Denise Swanson - Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

Wally’s expression sharpened. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah. It’s right here.” Justin pushed aside a curtain and a half door was revealed.

Skye reached for the knob, but Wally grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch anything. I need to get this whole area fingerprinted.”

Justin’s face reddened. “Ah, I already opened it.”

“Son of a bitch! There goes any evidence.”

Skye couldn’t remember ever having heard the chief swear before. She closed her eyes, remembering once when Wally had spoken about investigating a young person’s death a few years ago, and how much it had disturbed him. He must be experiencing similar feelings now, and that was why he was coming across as such an insensitive and authoritative jerk. Convinced Skye had betrayed him several months ago, and now having to deal with a senseless death, the chief was raising all sorts of emotional defenses.

She tried to save the situation by asking, “Where does the door lead, Justin?”

“The band room.”

“It must be so they can hand their instruments through, without carrying them in the corridors,” she guessed.

Wally focused on Skye. “Why do you say that?”

“With all the additions put on this school, there are some rooms that are right next to each other, but you have to detour through miles of hallway to get from one to the other. That must be the case here. I know the hall dead-ends at the gym.” Skye paused and considered. “Hey, maybe not all is lost. You can have your techs dust the band room. Justin didn’t go in there, right?”

“No.”

“Good.” Skye smiled.

The chief crossed his arms. “One other question, Justin. Why did you want to leave so badly?”

The boy reddened and glanced at Skye before answering. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

It was nearly six by the time the police finished their work in the gym. The stage and the backstage areas remained taped off with bright yellow ribbon, a glaring contrast to the gray gymnasium. Justin had been released to his parents, and most of the crowd had dissipated. Suppers had to be cooked, farm animals had to be fed, and families had to be tended, no matter who died.

Skye, Wally, and Homer were left trying to locate Lorelei Ingels’s parents. Wally had called their residence and spoken to their housekeeper, who’d told him that Allen Ingels, Lorelei’s father, was out of town that day on business and his wife, Lorna, had accompanied him in order to shop and have her hair done. Lorelei’s younger sister was at a neighbor’s playing. They were all expected home by seven.

After a brief discussion, it was decided that Skye, Homer, and Wally would wait for the Ingels at their home. Skye hadn’t been surprised when Homer insisted that she go along. The Ingels were an extremely prominent family—Mr. Ingels was the bank president—and Homer liked to surround himself with other people to deflect any possible blame that might be cast on him. Wally led the way in the squad car, and Homer and Skye followed in the principal’s Taurus.

Ten minutes later, the three of them stood on the Ingels’ doorstep. The housekeeper answered their ring, and after a brief explanation from the chief, showed them into a stark white living room.

They seated themselves, and the housekeeper brought them coffee. Skye winced as Homer put his cup down on the glass table. She hoped it wouldn’t leave a ring.

Skye wiggled, trying to find a comfortable position in the Jacobsen chair she occupied. Except for a family portrait done in oils above the fireplace, and several mirrors hung in strategic locations, the walls reminded her of the inside of a refrigerator.

Homer’s shaggy appearance looked out of place against the streamlined leather couch on which he was perched.

Wally, on the other hand, seemed at ease in a Bauhaus chair as he made notes on a pocket-size pad. He finally looked up. “Homer, you and Skye really don’t have to be here.”

Homer slowly put down the magazine he had been pretending to read. “How would it look to the Ingels and the rest of the community if we let the police take over with no school representation?”

Before Wally could respond the sound of car doors slamming and the front door opening drew their attention. A tall woman dressed in a lime-colored Nipon suit entered. Her champagne-blond hair was perfectly coifed in a shoulder-length flip, and she held a Shizué purse.

The man following her had been handsome in his youth, but time had clawed its signature across his features. His Armani suit, although flawlessly tailored, couldn’t hide his thickening middle. His florid complexion spoke of three-martini lunches, wine-drenched dinners, and bedtime brandies.

The chief stood and took a couple of steps toward them. Skye and Homer kept a few feet back.

Allen Ingels spoke. “What’s going on? What are you doing in my house?”

Wally answered, “I’m sorry, folks, but I have some bad news for you.”

Lorna Ingels paled and clutched her husband’s arm. He half turned, almost as if he were ready to make a run for it.

“Bad news? What could you possibly have to say that would concern us?” Allen Ingels brushed off an imaginary speck of lint, his eyes suddenly unable to meet the chief’s.

To Skye, it was almost as if he already felt guilty about something.

“Today at approximately three o’clock your daughter Lorelei was found in the high school gym, dead from unknown causes.”

“My baby?” Mrs. Ingels shrieked and sagged against her husband. “What happened to my baby?”

Before Wally could speak, Mr. Ingels roared, “Nonsense! There must be some mistake. What gross incompetence. She’s never been sick a day in her life. I’ll sue all of you for scaring us like this.”

Skye watched a veil of denial descend on both the Ingels’s faces.

Wally eased the couple down on the sofa. “There’s no mistake. During the last half of eighth period, Ms. Denison here”—he indicated Skye—“was summoned by a student to the gym. Once there, she found your daughter lying on a bed that was part of the stage set for the school play. Lorelei was not breathing, nor was her heart beating. An ambulance was immediately sent for, and arrived within five minutes. The EMTs declared her dead, and called for me and the coroner. We won’t know the cause of death until after the autopsy.”

Mrs. Ingels screamed and buried her head in her arms. “My baby, my baby! She was so beautiful! You can’t cut her up. I won’t let you. I want to see my baby.”

Skye moved forward to comfort Mrs. Ingels, but Wally held her back. She shot him a surprised look, and he gave a slight shake of his head. What was he up to?

Mr. Ingels sat stone-faced. “What are you talking about? How could a perfectly healthy eighteen-year-old go to school and just die?”

“I’m sorry. We don’t know. There’s no physical evidence.”

Skye looked at Wally again. What did he mean? What about the mysterious bottle? What about the piece of tinsel, and the pool of vomit the officers had been talking about?

Allen Ingels turned to Homer, who had been hovering to the banker’s left. “How could you let something like this happen in your school?”

Beads of sweat popped out on Homer’s brow.

Skye stepped forward to rescue the principal. “Mr. and Mrs. Ingels, you have our utmost sympathy for your loss, but there was nothing we could do.” Was their reaction a natural expression of grief? The Ingels weren’t acting like any parents she had dealt with before.

“And you.” Allen Ingels pivoted in Skye’s direction. “Did you do anything to help? Did you try CPR or mouth-to-mouth? Or did you just let her die?”