Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

Tryst for the Mill

Lorelei had been pregnant. Not even two months along, but definitely with child. So that was the big secret. Skye could see how the police would want to keep that quiet. It pointed the finger at a whole slew of new suspects. Troy Yates, the boyfriend, jumped right to the top of the list. And maybe her pregnancy explained why her parents were so against the autopsy.

The document contained nothing else of interest. Lorelei had been a healthy eighteen-year-old. No cause of death was listed. The medical examiner was waiting for the results of the toxicology tests.

Skye suspected that Justin was lying when he claimed he hadn’t had time to read the report. He had handed it over too easily. He’d either read the packet of papers or made another copy. But that was an issue she’d have to deal with another time.

It was after two by the time Skye got to bed. When her alarm rang at six o’clock, she hit the snooze button. She kept hitting it until seven, when Bingo added his vocal displeasure to the cacophony, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Another day without her morning swim. This had to stop. She needed to get back into her routine.

She was supposed to be at school by seven-thirty. No way could she call in sick. First of all, there was too much to do as the school year neared its end. Most importantly, today was PPS at the junior high. No one missed the Pupil Personal Services meeting without a really good excuse—like death. If you weren’t in attendance, you were the one assigned all the crappy duties.

Too tired to care what she looked like, Skye pulled on the first thing she grabbed from her closet—a knit pantsuit that, although extremely comfortable, bagged at the knees after a few hours of wear. She swept her hair back with a long clip, shoved her feet into flats, and ran out the door.

She was five minutes late arriving at the junior high school, and the principal, Neva Llewellyn, commented as she handed Skye a stack of message slips. “Looks like you had a hard night.”

Neva and Skye were on friendly terms, but the principal was a perfectionist and expected everyone else to be flawless also. Tardiness was one of her pet peeves.

Skye skidded to a halt. “Sorry.” She never was a morning person, and less than eight hours of sleep made her cranky. Less than five hours made her downright crabby. “Bad morning.” She had to be careful or she’d say something snippy she’d regret later. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

Neva raised an eyebrow. “Do you have appointments this morning before PPS?”

“I’ve got kids lined up to test. I need to get the reevaluations finished so I can get started on annual reviews.”

“Go get settled, but before you start, come talk to me,” Neva ordered.

Skye tucked her purse in her desk, prepared the room and materials for the first child she would evaluate, then sat down and leafed through her messages. One from Charlie stated the wake for Lorelei Ingels was being held that afternoon and evening. He wanted her to be there in case a student needed her help, and also to continue her investigation. The funeral would take place the next morning. Charlie again suggested that her presence was required.

A note from Homer said almost the same thing, although no snooping was mentioned.

After giving Ursula Nelson, the junior-high secretary, a pass for the student she wanted to test when the first bell rang, Skye knocked on the principal’s door.

Neva had redecorated when she took over from the last occupant, and the office had gone from utilitarian to tasteful. Skye seated herself in a Queen Anne chair and faced Neva across a gleaming wooden desk, breathing in the pleasant odor of vanilla that wafted through the air from a small bowl of potpourri tucked away on a butterfly table next to the ivory wall.

Neva straightened the sleeve of her flax-colored suit and leaned forward. “I don’t like it.”

Skye’s heart jumped, but she forced an unperturbed look on her face. “What?”

“The way the co-op coordinator has thrust his work onto us.”

“You mean the annual reviews?” Skye hazarded a guess.

“Yes, that’s his job.”

“That’s what I said, but the superintendent backed him up.”

“The old boys’ network, no doubt.” Neva tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the desktop.

“Probably, but to be fair, the coordinator is assigned to three other school districts.”

Neva ignored Skye’s comment. “So now we have to do all the paperwork, make the appointments, and run the meetings?”

“That’s what I was ordered to do. I was told to pick the dates with the special-education teachers, fill out the forms, send them to the co-op, where the secretary would type them and put together the file. Ursula would receive the packages and call the parents. If they couldn’t make the appointment, the whole process would start over.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Neva stood up. “I’ll look into it.”

Skye rose, too. “You might mention that since I have to do a ton of reevals, write the reports, and attend all the annual reviews, I’ll have to stop the counseling sessions at the end of this month, instead of continuing until the end of the year.”

Neva frowned as they walked out the door together. “That isn’t right.”

“No, it isn’t, and I’ll have to do it in all three schools.” Skye started down the hall, but stopped and said over her shoulder, “We really need a social worker. The board’s got to raise the beginning salary so we can attract one. I can’t do my real job the way it should be done because I’m always trying to make up for missing staff members.”

The morning went quickly. Most kids were very cooperative when tested. A lot even seemed to like the one- on-one attention and praise. One of the last tasks Skye had the student attempt was a written language sample that consisted of a short essay. During this time, Skye usually started to score the measures already administered, but today she was distracted and let her gaze wander over her office. She remembered the fight it had taken to obtain this space, when she had first come to work for Scumble River Junior High.

The room had originally been a janitor’s closet, and on damp days she could still smell the peculiar combination of bleach and mildew. Skye had covered the egg-yolk yellow walls with travel posters. Since she had no window, she had created a faux one using old curtains and a poster of a forest scene.

Her battered desk doubled as a testing table because the office was too small to accommodate both. She sat on a metal folding chair, and when she brought in a second chair for a student to use, there was no way to get to the door without crawling over something or somebody.

Still, it was her own space. She didn’t have to share it or beg for a room every time she came to the building. Many school psychologists would see that as a luxury.

Her student finished writing and pushed the form toward Skye. “It’s not very good.”

“Did you do the best you could?” Skye found this to be a better response than a meaningless “I’m sure it’s fine.”

The boy nodded.

“Well, I know you worked hard for me this morning, and I really appreciate your effort and concentration.” Skye reached into her drawer and pulled out a fistful of pencils and pens with team logos. “You may choose one for doing such a good job.”

The student hesitated, then selected a pen with the Chicago Bulls insignia. “Thanks. Will I see you again?”

“No, we finished everything this morning.” Skye filled out a pass and handed it over. “You can go back to class now. Bye.”

After the boy left, Skye straightened everything up, grabbed her PPS binder, and headed for the rest room. One of the first lessons she had learned as an intern was never to enter a meeting with a full bladder.

Skye reached the high school at twelve-fifteen and caught Trixie just as she was on her way to lunch. Skye grabbed a salad from the cafeteria, while Trixie fetched two sodas from the machine in the teachers’ lounge. They settled in the guidance office to eat and catch up.

“What did you think of that pageant last Saturday?” Trixie asked, biting into an Italian beef sandwich that she