  On the way home, I thought about what had just happened. I wanted to believe that Meg was pulling another stunt to keep Jake away from me, but a nanosecond before she’d screamed, I had felt something cold tap my neck. And considering that I’d been standing alone in eighty-degree sunlight, I had no idea what had touched me.

  A thought flickered through my head that perhaps Captain Sinclair had been trying to help me, but then I laughed. I had never believed in ghosts or messages from beyond, and I had no intention of starting now.

  Read on for a sneak peek of the next book in Denise Swanson’s Scumble River Mystery Series,

  Murder of a Cranky Catnapper

  Available in September 2016.

  As school psychologist Skye Denison Boyd hiked down the main hallway of Scumble River Elementary School, she juggled her purse, a bulging tote bag of files, an old shoe box containing reinforcement rewards, and a cup of heavily sweetened and creamed decaf coffee. Passing the front office, she glanced through the window of the closed door. There was still no sign of her visitor.

  Not that she’d really expected to see him. Although he wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes, she’d hoped he’d arrive early enough for her to greet him and explain a few things.

  Skye h
esitated, wanting to wait for her guest, but then walked on. The boys in her fourth-grade counseling group would show up any second, and she couldn’t risk not being in the room when they got there. Rule number one in any educational setting was to never leave children unsupervised.

  Hmm! She should start writing that type of information down for next year’s school psych intern. Rule number two had to do with the secretary and the custodian. The first day of Skye’s own internship, her supervisor had sat her down and explained that those two individuals had the power to make her job a heck of a lot easier or nearly impossible. He had advised her to find out their preferences, then provide them with a steady stream of treats.

  And although her internship had been almost a decade ago, Skye had always remembered his words of wisdom. She’d quickly discovered that as an itinerant school staff member, more often than not, she needed the custodian or secretary’s assistance on a daily basis. And keeping on their good sides was a matter of self-preservation.

  Which was why Skye had made a mental note when she’d overheard Fern Otte, the grade school secretary, tell someone that she loved Chicago’s famous Garrett popcorn. Fern had confided that the caramel-and-cheese combination was her one gustatory weakness.

  So today, when Skye had stopped by to ask Fern a special favor, she’d dropped off a canister of the costly snack. It was a small price to pay for having her visitor escorted through the warren of corridors instead of left to wander through the labyrinth alone.

  Speaking of which, Skye paused at the T intersection leading to the building’s oldest wing. This was where the real maze began. She sighed and turned the corner.

  Instantly, the smell of mildew hit her full force and she sneezed, then sneezed again. Great! Now her eyes would water and all the effort she’d spent putting on mascara, shadow, and liner would be wasted.

  Skye didn’t generally bother with much makeup, usually settling for a quick dusting of bronzer—and if it had been a late night, a dab of concealer. However, this morning, when it had taken her three tries to find a pair of slacks that zipped, and when none of last spring’s blouses would button over her baby bump, she’d decided that in order to face the day, she needed everything in her cosmetics case.

  Intellectually, she knew that her clothes were tight because she was pregnant, and that she should buy some maternity outfits. But emotionally she just felt fat, so she needed the ego boost that only perfectly styled hair and full makeup could provide.

  In her teens, Skye had struggled to fit into single-digit sizes. She’d starved herself, eating less than eight hundred calories a day, trying to look like the women she saw in the movies and in the magazines. Then when she had finally exited the dieting roller coaster, it had taken her a long time to come to terms with being larger than what was considered attractive. Now that those curves were expanding again, she was having trouble accepting her new silhouette.

  Determined to stop fretting about her blossoming figure, she reminded herself that while she couldn’t stop the bird of sorrow from flying over her head, she could prevent him from building a nest.

  Smiling at her silly thoughts, she descended the final stairs into the original school building. Immediately, the humidity enveloped her like a spiderweb. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip, and she could feel her hair start to frizz. Any hope of saving her smooth curls or makeup melted away with her foundation. It was the first Monday in May, and Illinois was experiencing a preview of the coming summer.

  Skye grimaced. She was not fond of heat, and the soaring temperatures would be even less fun carrying an extra twenty-five or thirty pounds. It was a good thing that school would be over in less than a month and she could ride out the most blistering parts of June, July, and August planted in front of her home air conditioner.

  As Skye continued down the corridor, she noted that evidence of the wing’s previous occupants was still present. The space had been rented out to a church group, and although the religious objects had been removed, their outlines in the faded paint remained. Anywhere but Scumble River, Illinois, a town with a population hovering around three thousand, an image of a cross in a school would cause a parent protest. Here, no one seemed to notice.

  The church had found a better facility and moved, but four years later, the school board was still trying to figure out whether to bring the wing up to code for classroom use or to tear it down.

