Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

by Denise Swanson

  As she got out of the Ford, Skye noted the huge trees and perfectly trimmed bushes. The house was less than five years old, and mature landscaping like that did not come cheap. How much did a bank president make?

  The women approached the double front doors. Trixie glanced uneasily at Skye before pushing the bell.

  A long minute passed before the door was swung open by a middle-aged woman in an apron who spoke with a Polish accent. “Yes? May I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Ms. Denison, we met a couple of days ago, and this is Mrs. Frayne. We’re from the school. We brought this for the family.” She handed the casserole over. “Are the Ingelses receiving visitors?” Her time in New Orleans society was finally paying off. She knew the right words to use when calling on the rich and snobbish.

  The woman ushered them into a soaring two-story foyer with a curved staircase. She indicated that they wait, and then disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned, minus the casserole dish, opened a pocket door to the right, and led them into the library.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ingels sat in matching wing chairs flanking a massive stone fireplace. Mrs. VanHorn was perched on a sofa situated between the two chairs.

  The housekeeper withdrew silently, leaving Trixie and Skye to introduce themselves. Skye observed Trixie’s frozen expression and took over. “Mr. and Mrs. Ingels, Mrs. VanHorn, I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Skye Denison, school psychologist at the high school, and this is Trixie Frayne, the librarian. We stopped by to offer our condolences, and see if there is anything we can do for you.”

  Allen Ingels rose from his chair, his face expressionless. “Yes, I do remember you.”

  Skye braced for another attack about why she hadn’t saved his daughter, but the man continued. “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness the other day. We realize now there was nothing you could have done to prevent Lorelei’s death.”

  “Thank you.” Skye’s heart returned to its normal beat. “We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment.”

  Mrs. Ingels spoke from her chair. “Won’t you have a seat? Anna is getting coffee.”

  Skye and Trixie squeezed in beside Priscilla VanHorn. Today Mrs. VanHorn wore a tight black suit with crochet cutouts circling the sleeves and the hem of the short skirt. Her red hair was arranged in an array of curls that flowed past her shoulders.

  Trixie was still silent, so Skye said, “Nice to see you again, Mrs. VanHorn.” Even after a couple of years in the school system, it still seemed awkward to Skye to use Mr. and Mrs. instead of first names. It was one of the quaint customs that those in education seemed to cling to. Probably so the kids wouldn’t take to calling their teachers Debbie and Robin.

  Skye turned to Lorna Ingels. “Is there anything I can help you with in regard to school-related matters?”

  Before she could answer, Allen spoke. “Right now we can’t do anything. The police have managed to tie our hands at every turn. We can’t clean out her locker, we can’t collect her belongings, we can’t even plan the services, because they won’t tell us when they’re releasing the body. For all we know, they’re cutting open our beautiful daughter as we speak.”

  At his last sentence, Lorna gasped, then crumpled in a sobbing heap. Everyone froze and stared at the distraught woman. Finally, Mr. Ingels leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. This seemed to release the rest of the group from their paralysis, and Skye and Priscilla leaped to their feet. Priscilla reached Mrs. Ingels first and guided her out of the room.

  Trixie rose from the couch and uttered her first words since their arrival. “We’ll leave you now. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Skye plastered a look of embarrassment on her face, which wasn’t far from how she really felt, and said, “I’m sorry to be a bother, but could I use your powder room before we go?” She had come here to see Lorelei’s room, and she would fulfill her mission, come hell or high water, as her grandmother used to say. She’d show Wally what she could accomplish without him.

  Allen Ingels’s expression grew colder, but he nodded. “The guest bath down here is being remodeled. You’ll have to use the one at the top of the stairs. It’s to your right.”

  Skye quickly backed out of the library and ran up the steps. How could she tell which bedroom was Lorelei’s? The house was so huge. Plus, she had to worry about where the two women and the housekeeper had gone.

