Murder of a Sleeping Beauty (25 page)

While Skye showered, she thought about Lorelei’s murder. She finally had some facts now that she had seen the autopsy report and talked to Wally. The teen had been given a bottle of something that contained crushed pills of some sort, which seemed to have caused her death. Two things Skye needed to know: Who gave Lorelei that drink, and what type of pills were they?

Finding out what that bottle originally contained might help. Sometime over the weekend she would drive to Bolingbrook and visit the Meijer Superstore. If that megamart didn’t have the brand, no one would.

She also wanted to take a look at the school’s visitors’ sign-in sheet. Odds were that Wally had already checked it out, but she might spot something he hadn’t noticed. Not that she thought a murderer would voluntarily comply with school policy, but signing in was one rule that the secretary strictly enforced. Opal had been known to chase people down the hall if they failed to stop in the office and leave their signatures.

Skye continued mulling over the murder as she finished applying her makeup and stepped into her dress. What else was she missing? There was no lack of motives. Fear of what Lorelei’s pregnancy would reveal or require. Jealousy of what Lorelei had and others wanted. Hatred for things Lorelei had done.

But how could Skye find out whose motive was the strongest? A child’s room could tell you a lot, but then, so could her locker. There was no way to search Lorelei’s room, but getting a peek at her locker should be a piece of cake.

Skye slid on a pair of pumps and grabbed her tote bag. School would start in ten minutes, and she wanted to be in the main office when it did.

On her way, she hurriedly deposited her belongings in the guidance room. She had just greeted Opal when the first bell rang. Immediately the poor secretary became inundated with students. They swarmed the counter while the harried woman wrote passes, collected money, and checked permission slips.

The staff lined up to empty their mailboxes, photocopy one last paper, and look something up in the files. Amid this confusion, no one noticed Skye slide the master key to the lockers into her pocket. She’d be fine unless some kid couldn’t get his door open and Opal tried to find the key. But it was April, and even those who were not the sharpest pencil in the cup should remember their combinations by now. Skye headed nonchalantly back to her room. All she needed was to get into the locker banks at a time when the hallways were empty. How difficult could that be?

 

“Ms. Denison, Ms. Denison. Do you have a moment?”

Skye jerked back from Lorelei’s locker and turned to face the art teacher. “Why, of course, Ms. Lowe. I was, ah . . . just looking for my earring. I dropped it this morning.” Skye’s hand went to her ear and she palmed the pearl stud she wore.

“I’ll help you look.”

“No, that’s okay. I can do it later. What did you want to see me about?”

The art teacher fiddled with a stack of papers she held. “I’d like you to take a look at some drawings that disturb me.”

“Sure.” The woman looked as if she had just stepped out of
Glamour
. Skye had to fight the urge to tug at her skirt and check her hair.

In the art room, the teacher spread out six large sheets of paper. “I asked the kids to take a word as their trademark, and use it in a logo.”

“Wow, what a neat idea. Ever since I started working here I’ve admired what you have the kids do.”

“Thanks.” The art teacher brushed an imaginary fleck from her red designer suit. “I was trained in New York.”

Before she could stop herself, Skye blurted, “How did you end up in Scumble River?”

The woman smiled enigmatically. “If rumors are true, you and I might have taken similar routes.” Tapping a picture with a polished red nail, the art teacher continued, “Do you find these at all disturbing?”

Skye leaned in for a closer look. Most were obvious in their attempt to be shocking. The kids had drawn weapons, people exploding, and the occasional swastika, but one picture in particular seemed different, more unsettling.

The artist had taken the word “self” and put it in front of a mirror. The original “self” was colored in pretty pastels and had flowers and hearts intertwined with the letters. The reflected word was done in thick black marker. Jagged pieces had broken off the letters, and drops of crimson were splattered on the mirror surface.

“The others are fairly typical for certain adolescent types,” Skye said, “but who did this one?”

The teacher turned the paper over and peeled away a flap. “I have the kids cover their names, so my grading is not tainted by my personal opinion of that student.”

