Murder of a Royal Pain (19 page)

Eight o’clock Monday morning, Skye sat at her desk in the high school and stared bleary eyed at Travis Idell’s file. The psychiatrist was still not returning Skye’s calls, and Mrs. Idell was growing more and more enraged by the school’s lack of action. She was now threatening to bring the matter to due process, which had thrown Homer into a tizzy.

He had threatened and cajoled Skye, but she had stood firm, agreeing only to review the file once more. Now, as she looked over the paperwork in Travis’s folder for the fifth time, she was again amazed that a professional had allowed an assessment of such poor quality to leave his office. She’d seen some badly written reports in her time, but this one was a doozy.

Her favorite line was,
Travis appears to have a slight case of dyslexia, and because of this the principle has suspended him from school on several occasions.

However, no matter how amusing she found the report, the bottom line was that there was nothing in it to support the idea that Travis had a learning disability. She had already explained to Homer that if everyone else on the PPS team agreed Travis qualified for service, the team could put him in special education. At that point, she would write a dissenting opinion, but her statement would not interfere with the placement.

She knew Homer would have grabbed at this chance to pacify the Idells if she hadn’t also pointed out that if, later on as an adult, Travis felt being placed in special ed had harmed him, he could come back and sue the district and the individuals who had signed off.

Her warning had made the principal think twice about taking the easy way out, which was when he had ordered Skye to reconsider her position. She had, and now she needed to tell Homer she hadn’t changed her mind.

Skye glanced at the clock. School had been in session for only ten minutes, which meant Homer was probably still sipping his first cup of coffee and playing Free Cell on his computer. Maybe he’d be in a decent mood.

She reached reluctantly for the phone. The next-to-last thing in the world she wanted was to suffer through a due-process hearing, but the very last thing was to wrongly place a student in special education.

She was dialing Homer’s extension when the PA burst into life and Homer’s voice blared from the speakers: “Teachers, please follow evacuation plan A. Repeat. Evacuation plan A. This is not a drill.”

“
C
hemical bombs.” Homer held his head and slumped in his chair. “Here in Scumble River High.”

“I’m so relieved that I read about those types of bombs in the newspaper a few weeks ago, and recognized them before someone got hurt,” Jackie said, a brave smile on her face. “Though I put myself at risk, I was happy to do it to protect our precious students.”

Jackie and Skye sat in the visitors’ chairs in front of the principal’s desk. It was eleven o’clock and they had been allowed back in the building only a few minutes ago. While waiting outside with the students for the school to be cleared, Skye had talked to a member of the county’s bomb squad and had learned that the bombs discovered in the cafeteria, gym, and lobby had been made using two-liter pop bottles. If the top had been unscrewed and the contents exposed to air, a chemical reaction would have taken place, forming a dangerous gas and a caustic liquid.

For once the school’s small size worked in its favor. The county squad had thoroughly inspected the building in less than three hours, and was satisfied that there were no other bombs present. Nevertheless, the superintendent had decided to close the high school for the rest of the day. All the teachers and other staff members were busy making calls and supervising the dismissal, but Homer had ordered Skye and Jackie away from the phones and into his office.

“This is it,” Homer moaned. “It’s time for me to retire.”

“Sir.” Jackie leaned forward. “You can’t mean that. What would we do without you?”

Skye held back a giggle. Homer threatened—or promised, depending on your perspective—to retire at least three or four times a school year.

“Hell, I don’t know and I don’t care,” Homer snapped, instantly sitting up and throwing off his ‘poor, pitiful me’ routine.

Skye snickered. The social worker hadn’t learned yet that Homer was one of those rare individuals who didn’t respond well to positive reinforcement.

Jackie tried again, apparently not being a quick study. “What I meant, sir, was that the school needs you—now more than ever, in our time of crisis.”

“Yeah. Right,” Homer growled, and bounded to his feet. “What we really need is for you two to figure out who planted the bombs.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a job for the police?” She had spoken briefly to Quirk, who was looking less and less like he enjoyed being in charge.

