As Skye headed right, she rationalized that she needed to speak to Noreen about Woodrow. His mother had mentioned that he loved music, and it should be assigned as his scheduled elective. If Noreen brought up Mr. Neal and Skye got a lead in the investigation of Suzette’s murder, she figured that would simply be a twofer.
Noreen’s room was in the oldest part of the school, in the fine and practical arts wing. Although the heating was iffy and there was no air-conditioning, it did have the coveted advantage of windows, real walls versus curtain separators, and spaciousness.
Skye expected to hear the familiar notes of flutes, violins, and drums, but instead she heard shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but accelerated her steps as the voices grew louder.
Afraid that fists would be swinging soon, Skye dashed into the room and stopped abruptly when she saw several students lined up on a dais in front of the class. Noreen stood facing them, using a conductor’s baton to point to each in turn. As she did so, each teen spoke a word; then the next person uttered the same word, only louder.
At that moment the bell rang, and Noreen said, “Excellent work, everyone. We’ll pick up here next time. Class dismissed.”
Skye hesitated, not sure what she had seen. What in the world was Noreen teaching?
Once all the students had left, Noreen approached Skye. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” Skye’s cheeks reddened. “I’m so sorry for bursting in here without knocking.” She knew she’d breached the unwritten rule that each teacher was king or queen of his or her classroom.
“No problem.” Noreen’s lips twitched. “I bet you thought the kids were about to start throwing punches.”
Skye nodded.
“We’re so isolated in this wing, I didn’t even think of what the lesson on voice as an instrument would sound like to someone in the hall.” Noreen patted Skye’s arm. “Sorry for frightening you.”
Skye blew out a breath. “I need to stop letting my imagination get the better of me, and seeing crises around every corner.”
“Don’t we all,” Noreen agreed. “So, were you coming to see me about something?”
“Yes.” Skye tipped her head toward a small table. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” Noreen led the way and took a seat. “But I need to grade papers for my next class while we talk.”
“I won’t keep you long.” Skye sat down. “We’re getting a new student who wants music on his schedule as his elective course.”
“Oh?” Noreen raised a brow. “So where does the school psychologist fit into that picture?”
Skye explained about Woodrow’s special circumstances, ending with, “Which means we don’t know yet exactly what he’ll require, but at a minimum he’ll have a teacher assistant with him at all times.”
“Then everything should be fine.” Noreen reached for a stack of papers. “I’m sure his aide will know what to do, and I’ll be happy to make any accommodations or modifications suggested.”
“That’s great.” Skye relaxed. “Thanks.” Some teachers were more comfortable than others with students who had special needs.
“I learned to be flexible during my student teaching.” Noreen smiled fondly. “One of the first lessons Quentin Neal taught me was that music teachers eventually have every kid in the school in their class, and we’d better be able to handle all types.”
“It sounds as if he was a terrific trainer.” Skye couldn’t believe her luck; Quentin was exactly who she really wanted to talk about.
Noreen nodded, then asked, “Have you heard anything more about his daughter’s death?”
“Not much so far, but the police and I are working on it,” Skye said, taking out her notepad. “Maybe you can help us out a little. Would you mind answering some questions about the Neals?”
“Sure.” Noreen picked up a red pen. “But I don’t remember much.”
“Anything you can tell me would be helpful,” Skye assured her. “Do you remember where the Neals lived?”
“Hmm.” Noreen closed her eyes. “They rented a house on that street behind where the McDonald’s is now. Singer Lane. I remember thinking how appropriate the name was.”
Skye made a note. “Did Mrs. Neal work outside the home?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How, uh, was . . .” Skye wasn’t sure how to ask the next question. “Did you ever hear anything about Mr. and Mrs. Neal’s marriage?”
“Well . . .” Noreen hesitated, clearly deciding whether to tell Skye what she knew. “Quentin put in a lot of hours directing the Catholic Church choir, and Paulette was a little unhappy with that, but no, nothing else.”
“Can you think of any friends or relatives of the Neals who might have more information?”
“No. He didn’t talk much about his personal life.” Noreen uncapped her pen. “And they hadn’t been here very long. You know it takes a while for native Scumble Riverites to warm up to newcomers.”
“True.” Skye searched for something more to ask. “Was anyone who’s currently on staff here around the year Quentin was teaching?”
“Hmm.” Noreen chewed the top of her pen. “Homer and Pru are the only ones I can think of who have been here that long.”
“Great.” The two people Skye most didn’t want to have to question.
“I wish I knew more.”
“The biggest obstacle so far is that we can’t locate a next of kin.”
“That’s terrible.” Noreen made a sad clucking sound with her tongue. “I remember Quentin mentioning that both he and his wife didn’t have any siblings.”
“Darn! That means Suzette didn’t have any aunts or uncles or even first cousins.”
“Yeah.” Noreen pulled a quiz from the stack, read a line, then put a red check by number one. “That was why Quentin and Paulette were so happy they’d had twins. They didn’t want to risk raising an only child.”