  Since Mr. Ingels had just told her the bathroom was to the right, she went left—if confronted, she would act confused. The first door she tried, she struck gold. It had to be Lorelei’s room. It was full of pageant trophies, crowns, and pom-poms. Done in ice blue and silver, it was a stunning setting for Lorelei’s blond, snow-princess looks.

  Skye didn’t dare go in, but she tried to get a sense of the teenager from the posters and memorabilia. When she eased open the next door, she caught her breath. It was a huge dance studio, complete with barre and mirrors. These people didn’t kid around with their daughters’ futures.

  She checked her watch. She had been gone only a couple of minutes. She’d check out one more room, then flush the toilet. Skye turned and found herself facing a miniature version of Lorelei. If possible, this rendition was even more beautiful. She wore an ice-blue leotard and silver tights. Skye wondered briefly if those were the family colors.

  Skye gathered her wits and said, “Hi, you must be Linette. I’m Ms. Denison. Could you show me where your bathroom is?”

  The ten-year-old was silent. Her perfect face remained expressionless. She turned and walked down the hall a few feet, stopping in front of a closed door. “Here it is.”

  Skye wondered what was going on behind the child’s exquisite exterior.

  CHAPTER 9

  It’s the Shame of the Game

  “Tell me again why I’m here,” Trixie demanded into her coffee cup. The oversize red velour seat of Gillian’s TransSport swallowed Trixie’s tiny figure, and she looked like a cameo nestled in a jewelry box. A cranky cameo.

  Skye, Trixie, and the twins’ daughters, Iris and Kristin, were on their way to the Junior Miss Stanley County pageant in Laurel. For fourteen of the fifteen minutes they had been on the road, at least one of Skye’s passengers had been complaining, yelling, or crying. She was ready to turn the minivan around and head back to Scumble River. Only the fear of her cousins’ wrath kept her going in the opposite direction.

  Skye glanced at the rearview mirror. The girls had finally settled down and were busy talking, not paying attention to the adults in the front seat. Still, she lowered her voice. “I told you last night, this is the perfect way to find out the real scoop on the Ingels.”

  “I understand that,” Trixie retorted, “but why am I here?”

  “Because I can’t go off and leave the girls alone. One of us needs to stay with them while the other investigates.”

  “Great.” Trixie took a big gulp of her coffee. “This is going to be like yesterday when you left me with Allen Ingels, isn’t it? The man kept looking at his watch. I finally had to tell him you had irritable bowel syndrome.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Skye grimaced, imagining that rumor flying through town. That would certainly attract eligible bachelors to her door. “Is that the high school over there on the left?”

  Trixie squinted. “Yes. The sign says, ‘Contestants please park by the south entrance.’ ”

  “Which way is south?” Skye had no sense of direction.

  “Around back, Aunt Skye,” Iris instructed.

  Skye cringed. Since her stint as a lifeguard last summer, her cousins’ kids had started calling her “aunt.” Even though it was kind of sweet, it made her feel old. But it would be too Grinch-like to tell them to stop. She was stuck with the title.

  Skye eased the minivan into a pull-through spot. The long pointy nose on the vehicle made it difficult to park in a regular slot. The girls tumbled out, and the two women followed at a slower pace. Skye opened the back hatch and started handing out boxes, suitcases
, and garment bags.

  The four staggered toward the entrance, balancing enough luggage for a world cruise. Once inside, the girls led the way to the registration desk.

  Skye let her burdens fall to the floor and said, “Hi, I’ve got Iris Allen and Kristin Tubb checking in.”

  The woman behind the table had big hair, big breasts, and a short, sequined gown. She looked over her rhinestone-edged glasses and frowned. “And you are?”

  “My name is Skye Denison. I’m their guardian for today.” Skye leaned closer to peer at the woman’s name tag, half-hidden by the marabou feathers that trimmed her neckline. “Ms. Reiter.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a problem. A parent must be present.”

  “Really?” Skye held on to her temper as the girls started to cry. She picked up a blank entry form and turned to the rules. She read them twice and turned back to Ms. Reiter. “I can’t seem to find that rule. Could you point it out to me?”

