“No, we’d better have school today. I’ll call the co-op, and see if they have a crisis team we can borrow. And we need to have a faculty meeting before school. Quite a few teachers will be upset, too.”
“The staff will be fine,” Homer protested.
Skye contemplated crawling back into bed. Instead she continued to sweet-talk him until Homer agreed to hold a teachers’ meeting at seven-thirty. She fed Bingo and got dressed. It was still only six o’clock. She decided to try the co-op anyway and got an answering machine. She left her message and headed out the door.
It was a long walk to the school, and what with yesterday’s excitement, she had forgotten to arrange for a ride. Skye vowed she would buy a car this weekend even if she had to sell her body to get the cash. Looking down at her generous curves, she hoped the car salesman liked cuddly women.
As Skye pulled the cottage door shut, a white Oldsmobile turned into her driveway. Skye closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Her mother, May Denison, was fifty-seven but had the energy of a twenty-year-old. She kept her house immaculate, exercised four times a week, and worked part-time as a police, fire, and emergency dispatcher. Along with this already-busy schedule, May’s primary cause in life was taking care of her children. This would have been noble had Skye and her brother, Vince, been under sixteen, but both were well over thirty. Skye was finding it tough to keep her independence.
May shot out of the car and yo-yoed Skye, first grabbing her in a tight hug, then pushing her away, then grabbing her again. “Why do I always have to hear about things from Minnie first?” May demanded.
“I thought you were dispatching last night, and would already know more than I did.”
“No, I traded with Thea so she could go to her granddaughter’s dance recital. I worked days yesterday.” May crossed her arms. “Fill me in.”
Skye thought she knew what her mother was referring to, but she was taking no chance in revealing a secret that May might not actually know. “What did Aunt Minnie have to say this morning?”
“Don’t try to act dumb with me, Missy. Lorelei Ingels’s murder, of course.”
“No one has said she was murdered, have they?” Skye wondered if a cause of death had been announced while she was sleeping.
“Everyone in town knows that the police and coroner were at the school. Not that my own daughter would pick up a phone and call me.” The salt-and-pepper waves on May’s head appeared to bristle.
“Sorry, Mom. It was after nine-thirty by the time I got home.” Skye tried to look innocent, fighting a sly grin that was trying to escape. “Besides, I thought for sure Uncle Charlie would have told you.”
“Charlie knew?” A look of betrayal crossed May’s face. Charlie and May had been trading secrets and gossip for nearly thirty years.
“Sure, he was there. He drove me home.”
“Mmm.” May paused for a few moments, then continued on a different track. “That reminds me. Your father’s found a car for you.”
Skye felt her heart sink. Her dad’s idea of a great car was good transportation—paint and fenders were optional. After driving her father’s eyesores all her life, this time she wanted something with a little more beauty than the beasts he usually chose. She knew it was shallow to care about a car’s looks, but she didn’t care. This time she wanted something hot. A Miata if she could swing the payments.
“Ah, well, that’s really nice of him, but I did tell Dad I was going to pick out a car myself.”
“Just take a look at it.” May played her trump card. “You don’t want to hurt your father’s feelings, do you?”
“Sure, I’ll look at it.” Being a bridge player, Skye recognized an ace of spades when she heard it. “But I’m not buying it.”
“Sure. No one said you had to.” May nodded. “Want a ride to school?”
Skye weighed her options. A three-mile hike, hoping to see someone she knew who would give her a ride, or five minutes of interrogation by her mother about Lorelei’s death. “Sure, thanks. Is that a new jacket?” She took a stab at trying to distract May’s attention.
“No. Now tell me what happened yesterday, from the beginning.”
The drive to school was short, and Skye was only up to finding the body when May steered the Olds into the empty parking lot. “Keep going. No one is here yet, so you have time.”
“Not really, Mom.” Skye grabbed the door handle and pushed. It seemed to be stuck. “I’ve got to get some plans in place before everyone else arrives.” And if she were lucky, she might be able to squeeze in her morning swim in the school’s pool.
“Five more minutes.”
“I’ll call you tonight.” Skye tried the door again.
“Childproof automatic locks.” May smiled serenely. “Tell me the rest.”
Skye sagged against the seat. Why were her relatives always kidnapping her? As she told her mom what May wanted to know, Skye realized they had all forgotten about the girl who had sounded the alarm. She would have to confirm that it was indeed Elvira Doozier and talk to her ASAP.
When Skye finished, May pressed the button to release the doors. “You know,” she said, “from what you said, Allen and Lorna Ingels’ attitude is really pretty strange. You ought to talk to your cousins. They know a lot about Lorelei and her mother.”
“Which cousins?” Skye stood on the blacktop, straightening her navy wool pantsuit.
“The twins. They’re involved with all that beauty-pageant nonsense, and so are the Ingels.” May looked at her watch and frowned.
Before Skye could question her mother further, May leaned over, shut the passenger door, and drove away. Skye gazed at the red taillights, wondering where her mother was off to before seven on a Thursday morning.