“Suzette had a sister?” Skye’s voice rose and she nearly smacked the music teacher. Why hadn’t Noreen mentioned that fact in the first place?
“A brother,” Noreen corrected. “They were fraternal twins.”
“What was his name?” Skye demanded.
“I don’t remember.” Noreen squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Quentin always just called him the boy.”
“I wonder why there’s no record of him in her life,” Skye mused out loud, then thought to herself, And why didn’t Suzette mention him when she asked me for help?
“I have no idea.” Noreen frowned. “After Paulette died and Quentin moved away, I never heard from him again. I don’t think he wanted any reminders of Scumble River.”
CHAPTER 16
“When You Say Nothing at All”
Skye hurried out of the junior high school as soon as the final bell rang. She had several items on her to-do list, but two tasks were competing for the number one spot—picking up Toby before Puppy charged her overtime and tracking down Wally. She’d been calling and leaving messages for him every chance she had, which wasn’t all that often since she’d been stuck in a PPS meeting most of the afternoon.
Using cell phones wasn’t allowed in the school building, but as Skye’s foot hit the parking lot pavement, she dug hers out and powered it up. Before she could hit speed dial, she saw she had a missed call. Punching in her super-secret code—456—she put the tiny silver rectangle to her ear and tapped her fingers against the metal case as she waited for the chance to press the correct number, after which she might actually get to hear what her caller had to say.
Skye couldn’t understand why people thought voice mail was superior to an old-fashioned answering machine. Instead of facing forty-two options—most of which she would never use—a push of a button, and your messages played.
Finally, Wally’s voice said, “Sorry we keep missing each other today, darlin’. My cell bit the dust early this morning and I wasn’t able to get a new one until three o’clock.”
Ah. Skye ya
nked open the car door. That explained why he’d never called her back.
“One of the reasons it took me so long to replace my phone is that someone leaked the news that semen was found in the body and reporters are camped out at the PD again.”
Terrific! She slid into the driver’s seat. Just what they needed: more media attention.
“So instead of coming to the station, meet me in back at the church parking lot at four thirty. We have a road trip to make. Love you. Bye.”
Heck! Wally hadn’t mentioned anything about his interview with Owen. Having checked with Trixie, Skye knew Owen had returned before bedtime last night, saying he’d gone for a ride to look at the neighbors’ fields. But Skye didn’t buy that explanation any more than Trixie had.
Skye glanced at her watch. Ten after four. Oh, well; at least she’d see Wally in twenty minutes or so. She could probably contain her curiosity for that long—but just barely. She turned the key, threw the Bel Air in gear, and stomped on the gas.
Doggy Daycare was mobbed with parents retrieving their canine children. The wait was so long, Skye was considering calling Wally to say she’d be late when she finally reached the front of the line.
Puppy smiled widely at Skye and said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Oh?” Skye answered cautiously. Considering Puppy and Doggy Daycare, Skye was afraid they had bronzed Toby’s poop as a memento.
“I’ll be right back.” Puppy disappeared behind a half wall and returned seconds later with Toby in her arms.
At least, Skye thought it was Toby. She examined the little white dog carefully. His fur had been clipped so close he looked like a sheared lamb—except for the giant round cotton ball–like puff at the end of his tail.
Tentatively, Skye fingered the bright blue bows adorning his head. Those would have to go. But how in the heck were they attached? She had a feeling their removal would require scissors, or maybe even a scalpel.
“Wow.” It had taken Skye a moment to realize that Puppy was staring at her, anxiously awaiting her reaction. “He really looks different.”
“Do you like it?” Puppy asked. “I had some extra time, and I felt a little bad about how much you had to pay for him to stay here, so I fixed him up.” When Skye didn’t respond, Puppy added, “It’s on the house.”
“It’s amazing.” Skye figured that was the only honest answer that wouldn’t hurt the woman’s feelings. “Thank you.”
After thanking Puppy again, Skye headed toward her rendezvous with Wally. When she rocketed into the church’s parking lot a few minutes later, Wally was leaning against the front fender of his Thunderbird. Not quite the undercover vehicle Skye would have chosen to avoid reporters, but a step up from a police cruiser.
Wally pushed upright as she squealed to a stop a few feet away. While Skye fumbled for her tote bag and Toby’s leash, Wally opened her door. She handed him the dog, got out, and gave him a quick kiss.
“What the hell happened to this poor little guy?” Wally held Toby up and away from him as if the dog had on a dirty diaper.
“It’s a long story,” Skye answered with a sigh. “Suffice it to say the owner of Doggy Daycare wears a headband with fake dog ears attached, wags her backside like a tail, and calls herself Puppy Pointer.”
“You’re kidding.” Wally did a double take. “What’s her real name?”
“That’s it.” Skye shrugged. “Apparently she had it legally changed.” Skye paused to reflect on the absurdity of a grown woman called Puppy, then asked, “So what did Owen have to say?”
Wally cocked his thumb at the T-bird. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”
“Okay.” As she climbed in, Skye asked, “Where are we going?”
