Denise Swanson - Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

“Ah, well, that’s really nice of him, but I did tell Dad I was going to pick out a car myself.”

“Just take a look at it.” May played her trump card. “You don’t want to hurt your father’s feelings, do you?”

“Sure, I’ll look at it.” Being a bridge player, Skye recognized an ace of spades when she heard it. “But I’m not buying it.”

“Sure. No one said you had to.” May nodded. “Want a ride to school?”

Skye weighed her options. A three-mile hike, hoping to see someone she knew who would give her a ride, or five minutes of interrogation by her mother about Lorelei’s death. “Sure, thanks. Is that a new jacket?” She took a stab at trying to distract May’s attention.

“No. Now tell me what happened yesterday, from the beginning.”

The drive to school was short, and Skye was only up to finding the body when May steered the Olds into the empty parking lot. “Keep going. No one is here yet, so you have time.”

“Not really, Mom.” Skye grabbed the door handle and pushed. It seemed to be stuck. “I’ve got to get some plans in place before everyone else arrives.” And if she were lucky, she might be able to squeeze in her morning swim in the school’s pool.

“Five more minutes.”

“I’ll call you tonight.” Skye tried the door again.

“Childproof automatic locks.” May smiled serenely. “Tell me the rest.”

Skye sagged against the seat. Why were her relatives always kidnapping her? As she told her mom what May wanted to know, Skye realized they had all forgotten about the girl who had sounded the alarm. She would have to confirm that it was indeed Elvira Doozier and talk to her ASAP.

When Skye finished, May pressed the button to release the doors. “You know,” she said, “from what you said, Allen and Lorna Ingels’ attitude is really pretty strange. You ought to talk to your cousins. They know a lot about Lorelei and her mother.”

“Which cousins?” Skye stood on the blacktop, straightening her navy wool pantsuit.

“The twins. They’re involved with all that beauty-pageant nonsense, and so are the Ingels.” May looked at her watch and frowned.

Before Skye could question her mother further, May leaned over, shut the passenger door, and drove away. Skye gazed at the red taillights, wondering where her mother was off to before seven on a Thursday morning.

The phone was ringing as Skye unlocked the front door of the school. It stopped while she was still trying to open the door to the front office, but started up again almost immediately. Should she answer it? Probably not, but what if it were the co-op with a list of helpers?

She dropped her tote onto the counter and reached for the phone, pressing the button for an outside line. She’d call the co-op back rather than run the risk of playing telephone roulette, with a thousand-to-one odds in favor of the caller being an irate parent.

This time she reached an actual person. A secretary. Skye identified herself and asked to speak to the coordinator for their district. She had met him only a half dozen times, as he rarely attended any of Scumble River’s meetings. She was told that he wouldn’t be in until nine.

“Could someone else help me? We have an emergency, a student death. Does the co-op have a crisis plan?” Skye heard her voice become shaky. It was just starting to hit her that she would have to handle the situation all by herself.

“I’m sorry. That has to go through your coordinator. But I can page him if you like.”

“Yes, definitely page him.”

“Please hold.” Music suddenly blared into Skye’s ear. Appropriately enough, it was Patsy Cline singing “Lonely Street.”

Twenty minutes later, Skye finally got to talk to the coordinator. “As I’ve explained at least a dozen times, I need help,” she said. “What can the co-op do for me?”

The faculty and staff of the high school were beginning to arrive. She heard excited voices and sobs, and Skye wondered if by the time the announcement was made at the faculty meeting, the stories going around would resemble in any way what had really happened.

“We’ll try to pull some social workers and psychologists who are employed by the cooperative, rather than by individual school districts,” the coordinator replied. “But this could take a while, and they may not be available for the whole day.”

“How about you? Couldn’t you come down for at least the morning? Didn’t you say you have a degree in social work?” Skye couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice.

“Working directly with students is not part of my job,” the coordinator’s emotionless voice droned. “As I said, I’ll see what help I can get you.”

“Fine.” Skye recognized when someone really didn’t care.

Her mind raced as she hurried down the hall toward the guidance room. Coach would not be happy, but she was commandeering his office for the day. She stopped suddenly as an idea formed. If Coach were a real guidance counselor, he should be able to help with the day’s crisis. She had always suspected he wasn’t truly qualified. Now she’d find out.

Who else could she get to talk to kids with minimal instructions from her? Trixie and Abby. Trixie Frayne was the school librarian and cheerleader coach, a natural listener, and a lot of kids already confided in her. Plus, she was Skye’s best friend and could be counted on to do her a favor. And Abby Fleming was the school nurse. Surely she would have had some training in at least rudimentary counseling.

Skye talked to Trixie and Abby, who were glad to help, although a little unsure of their ability. Next she approached the coach. As she expected, he flat-out refused. Most teachers were happy to do what they could for the school and the students, but there was a small coterie of those who had been teaching too long and had essentially retired before the actual papers were signed. Coach belonged to the latter group.

Skye went in search of Homer. She found him sequestered in his office and explained what she had already done.

Homer shook his shaggy head. “Not good. Not good. Mrs. Frayne and Ms. Fleming are not qualified to provide counseling, thus they are not covered under our liability insurance.”

Skye bit back a retort and searched frantically for an answer. “Wouldn’t they be covered by the Good Samaritan law?”

“I’ll call our lawyer and find out.”

The attorney wasn’t in his office yet.

Before Homer could say no, Skye asked, “What do you suppose would be worse in the eyes of the law: do nothing or make a good-faith effort?”

After a few minutes of agonizing, Homer grudgingly gave Skye permission to follow through on her plan. Then, without warning, he stood, and said, “Time for the faculty meeting. I’m turning it over to you to run.”

He was halfway down the hall before Skye could protest. She raced after him, but as soon as she caught up with him, in the Home Ec room where the meetings were held, he turned to the teachers who were already assembled and introduced her.

Suddenly she felt her own grief and despair fighting their way to the surface. She fleetingly considered faking an appendicitis attack so she could go home sick. Instead, she pushed her distress back down, nodded to Homer, and began. “We have all had a terrible shock. As you know, Lorelei Ingels was found dead in our gymnasium yesterday afternoon. As of this morning we do not know the cause of death.

“Many of us feel a personal sense of loss, and those of you who think you cannot handle your classes, please let Mr. Knapik know immediately, so other arrangements can be made.”

Skye paused, but no one came forward. She didn’t expect anyone would. They would come later in private. “Here is our plan for today. We’re a small school, so as soon as the bell rings to signal the beginning of classes, we will assemble all students in the cafeteria, since we still aren’t allowed access to the gym. I will announce Lorelei’s death, and give them what little information we have about the circumstances surrounding it. At that point, I ask that all teachers return to their first-period rooms. Any students who want to talk more about Lorelei’s death will be asked to stay in the cafeteria. The rest will be dismissed to their classrooms.”