“With your boyfriend out of town, I doubt the Scumble River PD can find their asses using both of their hands and a butt-sniffing dog.”

“While I think the Scumble River police officers are very good”—Jackie leapt out of her chair and into the conversation—“they do have a lot on their plate with the murder and all, so if you think we can help, I, for one, am happy to be of service, sir.”

“You will both make this your number one priority.” Homer rewarded Jackie with his version of a smile, then glowered at Skye. “I want every student with any hint of discipline problems interviewed.”

“But—”

“Yes, sir,” Jackie cut Skye off. “I’ll clear my calendar for the rest of the week.”

“Week? Are you nuts?” Homer roared. “I want the little booger behind these bombs found by the end of school tomorrow.” He swiveled and pointed at Skye. “You, talk to that newspaper staff of yours. Those brats seem to be able to dig out all the secrets around here and are perfectly willing to spill them.”

Homer had never quite recovered from the exposé Xenia, the
Scoop’s
bad-girl reporter, had done on one of the cheerleaders.

“Okay.” Skye got up. “But I think Travis Idell should be the first student we interview. This smacks of one of his stunts, and he did get an A in chemistry.”

“Fine. I would love to pin this on that little twerp. Maybe that would shut up his parents.” Homer jerked his thumb at Jackie. “But you talk to Travis. If it’s not him, all we need is for Skye to stir up his folks even more.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackie nearly saluted. “I’ll see him as soon as he arrives at school tomorrow.”

Homer’s hairy brows met above his nose, forming a caterpillar-like shape. “So, why are you two still standing here?”

Jackie raced Skye to the door. Opal handed them two stacks of files as they passed her desk. Silently they walked to their office and got to work. It was one forty-five when they finished reviewing the three years of discipline records. They had discovered forty-two students who had been involved in serious incidents and who still attended Scumble River High; adding the student newspaper staff to their list of interviews gave them an even fifty kids to see the next day.

Realizing there was nothing more she could do at the high school, Skye headed over to the elementary school to talk to Hope Kennedy. After she and Trixie failed to find the teacher on Saturday, Skye had tried to get in touch with her all day Sunday, but Hope hadn’t answered the door or the telephone.

This afternoon Skye was in luck. When she stopped at the office to sign in, Fern Otte, the grade school secretary, told her that Hope’s class had just gone out for afternoon recess. Knowing that this would be Hope’s first break since lunch, Skye headed down to the teachers’ lounge.

Both the lounge and the faculty restrooms were located in the basement of the old building. Skye wound her way through huge rolls of construction paper, stacks of athletic equipment, and shelves of cleaning supplies. The mixed odors of sweat and ammonia made her sinuses close, and as she pushed open the door to the lounge, she announced her presence with a loud sneeze.

Hope had been facing a bulletin board at the back of the empty room, but at Skye’s disquieting entrance, she spun around. She clutched a Styrofoam cup to her chest, and a stream of coffee arced across the floor.

Hope and Skye each put their hand to their heart and said at the same time, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Skye grabbed a handful of paper towels from the nearby sink. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She knelt to sop up the spattered liquid.

“Not your fault.” Hope joined her on the floor, wiping droplets that were out of Skye’s reach. “I’m a little jumpy since the murder.”

“Me too.” Skye got to her feet and threw the sodden mess she was holding in the trash can. “That’s actually what I wanted to discuss with you. I tried to get hold of you over the weekend, but you were never home when I called or stopped by.”

“After what happened Friday night, I wanted to get away for a while, so my husband and I decided to go visit his mother in Saint Louis.” Hope poured herself another cup of coffee. “I didn’t hear your phone messages until late last night when we got home.” She sat at the closest of the three long tables running the length of the room. “I figured you wanted to chat about the murder. Right?”

“That’s right.” Skye felt she and Hope were on friendly enough terms to come to the point. She had worked with Hope for several years, and helped her with a couple of problem students.

