Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

by Denise Swanson

  “Take it for a spin,” Charlie urged, handing her the keys.

  “It’s really big and bright. People will talk.”

  Charlie stuck his thumbs in his red suspenders and puffed out his chest. “If you ain’t makin’ waves, you ain’t kickin’ hard enough.”

  “Ah, well.” Skye located the ignition and slid the key in the slot. “Vince, why don’t you come with me?”

  He grinned. “Sure.”

  Skye handed Charlie her house keys. “You guys go in and have some coffee or something. We’ll be right back.”

  The car was so big that it took her a while to get used to driving it, and instead of talking she concentrated on keeping it between the lines of the road. When she reached a straight stretch, she said, “How in the world did they come up with this? And why didn’t you warn me?”

  Vince laughed. “They’re getting too smart. They didn’t tell me until this morning. Mom and Dad came over after eight o’clock Mass. They know you always go at ten.” He put his arm across the back of the seat. “Mom was driving their car, and Dad had this one. They told me to meet them at your place at eleven. Charlie was already there when I arrived.”

  “What am I going to do?” Skye searched for a place to turn the huge car around.

  “What can you do? They’d be crushed if you turned it down.”

  Skye pounded the wheel and almost ran the Bel Air into the ditch. “But I want to pick out my own car. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never chosen my own vehicle.”

  “So?” Vince was not as into independence as Skye was. He was happy to have Jed mow the lawn in front of his shop once a week, and he was thrilled that May brought him lunch every day.

  “It’s not right that they spend so much of their money on us,” Skye said. As they drove down Basin Street, people waved at them as if they were royalty.

  Vince had perfected the princely motion and was waving back. “Hey, we get it all when they die anyway. At least when they give us presents, they get to share our pleasure.”

  Skye narrowed her eyes. They were almost back at her cottage. “What do you get out of all this?” Vince was too eager for her to accept this gift. He had to have an ulterior motive. Besides, their parents would never spend this kind of money on her without also getting Vince something nearly as valuable.

  Vince looked straight ahead. “They promised me a new set of drums.”

  “I thought you quit playing in high school.”

  “I always kept a set to mess around on, but these are the best you can buy.”

  Skye turned the Chevrolet into her drive, and cut the ignition. “It’s not like they wouldn’t buy you the drums if I turned down this car.”

  Vince hopped out and headed inside. “That’s not the point. The point is, how can you say to Dad, ‘Sorry, I don’t want the gift you worked four months restoring’? And how can you say to Charlie, ‘I don’t want the car you found for me.’ He gave old man Gar’s son the secret location of his favorite fishing spot to get this car for you.”

  Skye pursed her lips. “This is my new car, isn’t it?”

  Vince nodded as he opened the cottage door for her.

  She turned and took another look at the Bel Air. “Well, I always wanted a convertible.”

  Monday morning brought the April showers made famous in the poem. Skye scowled into her closet. What to wear, what to wear—the age-old question that haunted women of every age, shape, and profession.

  She felt in the mood for black, but would that be fair to the kids? Pastels were out in this weather. The sage-green outfit she’d bought last spring on sale at T.J. Maxx would be perfect.

  After feeding Bingo and herself breakfast, Skye donned her tan trench coat, grabbed her purse, and ran for the Bel Air. It was nice to have her own transportation again. And she felt better now that she had convinced her folks and Charlie to accept the check from the insurance company, when it came.

  Still, this was hardly the Miata she had pictured herself buzzing around town in. She just hoped the roof would stay up. It had a tendency to fall down whenever she hit a bump, and the only way to raise it again was to pull over and tug on it by hand.

  The elementary school was already humming when she arrived. Teachers were discussing the weather and whether they should plan to have recess inside or outside today. The kids were talking about their weekends. And the phone was ringing with parents calling to ask questions they could have answered for themselves if they read the weekly newsletter.

  Skye signed in unnoticed, grabbed the messages from her box, and headed toward her office. Since she had lasted a second year in the job, the elementary school had been forced to ante up the space they had promised her when she was first hired.