“That’s a great idea.” Skye was sincere in her praise, but anxious to know the identity of the anguished artist.

“Lorelei Ingels,” the woman read, than pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, my. Maybe if I had graded these earlier, Lorelei would be alive today.”

“No,” Skye said sharply. “That’s not how it works. Besides, Lorelei did not commit suicide, she was murdered.”

“Right. I forgot for a moment.”

“Could I borrow this for a while? I’ll try making a copy, and then I’d like to show it to the police.”

“Sure. Thanks for looking at them.” Ms. Lowe opened her door just as the bell rang.

 

Skye glanced at the clock in the guidance office. Nearly time for the dismissal bell, and she had already been foiled three times in her attempt to open Lorelei’s locker in private. As soon as the kids left, the janitors would be everywhere, emptying trash cans, vacuuming floors, washing marks from the walls. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to try again.

Once again the office was busy, this time with students who were collecting materials that had to be taken home. The hubbub allowed Skye to slip the master locker key back on its hook undetected. She had one more mission to accomplish—take a look at the sign-in sheets—then she would call it a day. As soon as Opal turned to answer the phone, Skye scooped up the book and took it into the health room.

As she sat down at Abby’s desk, an image of the nurse and Wally on a date flashed through Skye’s mind. She cringed, then firmly pushed that thought away. She leafed through the pages until she came to a week ago Wednesday.

Almost all the names were those of parents, including Mrs. VanHorn, Mrs. Ingels, Mrs. Wren, and Mrs. Miles. The cheerleader moms must have had a meeting that morning. She’d have to ask Trixie about that. There had been a couple of delivery people, and a service person for the copying machine, but no one out of the ordinary.

Feeling defeated, Skye left school. As she turned out of the parking lot, Skye realized that she had forgotten to check her box for messages. She hesitated, but the car in back of her honked, and she drove on. Surely if there was something that needed her immediate attention, she’d have been told about it by now. The principals were not shy in making their needs known.

Coming to that conclusion, she headed toward the police station to drop off Lorelei’s drawing. Neither Wally nor May were on duty, so she wrote a note, put it with the picture in a manila envelope, and handed it to the dispatcher to give to the chief. Next she stopped at the grocery store to pick up ingredients for Sunday night’s dinner. She was going to make all the dishes she knew Kent would loathe. She selected a cheap bottle of burgundy. Kent insisted that a meal wasn’t a meal without a good glass of wine. This would not be a
good
glass of wine.

One of the few things she liked in Scumble River was her cottage. Besides nice clothes, it was her one extravagance. The rent was almost double what most houses in the area went for. She leased it from a couple who had built it as a weekend river retreat, then divorced before it was complete. Each refused to let the other have it or sell it, so they rented it to Skye. She hoped that if they ever reconciled, it would be the same year she could afford to move out of Scumble River.

Anticipating company, even Kent, made her look at the cottage with new eyes. As she entered the tiny foyer, she appreciated the antique coat tree with attached bench seat, which opened to provide storage.

To the left was a small kitchen. It was just big enough for a two-person table if it were shoved against the wall. Skye put away her groceries and went into her bedroom to change clothes. It had been another long day. It was time to relax, pet Bingo, and give herself a chance to process all that she’d seen and heard.

 

Friday morning had whizzed by like a kid on a skate-board. It was nearly one by the time Skye was able to take a break. She grabbed two cans of soda from the machine in the teachers’ lounge and headed to the library.

Trixie was helping a small group of students find books on various occupations for the vocational unit of their health class—the closet thing to career counseling the teens got at Scumble River High School.

Skye held up the can of Pepsi and motioned with her head to a small room off the main IMC area. The librarian nodded and held up five fingers.

Trixie’s office was crammed with a copy machine, desk, and boxes and boxes of books. Skye cleared an orange plastic chair and settled in. She popped the top of her Diet Pepsi and took a swig, wishing she had remembered to bring a Diet Coke from home.

Trixie bounced inside and closed the door. “Hi, how’s it going?”