The phone was ringing as Skye unlocked the front door of the school. It stopped while she was still trying to open the door to the front office, but started up again almost immediately. Should she answer it? Probably not, but what if it were the co-op with a list of helpers?
She dropped her tote onto the counter and reached for the phone, pressing the button for an outside line. She’d call the co-op back rather than run the risk of playing telephone roulette, with a thousand-to-one odds in favor of the caller being an irate parent.
This time she reached an actual person. A secretary. Skye identified herself and asked to speak to the coordinator for their district. She had met him only a half dozen times, as he rarely attended any of Scumble River’s meetings. She was told that he wouldn’t be in until nine.
“Could someone else help me? We have an emergency, a student death. Does the co-op have a crisis plan?” Skye heard her voice become shaky. It was just starting to hit her that she would have to handle the situation all by herself.
“I’m sorry. That has to go through your coordinator. But I can page him if you like.”
“Yes, definitely page him.”
“Please hold.” Music suddenly blared into Skye’s ear. Appropriately enough, it was Patsy Cline singing “Lonely Street.”
Twenty minutes later, Skye finally got to talk to the coordinator. “As I’ve explained at least a dozen times, I need help,” she said. “What can the co-op do for me?”
The faculty and staff of the high school were beginning to arrive. She heard excited voices and sobs, and Skye wondered if by the time the announcement was made at the faculty meeting, the stories going around would resemble in any way what had really happened.
“We’ll try to pull some social workers and psychologists who are employed by the cooperative, rather than by individual school districts,” the coordinator replied. “But this could take a while, and they may not be available for the whole day.”
“How about you? Couldn’t you come down for at least the morning? Didn’t you say you have a degree in social work?” Skye couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice.
“Working directly with students is not part of my job,” the coordinator’s emotionless voice droned. “As I said, I’ll see wh
at help I can get you.”
“Fine.” Skye recognized when someone really didn’t care.
Her mind raced as she hurried down the hall toward the guidance room. Coach would not be happy, but she was commandeering his office for the day. She stopped suddenly as an idea formed. If Coach were a real guidance counselor, he should be able to help with the day’s crisis. She had always suspected he wasn’t truly qualified. Now she’d find out.
Who else could she get to talk to kids with minimal instructions from her? Trixie and Abby. Trixie Frayne was the school librarian and cheerleader coach, a natural listener, and a lot of kids already confided in her. Plus, she was Skye’s best friend and could be counted on to do her a favor. And Abby Fleming was the school nurse. Surely she would have had some training in at least rudimentary counseling.
Skye talked to Trixie and Abby, who were glad to help, although a little unsure of their ability. Next she approached the coach. As she expected, he flat-out refused. Most teachers were happy to do what they could for the school and the students, but there was a small coterie of those who had been teaching too long and had essentially retired before the actual papers were signed. Coach belonged to the latter group.
Skye went in search of Homer. She found him sequestered in his office and explained what she had already done.
Homer shook his shaggy head. “Not good. Not good. Mrs. Frayne and Ms. Fleming are not qualified to provide counseling, thus they are not covered under our liability insurance.”
Skye bit back a retort and searched frantically for an answer. “Wouldn’t they be covered by the Good Samaritan law?”
“I’ll call our lawyer and find out.”
The attorney wasn’t in his office yet.
Before Homer could say no, Skye asked, “What do you suppose would be worse in the eyes of the law: do nothing or make a good-faith effort?”
After a few minutes of agonizing, Homer grudgingly gave Skye permission to follow through on her plan. Then, without warning, he stood, and said, “Time for the faculty meeting. I’m turning it over to you to run.”
He was halfway down the hall before Skye could protest. She raced after him, but as soon as she caught up with him, in the Home Ec room where the meetings were held, he turned to the teachers who were already assembled and introduced her.
Suddenly she felt her own grief and despair fighting their way to the surface. She fleetingly considered faking an appendicitis attack so she could go home sick. Instead, she pushed her distress back down, nodded to Homer, and began. “We have all had a terrible shock. As you know, Lorelei Ingels was found dead in our gymnasium yesterday afternoon. As of this morning we do not know the cause of death.
“Many of us feel a personal sense of loss, and those of you who think you cannot handle your classes, please let Mr. Knapik know immediately, so other arrangements can be made.”
Skye paused, but no one came forward. She didn’t expect anyone would. They would come later in private. “Here is our plan for today. We’re a small school, so as soon as the bell rings to signal the beginning of classes, we will assemble all students in the cafeteria, since we still aren’t allowed access to the gym. I will announce Lorelei’s death, and give them what little information we have about the circumstances surrounding it. At that point, I ask that all teachers return to their first-period rooms. Any students who want to talk more about Lorelei’s death will be asked to stay in the cafeteria. The rest will be dismissed to their classrooms.”
Skye swallowed hard and forced her voice to remain steady. She could not afford to break down. “The students who remain in the cafeteria will be counseled by me, the school nurse, and the librarian. As the need arises, we will break into even smaller groups or see kids individually. I’m hoping that some social workers or psychologists from the co-op will arrive this afternoon. When that happens, if any of you would like to talk to someone, please feel free. Of course, if you need to see someone before then, find me, and we’ll speak with you immediately.”