  Ms. Reiter snatched the papers from Skye’s hand, and flipped through them furiously. “It’s not here. It’s just understood.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Skye started to pick up her things. “Which room do we report to?”

  “I can’t let the girls compete. It wouldn’t be fair.” Ms. Reiter’s bosom puffed out like dough rising.

  “If I put these things down again, somewhere other than our dressing room, it will be to make two phone calls.” Skye paused to make sure she had the woman’s attention. “The first will be to our attorney, and the second to the Chicago Tribune. You know how popular these kiddy pageants are ever since the JonBenet murder. I’m willing to bet the Trib would love to do an article on how unwholesome this contest is.”

  Ms. Reiter’s mouth formed an outraged O.

  “Where did you say our dressing room was?”

  “Room 102.

  “Great. You have a real nice day now.” Skye led her little band away.

  Trixie didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Not one of the sharper crayons in the box, is she?”

  From the constant chatter Kristin and Iris engaged in, Skye learned that Friday had been the Talent portion of the pageant. Kristin had performed a gymnastic routine, and Iris had demonstrated fly-fishing. This morning would be Modeling and Interview. In the afternoon there was Beauty and Crowning.

  Skye’s gaze swept Room 102. Monday through Friday it held Laurel High’s Home Ec class. Cubicles had been made by rolling in portable blackboards. Since their group had two contestants, they had been assigned adjoining spots. Skye quickly pushed the center divider against the wall to give them more space.

  Even though she knew that the pageant was being held in a high school, Skye was disappointed to see how drab everything was. If these girls were going to exhibit themselves, shouldn’t there be some glamour involved? This setup reminded her more of her Scholastic Bowl team than a beauty pageant. Not that she approved of these contests.

  While Skye was brooding, the girls changed into their costumes for Modeling. They led Skye and Trixie to the backstage area, where they were supposed to wait for their cue. A dozen eight-, nine-, and ten-year-olds milled around in a space not much bigger than a spare bedroom. Each of the girls was fussed over by one or two adults. The whole scene reminded Skye of an anthill.

  Skye watched as a tiny, raven-haired beauty dressed in a red-and-white-striped halter top jumpsuit, red bolero jacket with ruffles at the wrist, and white hat, stood as her mother made last-minute adjustments.

  The girl finally shook her mother away, protesting, “Get off me. You’re always hanging on me.”

  The mother took the girl by the upper arms and shook her. “This is for you, it’s not for me. We went to McDonald’s. I got you the whole Pretty Kitty kit. We stopped and bought you the little box with the key. So now all you got to do is walk through this itty-bitty dance.”

  The girl stuck out her lip and started to cry.

  Skye turned to Kristin, who had been watching the same scene. “Do you feel that way?”

  “No, me and Iris like to dress up and go to the pageants, but lots of kids don’t really want to.” Kristin put her hand in Skye’s. “Lots of moms are real mean if their kids don’t win. But Mom and Aunt Ginger are okay. They swear a little sometimes at the judges, but they don’t yell or get drunk.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Skye squatted to Kristin’s level.

  “If you ever want to quit doing this and your mom won’t let you, tell me. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Kristin swung their joined hands. “We better get in line now. It’s about to start, and I’m number two.”

  Skye checked that Trixie had Iris, who was number eleven, and they moved into position. Each girl had three minutes to strut her stuff in front of the judges. The music started, and the first contestant moved on stage.

  This girl wore a silver leotard with a cape that had the U.S. flag done in sequins across the back, a Statue of Liberty crown, and silver shoes.

  Skye watched in fascination as the ten-year-old pranced gracefully around the stage on three-inch heels. She herself could hardly wear two-inch pumps without falling on her face.

  Kristin was next, dressed in a sleeveless hot pink dress, matching hat, and muff. The outfit had marabou trim around the neckline, hem, and accessories. Kirstin moved across the stage in rhythm to the music, twirled in front of the judges, and winked.