“That self-storage place halfway between here and Laurel.” Wally settled Toby on Skye’s lap—the sports car didn’t have a backseat—and slid behind the wheel. “Turns out all the files aren’t in the PD’s basement after all. Warehousing of the older records was outsourced when I was still a rookie.”
“Who’s the owner of that place related to?” Skye asked with a sidelong glance. “Nepotism is the only explanation for the city using a business located outside the city limits.”
Wally smirked. “You.”
Skye wasn’t at all surprised to hear it was one of her family members. She was kissing cousins to half the county, and that was just on her mother’s side. “Which of my many relatives is the proprietor?”
“Our esteemed mayor.” Wally turned onto the road that would take them toward Laurel.
“Oh!” If Skye didn’t know how small-town government worked, she might have wondered how the chief of police could be unaware of where all the files were stored. But in a good-ol’-boy regime, unless you knew the right question to ask, no one would volunteer the information. “How did you find out there were more records than just the ones in the basement?”
“Dante told me when he called to ream me out for not wrapping up this case fast enough.”
“He is truly a pain in the butt,” Skye commiserated. “If it’s any consolation, he acts the same way with the family.”
“You know, he’s one of only a very few people I’d be willing to name a building after.” Wally grinned. “Of course, he’d have to be dead first.”
Skye laughed, then asked, “So how did the storage issue come up?”
“I lost my temper.” Wally’s expression was sheepish. “I made it plain that if the police board had allowed me to have all the records digitized, as I had requested several years ago, maybe I could access the information I needed to solve Suzette’s murder.”
“I’m sure my uncle took that well. He so loves criticism.” Skye hid a smile. “Is that when Dante revealed the hush-hush location?”
“Yes. It seems that when the rent came due for the previous facility, Dante had the city hall custodians move everything to the place he owned. That must have been when the ones in the basement got all messed up, since he instructed them to reshuffle the boxes and leave the most recent ten years’ worth at the PD.” Wally scowled. “Of course, no one thought to mention any of this to me.”
“What a shock.” Skye snickered, then demanded, “Now, what about Owen?”
“He told me the same thing about his absence on Saturday afternoon and evening that he told Trixie.” Wally stopped for a grain truck turning into a field. “He ran into an old friend after his business meeting and they went into Joliet for a drink.”
“What was the name of the friend?” Skye asked. “Did that person confirm Owen’s story?”
“Owen wouldn’t identify his companion. He hemmed and hawed, and said he’d rather not involve anyone else.” Wally’s expression was rueful. “He did, however, give me permission to look at his truck so I could see that there was no damage from any accident.”
“Rats!” Skye stopped petting Toby. “Did you promise him that whatever he told you would stay between the two of you?”
“Yes, but I could tell he didn’t trust me.” Wally glowered. “And when I pressed him, he wouldn’t budge. That guy is more stubborn than ants at a picnic.”
“Double crap!”
“Furthermore, since everything that points to him as a suspect is circumstantial, I have no way to compel him to tell me.” Wally tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Plus, my hands are tied because I really don’t want to alert him to the fact that he might be a suspect.”
“Well, that stinks.” Skye scratched behind Toby’s ears, causing the little dog’s tail to thump like a metronome and his hind end to wiggle in ecstasy. “On another note, did you get my message about Suzette’s twin?”
“Yes.” Wally concentrated on navigating the T-bird around a curve. “Good work.”
“Thanks.” Skye basked in Wally’s praise. “Have you found out his name?”
“Not so far. Like everything else to do with this case, the light at the end of the tunnel always turns out to be glowing eyes with claws and teeth.” Wally blew out an i
rritated breath. “Discovering the brother’s identity is turning out to be harder than it should be.”
“Can’t you just get ahold of his birth certificate?” Skye asked.
“I put Quirk on that as soon as I got your message. But since we don’t know where Suzette and her twin were born, he hasn’t had any luck.”
“So, what is Quirk doing now?”
“He’s checking state by state”—Wally’s lips formed a thin line—“starting with Illinois and moving outward. So far, he hasn’t found any male with the last name of Neal who shares Suzette’s birthday.”
“Is there any other way to find Suzette’s twin?” Skye asked.
“The county crime scene techs have her laptop and are looking through her e-mail and files. And the Nashville police are talking to her friends and neighbors, so maybe they’ll come across someone who can help us identify her brother.” Wally shook his head. “They already searched her apartment and didn’t find anything helpful—no birth certificate or passport or personal correspondence.”
“So if there’s nothing on her computer and none of the people in Nashville know anything, what next?”
“If the name of her son isn’t in Paulette Neal’s file, I’ll try the federal databank.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a database of birth records of all fifty states.” Wally frowned. “Unfortunately, budget cuts, red tape, and not having the full name of the person for whom the information is being requested means there’d be a long wait for requests to be processed. It could be more than a month before they get back to us.”
“Oh.” Skye felt frustrated by yet another roadblock; then she had a thought. “Hey, I ran into Simon at the ATM this morning and he mentioned he thought Suzette looked familiar.”
“So?”
“So, if we ask him to think about it some more, maybe he’ll remember something.”
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