  It had been given grudgingly, was not much bigger than a voting booth, and outside the door, in the hallway, was the milk cooler that had occupied that room before Skye’s tenancy. It rattled and shrieked, scaring many of the kids Skye was trying to work with. But, she was quick to remind herself, at least she had a private office all to herself—except on Tuesday and Thursday mornings when the speech therapist used it.

  Skye hung her coat behind the door, celebrating another small victory. It had taken months to hound the custodian into putting up that hook. She stowed her purse in the desk drawer and opened her appointment book. Her morning schedule included observing a first grader, therapy sessions with two second graders, and testing a kindergartner.

  She grabbed the first grader’s file and made her way to the classroom. Twenty minutes later, she was noting the number of times the child had left his seat without permission when there was a knock on the classroom door. It was Fern Otte, the secretary, who motioned to Skye.

  Grabbing her pad and pencil, Skye left the room as unobtrusively as possible. Several kids whispered good-bye and waved to her, undoing her effort.

  As soon as the classroom door closed behind Skye, Fern whispered, “Hurry, there’s a problem in Mrs. Kennedy’s room.”

  “What’s wrong?” Skye followed the secretary.

  “I can’t explain. Hurry.”

  Caroline Greer greeted Skye at the door. “Another crisis, I’m afraid,” she said.

  The third-grade classroom was in an uproar. Most of the kids were seated, but the noise level would have registered well above “acid-rock band” on the meter.

  Skye frowned. Caroline was a great principal. Two emergencies in one year, let alone within days of each other, were unheard of for her.

  “Give me the big picture first,” Skye requested.

  “Shauna”—Caroline pointed to a little girl standing by the teacher—“had a disagreement with Cassie over a dance recital they’re both in next weekend.”

  “And?” Skye waited for the other shoe to drop.

  Caroline motioned for the teacher to join them. “Mrs. Kennedy, please give Ms. Denison the details.”

  “Cassie sits in front of Shauna. I was at the blackboard writing out math problems when I heard the girls start to argue. I shushed them.”

  “Then what happened?” Skye asked, worried because she didn’t see the other girl anywhere.

  “I turned back to the board, and all of a sudden I heard a scream.” The older woman grabbed a piece of paper and fanned herself. “I turned around, and Shauna was holding a huge pair of scissors in one hand and Cassie’s hacked-off braid in the other.”

  “Oh, my.” Skye hadn’t seen that coming. “Where’s Cassie?”

  “In the bathroom with my student teacher. She refuses to come out.” Mrs. Kennedy paused. “Cassie, that is, not the student teacher.”

  “I’d better talk to Shauna first.”

  “You can use the room next door,” Caroline Greer whispered to Skye. “That class is on a field trip.” In her normal voice she said, “Shauna, this is Ms. Denison. You need to talk to her about what you did to Cassie.”

  Shauna walked between the adults, out of her classroom and into the next one. Mrs. Greer left them alone.

>   Skye pulled up a couple of chairs. She urged Shauna to sit and followed suit. “Tell me what happened.”

  A stubborn look settled on the little girl’s face, and she crossed her arms. “My mom said I should have had the lead in the recital, and that Cassie’s mom was sleeping with our dance teacher. That’s why she got the lead, not me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Skye wasn’t sure if the girl understood what “sleeping with” someone meant. “How did you feel about that?”

  “I told my mom she should sleep with the teacher, too. Then I could have the lead.”

  “And what did your mom say to that?” Skye still wasn’t sure if Shauna knew what she was saying.

  “Mom said she wasn’t a lizzy bean so that wouldn’t work.”

  “Did you know what she meant?” Skye asked hesitantly.

  Shauna shook her head. “Not really, so I figured if Mom wasn’t going to sleep with my teacher, I’d better make Cassie give me the part myself.”

  “So you and Cassie argued about that this morning?”

  “Right.”

  “And that’s why you cut off her braid?”

