Murder of a Bookstore Babe

As she got out of the car, a warm breeze blew across her face, and she smiled. It had been a nice fall so far. The temps had been in the high seventies, with lots of sunshine and no sign of an early winter. She crossed her fingers that the weather would continue to be warmer than usual and that it would snow only a couple of inches on Christmas Eve and melt completely away by New Year’s Day.

After pushing her windblown hair out of her eyes, she grabbed her purse and tote bag, then strode across the asphalt and used her key to get inside. Homer Knapik, the high school principal, was standing in the school’s foyer, his gaze fastened on the door. He was squarely built with an excess of body hair and a permanent frown. He reminded Skye of Bigfoot with a bunion.

As soon as he caught sight of Skye, he boomed, “You. In my office immediately!”

Yikes! What did Homer want? Skye followed the principal past the front counter, down a dark narrow hall, and into his lair.

He shut the door and marched over to the coffee machine on the credenza beneath the window. Homer had been the principal at the high school for as long as most people could remember. In fact, he’d been there when Skye was a student, which made the whole colleague/ equal-footing relationship a bit hard to pull off.

For the last couple of years Homer had been threatening to retire, but much to the disappointment of his staff, those had been empty promises. The teachers were convinced that even if Homer died, the board would just stuff and mount him in the chair behind his desk. If that happened, Skye was pretty sure no one would be able to tell the difference, at least as far as the running of the school went.

Without turning around, Homer barked, “I heard you found another stiff.”

“That stiff, as you so eloquently put it, was one of our students not too long ago”—Skye’s voice was rebuking—“so I’d appreciate it if you referred to her in a respectful manner.” Skye wasn’t good at standing up for herself, but she didn’t let anyone denigrate the kids, even after they were dead.

“Don’t take that holier-than-thou tone with me.” Homer faced her, holding a steaming cup. “When you’ve been around here as long as I have, see if you’re still so protective of the little brats.”

Skye paused. Changing Homer’s mind was probably impossible, but she’d keep after him about how he treated the students.

Her lack of response seemed to irritate him, and he moved on to another complaint. “What are you, some kind of pied piper for the dead? When you walk through a cemetery, do the corpses rise up and follow you?”

“Are you nuts?” Skye was beginning to worry about Homer’s sanity. “No one outside of a horror novel can do that.”

“Everything I say can be entirely validated by my own opinion.”

Skye kept her expression neutral. There was no way to respond to a statement like that. Heck, she wasn’t even sure what he’d actually said.

“What do they call your affliction, anyway?” the principal jabbed at Skye.

“I’d tell you, Homer, but it’s too hard for you to pronounce. And you don’t have to worry. Someone like you certainly can’t catch it.”

“Are you being smart with me?” He slammed his cup down on the desktop, hot liquid sloshing over the sides.

“Of course not.” Skye barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

“I’ve told you before”—Homer’s tone was that of a salesman speaking to an unreasonable customer—“I want you to quit finding corpses.”

“Okay.” They’d had this conversation before, and it never ended well. It was hard to defend yourself against an accusation you were afraid might be true. “I’ll put that on my to-do list.”

“That’s what you said last time.” The hair growing out of his nose bristled. “But you did it again.”

“And how do you suggest I carry out your order?” Skye was trying to remain calm, but he was starting to seriously tick her off. Did he think she got a bounty for every victim she found?

“Staying out of police investigations would be a good start.” Homer’s face turned a mottled red. “Quit poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You are aware that I was hired to consult for the police department?” Skye knew he was, because although her school contract allowed her to moonlight, it stipulated that she inform the principals and the school board, which she’d done.

“Everyone knows the only reason you got that gig was because the chief was hot for you.” Homer plunked into his chair, which groaned in protest. “Now that you’re engaged to him, give the man a break and stop interfering.”

“I do not interfere.” Skye refused to let someone who resembled a Yeti disparage the assistance she provided the police. “I help.”

Homer snorted. “Quit finding dead bodies. Quit finding murderers. Quit bugging the crap out of me.” Homer pointed a hairy finger at her. “Do what we pay you for.”

“What are you talking about?” Skye always got her work finished, even when it meant staying late and taking reports home to finish. “What haven’t I done?”