The little dog had found an old sweater Skye kept around for days when the furnace went out and had managed to wrestle it from the coatrack onto the floor. He was currently nestled in its folds, chomping on his bone. This was an ideal time to go talk to Trixie.
School had started a quarter of an hour earlier, and the students were finishing homeroom—twenty minutes in which attendance was taken, announcements were made, and a good-citizen lesson was taught. Apparently today’s session was about organization, because Trixie had an image of the official assignment notebook on the overhead screen and was demonstrating how to keep track of homework due dates.
From where Skye lingered in the back of the multimedia center, she noticed that few of the kids seemed impressed with the multicolor pencil method. Most sat with their books in their arms on the edge of their seats, and when the bell rang, they bolted for the exit.
Trixie was gathering up debris when she spotted Skye weaving her way through the departing teens, and called out, “Hey, girlfriend. I was going to go look for you as soon as I had a break.”
“You want to hear about the body,” Skye guessed, knowing that rumors must be flying fast and furious around town.
“What else?” Trixie drew Skye into her tiny office and shut the door. “Spill.”
While Skye described yesterday’s experience, Trixie unwrapped a package of miniature donuts. She offered Skye one of the quartet, then bit into her own, moaning, “Oh, my goodness. These are
While Skye had been off the diet roller coaster for the past five years, she still tried to eat healthfully and to exercise. So despite having missed breakfast, she resisted the donuts and stifled the urge to smack her friend. It wasn’t Trixie’s fault that she could consume her own weight in sugar and never add an inch to her size 4 figure, while Skye could gain five pounds watching the Food Channel.
Once both Trixie’s appetite for sweets and her curiosity about the murder were sated, Skye said, “I need a favor.”
“Sure.” Trixie popped the last bite into her mouth. “What?”
Skye explained about Toby, then said, “So, can you keep him in the storage room this afternoon?”
“No problem.” Trixie pressed the powdered sugar from inside the cardboard tray into a tiny ball and licked it from her fingers. “I can take him from after lunch until the end of the day.” She crumbled the cellophane. “Normally, I’d go home on my break and drop the dog off with Owen, but he’s going to some estate sale with your dad today.”
“Too bad.” Skye had deliberately omitted her search for Owen, since she’d been afraid Owen was AWOL again. “That would have been a great solution.”
“Yeah.”
As the two women got up, Skye asked, “Did Owen ever say where he was Saturday when you were looking for him?” She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Trixie either Sunday or Monday, and now the coincidence of the black truck along with Owen being MIA the same afternoon that Suzette was missing troubled Skye.
“Sort of.” Trixie’s smile dimmed. “He said he ran into an old friend after his business meeting and they went into Joliet for a drink.” She led the way into the library. “I told him I didn’t care if he went out with friends. All I wanted was for him to call and tell me.”
“That’s a reasonable request.”
“He promised to let me know next time.”
“Good.” Skye waved good-bye, walking away before Trixie could see the worry on her face. Could Owen’s old friend have been Suzette?
During the last of the two lunch periods, Skye checked the teachers’ lounge to see who was there, and thus whose classroom would be unoccupied. When she spotted Alana, Skye hurried back to her office, put Toby into the computer paper box, and snuck him over to the art room and out its exterior door.
While the little dog was doing his business, Skye’s thoughts went back to Owen’s truck. Had it been the one she saw? Concentrating, she tried to recall some detail that would distinguish his dusty black pickup from the one Suzette had arrived in. She knew she had seen something, but couldn’t remember what. Deep in thought, she failed to notice that the marching band had assembled across the lawn from her—at least she didn’t notice them until the loud bleat of a tuba startled her from her contemplation.
At the sound of the first note, Toby stiffened. His head whipped toward the assembled musicians, and with his ears twitching, he barked furiously and lunged in their direction. The leash jerked in Skye’s hand and she felt something pop in her shoulder.
Despite the pain, Skye hung on tight. She reeled in the eighteen-pound dog like a trout on the end of a fishing pole, scooped him up, and dashed inside. Panting, she plastered herself against the side of the wall and hoped no one had seen Toby. Or if they did, that they wouldn’t bother to find out why there was a dog taking a whiz on the school’s memorial crab apple tree.
As she closed the door, Skye heard the band director shout, “Britney, quit trying to be the center of attention. Everyone can see there’s no animal over there. Just be quiet and play your flute.”
After the near miss, Skye was relieved to deposit Toby with Trixie and to see her first counseling client—even if it was Ian Gooding, a precocious twelve-year-old freshman whom Skye had argued against double promoting last year due to the socialization issues she knew would arise.
Her suggestion—that Ian remain with his age group but that his curriculum be adjusted to meet his unique needs—had been rejected by the superintendent on the grounds that it would cost too much money. Since he had an IQ of over 165, his parents understandably wanted their son to be academically challenged, and they’d demanded that he skip seventh and eighth grades and go directly to high school.
Within a week Skye had been asked to see him for counseling. He had no friends and alienated nearly everyone with whom he interacted. This was their third session, and she wondered what test she would have to pass this time before he would talk to her.
In their first meeting, Skye had had to beat him at chess—thank goodness Simon had taught her well. The second time, he brought a Sudoku for her to complete. Today she was hoping for a crossword puzzle, but he surprised her by actually wanting to discuss an incident he’d been involved in on the school bus.
Skye suspected his progress had more to do with a new girl who had moved in last week than with her skill as a therapist, but she would take improvement however it occurred.
After a lengthy explanation, Ian finally got to his real question. “What I want to know, Ms. Denison, is how I should act so that Christy will like me.”
“Just be yourself.” Skye smiled reassuringly at the preteen. “But maybe just a little less judgmental of other people’s limitations.”
“Even the really stupid ones?”
“Especially those who are less fortunate than you.” Skye made sure she had eye contact. “Everyone has a place in this world. You just need to find yours.”
“But I’m a geek.” He ducked his head and mumbled, “Christy will never like the real me.”
“She might.” Skye knew that the young lady he was referring to was also gifted—not that she could share that information with Ian. Instead she said, “The people who matter won’t mind if you’re yourself, and the people who do mind don’t matter.”
Ian’s expression was skeptical, but as he left Skye’s office he promised to think about what she’d said.
In comparison to Ian, the next two students were easy; both were cooperative and working hard on their counseling goals. Skye sent the last one back to his classroom a few minutes before the bell rang, then headed toward the library to retrieve Toby.
Congratulating herself on having concealed the little dog’s presence for an entire day, she didn’t notice Homer Knapik until his hairy hand descended on her shoulder. The principal’s lumbering movements, protruding belly, and the graying hair that grew on nearly every visible part of his body made him look like Hollywood’s concept of the abominable snowman.
Instead of greeting her, Homer grumbled, “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been calling you for the past hour.”
“I put it on voice mail when I’m with students,” Skye reminded him, perhaps for the fiftieth time. “Did you leave a message?”
