Murder of a Bookstore Babe

“The police department does a great job,” Skye babbled, knowing she should shut up. “I’m happy to help, but they don’t need me.”

“Be that as it may.” Neva jerked the cuffs of her taupe wool suit jacket for emphasis. “My goddaughter deserves an advocate.”

Skye reached the door. Tasting freedom, she put her hand on the knob, but Neva grabbed her wrist, thwarting her escape. “And I’m going to see she has two—you and me.”

“I’ll do what I can.” She freed herself from the older woman’s grasp, unsure how else to respond. The junior high principal had never shared anything personal with her before—which, come to think of it, wasn’t an altogether bad thing.

Neva murmured, “It isn’t right, how her parents ignored her.” As Skye stepped over the threshold and started down the hall, she heard the principal mutter, “They treated her like a servant. Worse, like a ghost. Why didn’t I ever do something about that?”

Skye blew out a breath of relief as she rounded the corner and was out of the woman’s sight. She felt sorry for Neva, but there was no way she was going to question the principal’s past inaction regarding her goddaughter. At the moment, the best Skye could do was pass the information about Kayla’s neglectful family to Wally and see whether he wanted to pursue it. She couldn’t think of any reason her parents would want Kayla dead. Heck, it sounded as if they barely knew she was alive.

A few minutes later, Skye sat in her office staring at the brown stains on the white ceiling tiles. She often thought those blots could be used to administer a Rorschach test. Too bad that was an assessment tool rarely used by school psychologists anymore.

The windowless room was painted yield-sign yellow and was no bigger than a walk-in closet. Skye had attempted to dispel the claustrophobic effect by arranging crisp white curtains around a travel-poster scene of the mountains. The custodian had originally used this space to store cleaning supplies, and there was nothing she could do about the faint lingering smell of ammonia. The pine-scented air freshener she’d plugged into the only outlet had made her sneeze, so she’d discarded it, preferring the stench to the sniffles.

Still, she was grateful for the private office. Not having to share or beg for a room every time she came to the building was a blessing. Many school psychologists would give up both their sick days and their retirement funds to have that luxury.

Skye’s thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of her newly installed telephone—a perk she still wasn’t sure how she’d gotten. She stared at the blinking light, trying to remember whether she was supposed to pick up the receiver, then press the button, or vice versa.

Mentally flipping a coin, she did the former, then crossing her fingers, said tentatively, “This is Skye Denison. May I help you?”

“It’s about time.” Her mother’s voice blared from the handset’s speaker. “I’ve been calling since six o’clock. I tried you at home and on your cell. I finally remembered this number a few minutes ago.” She paused for breath. “Why aren’t you answering your phones? Is something wrong?” May didn’t wait for any real troubles; if circumstances weren’t exactly as she expected them to be, she made up problems.

“Everything is fine.” Skye twisted the phone’s cord. “Why do you always think the worst?”

“Because then I’m pleasantly surprised if it doesn’t happen.” May’s tone was tart. “If everything is so hunky-dory, why couldn’t I reach you?”

“Uh.” Should she admit she’d spent the night at Wally’s, which would send May into a diatribe of how wrong he was for Skye, or should she fib? She chose a middle path. “I left early this morning to go swimming,” she said, which was true. She just hadn’t left from her own house. “And you know I can’t have my cell on when I’m at school.”

“Humph.” May made an unhappy noise.

“You know, Mom . . .” She paused, aware that what she was about to say wouldn’t make a difference but unable to stop herself. “Being out of touch for a couple of hours does not automatically mean that I’m dead. I’m sure if I was, one of the town gossips would inform you.”

“That isn’t funny, missy. I’ve had a bad morning. First, the phone rang at three a.m., scaring me to death. Then when I answered, someone giggled and hung up.”

“Well, Mom”—Skye couldn’t resist giving May a little zinger—“there are worse things than getting a call for a wrong number at three a.m.”

“Like what?”

“It could have been the right number.”

Without missing a beat, May continued. “Next, I find out your brother’s bought an engagement ring. And to top it all off, you disappear.”

Yikes! How had May found out about Vince? “Are you sure?” Skye stalled, wanting to hear exactly what her mother knew about Vince and Loretta before responding. “Could Vince have just been helping a friend pick one out?”

“No.” May was adamant. “Aunt Kitty’s sister saw him over in Kankakee at a jewelry store in the mall last Friday.”