  It wasn’t the best location for a counseling session. Not only was it stifling in the warmer weather and freezing in the winter; it was dreary and cut off from the rest of the school. However, Caroline Greer, the grade school principal, had assured Skye that other than the psych office, it was the only available area in the building for her to meet with her group.

  With those being the only options, Skye wisely chose dilapidated over jam-packed. There was no way she could squeeze five lively nine – and ten-year-old boys into her refrigerator-carton-size office, and the kids wouldn’t notice the annex’s shabby decor.

  For someone working in public education, conditions were rarely ideal. As always, she’d have to make do with what was available. Another pearl of wisdom Skye needed to write down for her future intern, because whining about the spaces they were assigned to use would only make things worse.

  On the bright side, this wing’s isolation was what had helped convince Caroline to allow Skye to try a new type of therapy with her counseling group. Initially, the principal had been reluctant to grant permission for anything so unconventional, but Skye had provided Caroline with data that persuaded her to authorize six pilot sessions.

  Skye was determined to give the innovative therapy every chance for success. Which was why today, instead of using her normal spot, the pastor’s old office, she had moved the group to one of the larger rooms. She’d spent most of last Friday afternoon making sure the walls were bare and the blinds on the windows worked. Then, with the exception of seven chairs placed in a semicircle, she had removed all the other furniture and had vacuumed the ancient gray carpeting.

  A lesson Skye had learned early on was that when attempting a group-counseling session, it was best to have an area free of visual or auditory distractions. And this afternoon’s meeting would be stimulating enough without any extra diversions.

  Skye was relieved to see she had made it to the room before the boys, and she quickly settled into the center chair. Taking a sip of her coffee, she waited for her group to arrive. After a couple of swallows, she became aware of the silence. Usually schools were full of noise, but in this unused annex, she was totally alone.

  Before she could enjoy the quiet, the boys burst into the room with the teacher’s aide hurrying after them. The aide had a harried expression on her reddened face and was breathing in short gasps. Evidently the kids had had her running most of the way.

  She wheezed hello, then waved, turned on her heels, and fled. While her charges were with Skye, the woman was able to take a much-needed and well-deserved break, and she clearly wasn’t wasting a minute of that precious time on small talk.

  Skye yelled her thanks at the aide’s disappearing back, then studied the five boys exploring the unfamiliar room. Three of them had Individual Education Plans that specified the counseling goals they were working to achieve. The other two were in the group mostly as role models. Their parents had noticed some mild attention issues and had asked that they be included.

  The boys with IEPs were among the most unusual with whom Skye had ever worked. Although Clifford Jirousek had tested out of the stratosphere on every intelligence test he’d ever been given, he was so obsessed with books that he had isolated himself from all social interactions.

  He carried a book with him at all times, and his mother reported that he hyperventilated if she removed a single volume from his bedroom. Normally, liking to read would be considered a positive trait in a student, but Clifford refused to do anything else. Left on his own, he wouldn�
��t listen to instruction, participate in class, or interact with his peers.

  Each session, Skye had worked on including Clifford in the rest of the boys’ play, but today, as always, the moment he came into the room, Clifford separated himself from the others. He sat on the chair farthest from Skye, and opened an enormous all-in-one edition of The Lord of the Rings.

  Christopher Hardy, another member of the group, walked over to him and asked, “What ya doing?” Clifford ignored him, and the boy persisted. “It’s really thick. I bet you’re not going to read the whole thing.”

  Peering over the book, Clifford sneered, “I’m not saying that you’re stupid.” He glanced at Skye. “Because Mrs. Boyd told me that I can’t call kids that. But you sure have bad luck when it comes to thinking.”

  Christopher’s hands fisted and he snapped, “Well, my imaginary friend thinks you have some serious problems.” He opened his mouth to continue, but when he looked over at Skye, she made a motion for him to walk away.

  Once he complied, she got up and gave him a token. Then she went over to Clifford and tapped the front of his novel. Glaring at her, he closed the cover and clutched it to his chest. She held out her hand and after a long moment, he placed the book in her palm. She deposited it in her tote bag and gave Clifford a token. When he earned fifty, he could cash them in for lunch with the librarian.

  Skye then went to check on the others. While she had been busy with Clifford, Alvin Hinich, the second boy with an IEP, had gotten down on all fours and was crawling around the room’s perimeter. He sniffed the corners and made excited yipping noises. When he raised his leg, Skye hurried over to him and touched his nose with her finger, then pointed to the circle of chairs. He growled, but scuttled over and took a seat.

  Alvin insisted he was a dog by the name of Spot, and when Skye had begun working with him, he’d refused to speak. After a year of counseling, he would now talk, but he still preferred barking to communicate, and he had to be constantly reminded to use words.