“I thought it was an uncommonly smart move on the part of the police department to sign you on as a consultant,” Hope said. “Although you solved several of their major cases, I’m surprised their male egos didn’t get in the way.”

“Thank you. It’s really sweet of you to say that.” Skye felt her cheeks redden. She wasn’t used to compliments. “I guess Wally is secure enough in his own manhood not to be threatened by my help.”

“Chief Boyd does seem like an extraordinarily easygoing guy.”

“Most of the time.” Skye smiled, then brought the conversation back on track. “Has Quirk talked to you since Friday?”

“No.” Hope’s brown eyes sharpened. “Isn’t he keeping you informed?”

“I’ve spoken with him,” Skye said carefully, not sure how much she should reveal about Quirk’s attitude toward her. “But he says he doesn’t need my help.”

“And Chief Boyd’s out of town.” Hope put together the pieces.

“Right.” Skye decided to be straightforward. “Wally’s told Quirk that I’m part of the team, but Quirk has other ideas.” Skye was counting on the fact that Hope was both levelheaded and not a gossip. “The thing is, I think he may be on the wrong track.”

“You think Annette might not have been the intended victim.”

Skye nodded.

“And you’re trying to figure out if one of the other witches was the murderer’s target.”

Skye nodded again.

Hope took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Do you have any enemies?”

“A few parents aren’t too happy with me.” Skye shrugged. “But I find it hard to believe someone would try to kill me over a special-ed placement—beat me up, sue me, try to get me fired, maybe, but murder seems a little excessive.” Skye tilted her head. “How about you?”

Hope ignored Skye’s question and asked one of her own. “Have you checked out Nina Miles?”

“I talked to her Saturday, but she said there was no reason for anyone to want to harm her.” Skye looked at Hope intently. “Why? Do you know something about her?”

“Only that she’s a part of that same group of women that runs the high school Parent-Teacher Organization—the one that Annette and Evie were fighting to control.” Hope looked at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get going. Recess is almost over.”

“You never answered my question.” Skye followed her to the door. “How about you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Yes.”

“What?” Skye’s eyes widened. “Who?”

Hope took a deep breath. “You’ve got to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Except the police, right?”

“Only Wally.”

“But he’s out of town. How about Quirk?”

“No!” Hope turned, an edge of panic in her voice. “He’s the one I’m afraid of.”

 

As Skye got into her car after school, she couldn’t stop thinking about Hope’s final words before she stepped into her classroom:
Quirk would love to see me dead.

Skye had been able to push her concern aside for the next couple of hours while she was writing a psych report back at the high school, but once she was alone in the Bel Air, her anxiety level ratcheted higher and higher, like a ski lift lurching to the top of a slope. She gripped the steering wheel and tried to figure out her next move.

Skye had planned to stop at the Harrisons’ house on the way home, since Evie was still not answering her phone, but Hope’s statement was now her top priority. She had to talk to Wally ASAP, and she didn’t want to do it on a cell phone that might lose its signal at any moment.

Once Skye was inside her house, she went directly to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. After dialing, she grabbed a can of ginger ale from the fridge. She’d felt queasy and light-headed all afternoon.

Wally answered on the fourth ring. “Everything okay?” His voice was tense.

“Well”—Skye cursed caller ID—“there hasn’t been another murder.” She barely restrained herself from adding
yet
. She needed to work herself up to telling him about Quirk. “How’s your father?”

“They still don’t know what caused him to collapse, but since he appears to be fine now, the docs say it was probably exhaustion. They’re releasing him tomorrow, and I’ve arranged for a live-in nurse to start Friday. He’s agreed to work from home, and she’ll keep an eye on him.”

“That’s wonderful.” Skye hoped that meant Wally was coming back soon. “I’m so glad he’s okay. I know all this waiting and wondering must have been awful for you both.”

“I’ve got a flight into O’Hare on Saturday and should be in Scumble River by late evening.”

“That’s fantastic.” Skye’s spirits lifted. This was the first good news she’d had in quite a while.