  Skye let her mind wander as the other girls performed. She was startled out of her reverie by Trixie tapping her on the shoulder. “A woman wants to know if Iris will trade numbers and go on next. One of the contestants just got here, and she needs to have the last spot so she has time to change. Is that okay?”

  “If Iris is ready, go on and trade. It’s no big deal.”

  “She’s all set.”

  A few moments later Skye watched as Iris danced onto the stage. She swirled her blue jacket like a cape and popped her sunglasses on top of her head without missing a beat. Skye was sure Iris would win this portion of the competition.

  The girls wanted to change clothes, but Skye wanted to see the rest of Modeling, so Trixie volunteered to take them back to the dressing room.

  Skye found a seat in the rear of the auditorium just as a buzz spread through the audience. She craned her neck to see what was happening. The curtain parted, and Linette Ingels strutted out. The little blonde was dressed in silver Spandex tights with a white fur jacket and a white-and-silver circlet holding back her hair.

  The audience gasped as she started her act. The sinuous movements reminded Skye of a striptease, and when the little girl peeled off her jacket to reveal a plunging neckline and backless top, Skye heard herself exhale.

  The lady sitting next to her poked her in the ribs with an elbow. “Can you believe Lorna Ingels’s gall, having one sister perform when the other’s barely cold?”

  “It sure is a surprise,” Skye agreed. “Is that a typical costume for Linette?”

  “No, in fact, that looks a little like one Lorelei wore in the last pageant—just made smaller.”

  It was only ten-thirty, the girls had finished with their interviews, and Beauty didn’t begin until after lunch. Skye checked the dressing room and found Iris and Kristin playing Hungry, Hungry Hippo, and Trixie reading the latest Charlaine Harris mystery.

  “Are you guys okay?”

  They all murmured yes without looking up.

  “I’m going to poke around. I’ll be back at noon, and we can eat lunch. Okay?”

  As Skye left the dressing area, she heard laughter and animated voices to her right. A couple doors down, a classroom was crowded with women and girls. Up front, a man with his back to the room was working on the hair of a nine-year-old girl.

  Skye wiggled her way through the crowd. “Vince, what the heck are you doing here?”

  He whirled around. “Skye, what the heck are you doing here?”

  Her brother, Vince, was one of the handsomest men Skye had ever met. He was also charming and a talented hair-stylist. Why
he remained in Scumble River was a mystery to Skye, who had escaped for several years before being forced to come crawling back.

  “I’m chaperoning the twins’ daughters,” she said.

  “I’m doing hair. The contest organizers pay me to be available, and the moms pay for the appointment.” He twirled the little girl in the barber chair. “What do you think?”

  Skye bit her tongue. The only substitute for good manners was fast reflexes. “She certainly looks . . . perfect.” Skye thought that the little girl looked like a Barbie clone, only less animated. “How do you get her hair that big?”

  Vince smiled thinly, obviously not fooled by Skye’s words. “That’s called the ‘pageant pouf.’ To get that effect you need extensions.”

  The little girl jumped off the chair, and another one took her place. At six-foot-two, Vince towered over his tiny customer. He tightened his ponytail and narrowed his green eyes. Muscles bulged as he flexed his shoulders.

  Skye knew he was about to go into a creative trance. “If you get a lunch break, come eat with us. We’re in Room 102.”

  He nodded distractedly, and Skye moved away.

  As she walked the hallways, she saw several familiar faces. From what she overheard, the whole pageant was buzzing with talk of Linette Ingels’s performance so soon after her sister’s death.

  “Skye!”

  That sounded like Charlie’s voice. Was everyone she knew here? Skye turned back to the door she had just passed. Sitting in what was normally the teachers’ lounge were a group of men and women eating boxed lunches. Charlie held center court.

  He motioned her to a chair at his side. “What are you doing here? You usually preach against exploiting little girls.”

  When her cousins had asked her to take their daughters to this contest, Skye had felt a momentary tug of conscience. She had been talking against the whole pageant idea for many years, but the lure of investigation had been too great, and she had stomped down that little voice.