  The girl twirled one of her own long curls. “Not exactly.”

  “Then why, exactly?” Skye asked.

  “Mom said that it was too bad we both had long hair, because if Cassie didn’t, our teacher would have to let me be the lead.”

  “Oh?” Skye made encouraging noises to continue.

  “Yeah, so I took the scissors my mom uses to cut flowers and put them in my backpack, and when Cassie said she wouldn’t give me the lead in the recital, I took them out and cut off her braid.” Shauna looked straight at Skye. “It was easy, like snipping one of my mom’s roses.”

  “I’m still not sure how cutting off Cassie’s braid will get you the lead,” Skye said.

  Shauna flipped back her waist-length hair and stood. “Because we’re doing Rapunzel, silly.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Hook, Line, and Stinker

  The rest of Skye’s morning was taken up by The Case of the Third-Grade Barber. Both mothers were summoned, and a great number of preposterous accusations were exchanged. The issue was somewhat resolved with Shauna’s three-day suspension and a quick call to Vince, securing Cassie an immediate appointment to have her hacked hair styled. But Cassie’s mother was still unhappy until Skye contacted the dance teacher, who reassured everyone that Cassie would continue to dance the role of Rapunzel, wearing a wig. Shauna would not take part in the recital in any capacity.

  Because of the problem at the elementary school, it was nearly one o’clock by the time Skye reached the high school. As usual, her schedule was shot, and she was trying to play catch-up. For once, the guidance office was unlocked and empty. After stashing her raincoat, Skye grabbed her calendar. Who or what was first?

  She had missed two appointments—one with a girl who had been referred to her for impulse-control problems. The teen was making a lot of progress and was nearly ready to be dismissed from counseling. A missed session wouldn’t hurt her.

  The other appointment was with a young man whose grades were mysteriously dropping after a lifetime of straight As. Skye had originally suspected either depression or substance abuse, but after several meetings she didn’t see any evidence of either. He claimed he didn’t like the teachers, and Skye was ready to believe him. As Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

  Damn! Skye had almost forgotten the meeting with Homer and Charlie scheduled for two o’clock. Charlie wanted to discuss formulating a crisis plan. While Skye agreed they needed one, she didn’t have time to deal with it just then. But she had no choice. The bosses had spoken. She’d better find the folder of plans she had collected from other schools. Why re-create the wheel when you could ride someone else’s tricycle?

  “Ms. Denison?” A voice crept through the door. “You busy?”

  “Come on in, Justin. I’m free until two.” It was best to tell kids up front what the timelines were; otherwise, they might think you were ending their session arbitrarily.

  Justin slunk in and poured himself into a chair. His dull brown hair hung straight in his eyes, and his pasty skin had blossomed with acne. He was not a candidate for King of the Prom, and it was evident from his demeanor that he knew it.

  “Hi, were we scheduled for today?” Skye asked. She didn’t remember seeing his name in her book.

  “No. Want me to leave?”

  “No. I was worried that I had forgotten an appointment, that’s all,” Skye reassured the skittish boy. “How are things going?”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about Lorelei.”

  “Oh?” Skye wondered where this was leading. Justin usually didn’t voluntarily talk to her, or think much about others.

  “Yeah. Nobody’s acting sad she’s dead.” A troubled look passed over his normally expressionless face.

  “And that bothers you?” Skye asked evenly. If Justin suspected she was interested, he’d close up tighter than a Tupperware container.

  “Doesn’t seem right. The only ones that are acting sad are the ones that didn’t really know her. The ones that saw her as a princess, not a real person.” Justin slouched farther down in his chair. “Her so-called friends were nice to her, to her face, and now that she’s dead, it’s like they hated her.”

  “That must be very confusing.” Skye ventured a guess.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not right.” Justin avoided her eyes.

  “Unfair, right?” Skye tried again.

  He nodded. “She wasn’t like the rest of them.”

  “In what way?”

  “The other kids in that clique are all body Nazis.”

