Murder of a Royal Pain

Skye blew out a frustrated breath, then headed upstairs to lie down. The only good thing about feeling sick was that she didn’t have the energy to be scared.

Skye felt much better in the morning, and since she had recovered health-wise, she decided to work on her lingering depression by wearing one of her new fall outfits. She chose olive twill slacks, a matching T-shirt, and a short olive, rust, and brown jacket. To complete the look, she slipped on chunky gold earrings, a bangle bracelet, and the brown Coach pumps she had found on sale for seventy percent off at TJMaxx.

Because of the weekly PPS meeting at seven thirty, Skye’s schedule called for her to spend Thursday mornings at the elementary school. The team met in the special-ed room, which was about half the size of the other classrooms. It held only twelve desks—arranged in three pods of four each—and the student chairs of molded orange plastic were designed for the height and build of six- and seven-year-olds.

The sole adult chair was behind the teacher’s desk, and although Skye was the first to arrive, she knew better than to try to claim it. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

Next to appear was Abby, the school nurse. She and Skye immediately started to take the chairs off the tops of the student desks, where they had been placed at the end of the previous day.

They were removing the last two when the special-education teacher, Yvonne Smith, came in. As usual, she was dressed in a full denim skirt and an oxford-cloth blouse—today’s was blue. Yvonne was what most people pictured when they thought of an elementary school teacher—round and soft, with a halo of gray-brown curls and a smiling face.

Next to turn up was Belle Whitney, the speech therapist, who took a seat next to Abby. Belle looked like a can of Reddi-wip that had exploded. Her pale blond hair was arranged in fluffy curls and feathery waves, and her rose pink dress was made of a diaphanous material with rows of ruffles around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Even her eyeglasses had loops and curlicues on the frames.

Jackie and the grade school principal were the last to arrive. Jackie’s hand was on Caroline’s arm, and she was whispering in her ear.

The principal, a tiny woman with a puff of white hair, patted Jackie’s cheek and said, “Thank you, my dear. You are just the sweetest thing to volunteer for recess duty. Our ‘specials’ usually claim they’re too busy.” Turning her attention to the assembled group, Caroline smiled, took a seat, and plucked gold-rimmed reading glasses from the pocket of her blazer. “Shall we start?” She peered at the list she had put on the table. “Our most pressing concern this morning is a new student. Vassily Warner is five years old and recently adopted from Russia.”

“Do we have records on him?” Abby asked.

“None.”

“Has he ever attended school?” Yvonne asked.

“All his adoptive parents know is that he’s been in an orphanage since birth,” Caroline reported. “They were assured he is healthy, but that’s it.”

Dang. From what Skye had read about Russian orphanages, she knew that in many, the preschool-age children spent most of their days alone in cagelike cribs. “Will the parents bring him in for an assessment?”

“Yes.” Caroline handed Skye a Post-it note. “Here’s their number. They’d like him to start school as soon as possible.”

Skye hastily looked through her appointment book. “I’ll call them this morning and try to set something up for tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’d like to see him then, too, if that’s okay?” Belle looked up from her own appointment book.

“Great.” Skye’s pencil hovered. “Is Friday at one good for you?”

“It’s fine.” Belle made a note in her calendar.

Abby said, “I’ll stop by, too, and see if the parents have any health records.”

“Uh . . .” Caroline cleared her throat. “There’s only one problem.”

“Only one.” Skye chuckled. “That’s a switch.”

“Vassily doesn’t speak English.”

“That is a major problem.” Skye tapped the pencil eraser on her lip. “I have no idea where we’d get a psychologist, or an interpreter, who speaks Russian.”

“Me.” Jackie smiled like a woman who had gotten the last pair of Prada sandals at a year-end sale. “I speak Russian. I can interpret for you.”

Caroline beamed at Jackie, and Belle asked, “For me, as well?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Skye smiled and thanked Jackie, but inside she was frowning. It was mighty convenient that their new social worker just happened to speak the one foreign language they needed. But she wouldn’t lie about that, would she?

Then a thought popped into Skye’s mind. If Jackie were lying, who would ever know?

CHAPTER 19

Walk This Way

Should she keep her appointment with Dr. Paine or not? Skye vacillated as she unlocked the Bel Air and slid behind the wheel. On the one hand, Wally had said not to do anything that would make Quirk think that she was still investigating, and if Annette was not the intended victim, there was no reason to talk to her husband.