“So-so. Just when I think things have calmed down, something else happens.”

“This is a tough situation.”

“True. Hey, I’ve got a question for you. Did the cheerleaders’ mothers have a meeting here at school the morning Lorelei was killed?”

Trixie dug through her desk drawer and pulled out her calendar. After flipping a few pages, she said, “Yes. The cheerleaders met before school and their moms met first period. We discussed fund-raising.”

“Was anyone missing?”

“They were all there except for Tara’s mom. Her whole family was out of town.”

“Did any of the moms handle the pom-poms?”

“I think they all did.” Trixie scratched her head. “Yeah, we handed them around while they were waiting for the cheerleaders’ meeting to end. We were talking about buying better ones when we upgraded the uniforms.”

“How about the cheerleaders, did they work with the pom-poms that morning?”

“No. It was a meeting, not a practice.”

“Did any of the moms come in contact with Lorelei?”

Trixie shrugged. “Maybe. At one point they were all in one room together.”

“So, Mrs. VanHorn could have had a pom-pom strand clinging to her, which transferred to the doctored bottle of juice, which she had an opportunity to hand to Lorelei?”

“Sure, but so could anyone else.”

 

Friday afternoon was productive. Skye saw a couple of her regular counselees, made arrangements for the first round of annual reviews, and returned calls. At four-thirty she packed up several files and the pile of papers she had grabbed from her box that morning but never gotten around to reading, and headed home. She had big plans for her Friday night—a pizza, a bubble bath, and a new Margaret Maron mystery.

It was time to relax. The week from hell was finally over.

 

 

 

 

S
aturday morning at exactly five to seven, Skye maneu vered the Bel Air into her parents’ driveway. The white pea gravel shone like a sea of pearls as she guided the huge car toward the red brick ranch house.

It was obvious that her father had cut the lawn only yesterday. The acre of grass spread as smooth as a putting green to the edge of the cornfield.

She hadn’t been out to visit in a while and was almost afraid to look and see what the concrete goose was wearing. A quick peek revealed a pink fur bunny costume, complete with ears and a powder-puff tail. Skye vowed to try once again to talk her mother out of dressing the lawn statuary.

Before she had fully stopped the car, May was climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s go, you’re late.”

Skye put the Chevy in reverse. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”

“I promised your dad’s cousin I’d take pictures when her granddaughter competes, and I don’t know when she’s on.”

“It doesn’t start until nine, and it’s only an hour’s drive to Bloomington.” Skye gave up trying to explain, knowing that to her mother, “late” meant you were less than fifteen minutes early. “Which cousin is this?”

“One on the Denison side. Her mom and your dad’s father’s first wife were half sisters.”

Skye didn’t follow the genealogy, but asked, “What’s her name?”

“The cousin’s name or the granddaughter’s name?” May rubbed her arms. “It’s chilly this morning. Turn up the heat.”

“The heater doesn’t work.” She handed her mother an afghan. “The granddaughter, what’s her name?”

“Farrah Miles.”

Skye felt a mild shock run through her. No doubt about it, she was definitely related to too many people. “I never knew they were our relatives.”

“Someone was recently working on a family tree and discovered the connection. It’s over a hundred years old.”

“Mom, could you kind of keep this quiet?”

“Why?” May narrowed her eyes. “They seem like nice people. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that Farrah is mixed up with the Lorelei Ingels crowd and . . .”

“And she’s a suspect.”

“Sort of,” Skye admitted.

“Okay. But it’s not as if I’m the only one who knows.”

Skye shrugged. A secret in Scumble River had about as much chance as a weed in her father’s lawn. “Do your best.”

For the rest of the way they chatted about family matters and the latest Scumble River gossip. The drive itself was routine: a straight shot down Interstate 55, passing little towns with unusual names—Dwight, Odell, Pontiac, and Skye’s favorite, Towanda. Meticulously kept farmhouses and fields being readied for spring planting constituted most of the scenery. Even with the highway smells, the air was fresh, with only an occasional trace of hog to remind them what was around the next bend.