  “And she wasn’t?” Skye didn’t have a clue as to what he meant, but she often had to keep the kid talking while she figured out the newest slang.

  “No. She was always on a diet and talking about exercising, but she wasn’t hard-core. She wasn’t a fanatic who looked down on anyone who didn’t work out like a maniac. She’d even gained a little weight in the last couple of months.”

  “How do you know that?” Skye casually slipped in the question, hoping he wouldn’t notice her interest. “You’re a freshman and she was a senior. You’d hardly ever see her.”

  “I was helping her with her Spanish.”

  “You speak Spanish?” Skye glanced at his file. “I don’t see you signed up for freshman Spanish.”

  A trace of color seeped into his cheeks. “Once I got a video game, and the instructions were all in Spanish, so I got a Spanish-English dictionary and translated. Then I started to watch the Spanish-language TV and it just sort of came to me. I got an ear for it or something.”

  “That’s amazing. I’ve never met anyone who taught himself another language. I’ll bet you could use that, and your talent for writing, and become a foreign corespondent for a newspaper after you finish college.”

  Justin froze, his face deadpan.

  It was obvious she had gone too far, gotten too enthusiastic. She quickly backed up and tried a less personal topic. “But how are you still hanging around with that group?” Skye couldn’t picture Justin with Troy and Chase, let alone Zoë.

  “Long as I don’t say anything, they don’t even notice me.”

  “You said they’re acting like they hated Lorelei. What do you mean?” Skye was relieved he was still talking to her after her gaffe.

  “Zoë wants to be Lorelei. She wants her part in the play, her boyfriend, and the Miss Central Illinois title.”

  “Sounds like Miss Zoë’s life has vastly improved with Lorelei out of the way.” Skye made a note. “Surely Troy is sad.”

  “No! He’s happier. It was weird; they weren’t actually together these last few months, but they weren’t really broken up either. It was almost like he didn’t want to be her boyfriend anymore, but she was making him somehow.” Justin sounded near tears. “Now he’s flirting with the other cheerleaders.”

  “Really?”

  “The onl
y thing on his mind is who he’ll take to prom.”

  Skye was so amazed that Justin had shown some emotion that she made another mistake and appeared eager. “Do you know anything about Frannie Ryan?”

  His face closed once again, and he shook his head.

  She backpedaled quickly. “Do you want me to let you know when Lorelei’s wake will be?”

  Justin shrugged. “If you want. I got class. Can I go?” “Sure, let me write you a pass.”

  After Justin left, Skye sat back and thought about the conversation. He was full of surprises. Counseling him was like driving through hairpin turns—blindfolded, without any brakes.

  It was nearly two. Skye picked up her folder and headed toward the principal’s office. Charlie was already there when she arrived. He and Homer were laughing. That was a bad sign. It meant the men were getting along, and she would get stuck doing all the work.

  “Sit down.” Charlie patted the chair next to him. “I was telling Homer about your new car.”

  “Charlie says it’s a real beauty. I’d love a ride.”

  Skye had never seen the principal appear so excited about anything. His eyes were actually sparkling. “Sure, anytime.”

  Homer turned to Charlie and asked, “Does the Bel Air have its original engine?”

  Charlie went into a lengthy explanation. Skye’s mind wandered. Would this be her fate, being saddled with a car that only old men admired? At this rate, she’d end up dating one of Charlie’s cronies.

  It was over between her and Kent. She just hadn’t told him yet. She had asked her cousin about his supposed affair with Lorna Ingels, and Gillian had said he had been seen with Lorelei’s mother on a couple of occasions. Once someone saw her sitting in his car at the gas station while he was inside paying. Another time they were spotted driving in the direction of Joliet. Gillian said he and Lorna had always had an explanation, which was why she had never mentioned any of this to Skye.

  Even before Lorelei’s death, Kent’s narcissism had begun to grow tiresome. It hadn’t bothered her that he was dating other people, but to hear that he was having an affair with a married woman—that was beyond her tolerance limit. Thank goodness she had never slept with the creep.