Most of the teachers looked as numb as Skye felt. Some had tears rolling down their cheeks. Skye asked, “Any questions?”
After dealing with the usual queries about who should say what to the students’ questions, Skye dismissed the faculty. There were two more things she had to do before the day officially started. She wanted to ask the secretary to get some coffee, soft drinks, donuts, and snacks for the counseling rooms. And she had to call Wally and find out if a cause of death had been established. How was usually the first thing teens wanted to know. Too bad that question was followed closely by why, something that the adults could never answer.
CHAPTER 4
More Than Meets the Lie
The students filed silently into the cafeteria. There was none of the joking, laughter, or raised voices Skye had come to expect at an assembly. They found seats on the benches, without the usual fuss of who sat next to whom, and stared forward. Skye felt as if she were about to address the Stepford children.
She walked nervously to the front of the room, near the window where food trays were usually handed out. The pea-green cinder-block walls were hung with posters advertising the seven basic food groups and nutritionally balanced meals. Many had been altered with Magic Marker and teenage wit. Skye blinked; was that supposed to be a condom on that banana?
A heavy odor of Tater Tots and hot dogs hung in the airless room. Skye opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t remember what she had meant to say. The eerie silence and concentrated stares were making her nervous.
This was one of the many tough parts of her job. She had to keep her own emotions in check in order to create an atmosphere in which the students would feel safe to expose their feelings. Teens only felt secure if the adults around them exhibited a calm, unruffled, it’s-all-being-handled type of demeanor.
With an effort, she pulled herself together and began, “As many of you know, my name is Ms. Denison, and I’m the school psychologist.” Skye smiled slightly and nodded at several students she recognized. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the sad news—Lorelei Ingels was found dead yesterday on the school stage. We don’t know the cause of death, but we will share that information with you as soon as we do find out. There is no reason to believe that she suffered, or that there is any danger to anyone else.”
Skye studied the faces in front of her. Most of the teens were staring back at her. She could hear whispers starting as she continued, “In a few minutes Mr. Knapik will ring the bell, and everyone should go to their first-hour classes. Anyone who feels too upset should stay here and we’ll talk some more.”
After the teens were dismissed, Skye did a quick count of how many were left. About forty kids remained seated. They ranged from clumps of eight or ten, to single students hunkered by themselves.
Forty was far too many for an effective group intervention. She’d have to divide them among the helpers she had available. Weighing the personalities involved, Skye resolved to give Abby the least upset kids. The school nurse tended to be a bit clinical, which would be appropriate for the teens who would be fine as soon as they could sort out the experience in their minds.
Trixie was a great listener. She could take the kids who were upset more with the idea of someone dying than with Lorelei’s death in particular.
Skye would take Lorelei’s closest friends—the cheerleaders, the drama crowd, and the student council.
“Okay, in a little bit we’ll divide up into three groups. Mrs. Frayne will take some of you to the library to talk, Ms. Fleming’s bunch will go to the music room, and the rest will come with me to the guidance office.”
Skye scanned the crowd. How to decide who was the least upset? She shrugged. Maybe this wasn’t the correct way to approach this crisis, but it was all she could think of. She hadn’t been given much training for this type of incident. “Before we break into groups, I’d like you each to tell me a little bit about how you knew Lorelei.”
Three girls were clustered together at the front
table. One with short blond curls met Skye’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow. Skye pointed to her. “Would you go first?”
“I was her best friend. We were co-captains of the cheerleading squad.”
Skye thought she heard a small voice say, “Lorelei let you be her assistant. You were never the co-captain.”
It was interesting how quickly people jumped in to get their version across. Skye dipped her head to the two other girls. “Were you on the squad, too?”
They nodded and whispered.
That triad would come with Skye.
A muscular young man sitting with two other guys caught Skye’s attention next, and she walked over to them. “And how did you know Lorelei?”
His voice cracked when he answered, “She was my girlfriend.”
“I’m so sorry.” This boy would probably be the chief mourner. She would have to watch him closely. “Are these your friends?” Skye indicated the teens flanking him.
“Yes, we’re on the football team together.”
My group, too. She worked her way through the rest of the kids. The last girl sat by herself in the back, staring into space and looking out of place among the ultraslim blondes who had been in Lorelei’s inner circle. She had a voluptuous figure and long, wavy brown hair. It took Skye several tries to get the girl’s attention.
Finally, the loner said, “I’m no one. Lorelei didn’t know I was alive.”
Skye looked at her quizzically.
The girl rose from her seat. Her brown eyes blazed. “I hated her. I’m glad she’s dead.”
It was close to ten-thirty by the time Skye left the guidance office. Several of the students had asked for individual sessions. She was heading for the faculty lounge and the staff bathroom when Opal Hill, the school secretary, came flying down the hall. Normally Opal reminded Skye of a mouse, but today, dressed all in black, she looked more like a bat.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you. Mr. Knapik is in with the coordinator from the co-op and has ordered me not to disturb them, but the police are here. What should I do?”
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty Page 4