Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry (34 page)

Her job description was vague, allowing the principals to assign Skye any task they did not wish to perform, and, of course, any that even hinted of belonging in the realm of special education. One of the duties Homer Knapik, the high school principal, had recently handed over to Skye was faculty liaison to the Promfest committee—parents who were putting together an event designed to keep the junior and senior classes and their dates from getting high, crashing their cars, and making babies after the prom.

Homer had assured Skye that it was an easy assignment. All she would have to do was attend a few meetings and maybe help put up some crêpe paper. But as Skye approached the high school cafeteria where the first gathering of the 2004–2005 Promfest committee was being held, she knew he had lied to her. She could hear the raised voices five hundred yards away.

Skye crept into the cavernous room, willing herself to become invisible, which was a stretch considering her generous curves, long, curly chestnut hair, and emerald green eyes. From the back wall, she surveyed the crowd.

It was almost entirely women in their late thirties and early forties. An occasional male also occupied the picnicstyle tables arranged in rows facing the stainless-steel serving counter, but they looked uncomfortable and ready to make a run for freedom at any moment.

Skye noticed one guy sitting by himself, and took a seat at his table. He was the only man in the room who didn’t look as if he wished he were somewhere else. Instead, his expression was a cross between amusement and disbelief as he scribbled furiously in a small notebook.

Skye smiled at him, and asked, “Who are they?” gesturing to the front of the room where two attractive women were nose to nose, yelling at each other.

“The one with the black hair is Annette Paine and the blonde is Evie Harrington. They both think they’re this year’s Promfest chairwoman.”

“And they want to be?” Skye couldn’t imagine why anyone would actively seek that position. “Why?”

He nodded. “Lots of power and a good way to strengthen their daughters’ chances of being elected prom queen. Both of them are prior queens themselves—Evie in 1984 and Annette in 1982.”

“Oh.” Skye cringed. “This is going to get ugly.”

“Already has.”

Suddenly the shouting increased in volume and Skye’s attention was drawn back to the women.

“I don’t know where you got the impression that you
were chairing this committee.” Annette poked Evie in the shoulder with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

“I got the
impression
from the election last year.” Evie bristled. “You remember the election, don’t you?”

Annette smoothed a strand of hair back into her chignon. “That vote was not valid. We didn’t have quorum. The legitimate election took place the next week.” Her icy blue gaze lasered into the brown eyes of her rival. “I believe you were on vacation. If you call going to Branson, Missouri, a vacation.”

“You deliberately held that meeting while I was gone.” Evie stamped her Etienne Aigner—shod foot on the worn gray linoleum. “A meeting you had no right to call.”

“As the assistant chair of the 2003–2004 committee, I was certainly within my rights to call a meeting.” Annette flicked a piece of lint from her Yves Saint Laurent cashmere cardigan.

“The 2003–2004 committee had already been disbanded.” A line appeared between Evie’s eyebrows. “You had no authority whatsoever.”

Skye was trying to guess how long it would be before the two women started with the “I did toos” and “You did nots,” when a voice from one of the tables rang out, “Let’s just have another vote and get on with it. Some of us have lives.”

About a third of the women murmured their agreement, but the others protested. Clearly the group was divided into three factions—those who backed Annette’s claim, those who supported Evie, and the rest, who didn’t give a darn one way or the other.

Skye looked at her watch and blew out an impatient breath. Much as she hated to, she was going to have to become an active participant and hurry the committee along. If she didn’t get out of there by the end of first hour, her whole morning’s schedule would be messed up. She was supposed to be starting Brady Russell’s three-year reevaluation—students who received special education services were required by law to be tested by the school psychologist triennially.

These reevaluations made up the bulk of her duties, and if she fell behind, she would have to cut her counseling and
consultation hours—the part of her job she really enjoyed. She would need at least ninety minutes without interruption to give Brady the intelligence test. She would have to find another couple of hours to administer the academic and processing assessments on another day, not to mention time to do the classroom observation, teacher interviews, write the report, and attend the multidisciplinary meeting.

With the ten hours she would need to complete the entire reevaluation in mind, and the clock ticking away precious minutes, Skye stood up. She was ready to make an impassioned plea along the lines of “Can’t we all just get along?” when Annette grabbed Evie by the arm, dragged her to the side, and whispered furiously in her ear.

Skye leaned over the man next to her and lowered her voice. “Prom queen for their daughters aside, I can’t imagine why being in charge of putting a few streamers up, hiring a DJ, and getting some chips and punch out is such a big deal.”

“Where have you been?” He smirked. “Maybe that was true when Promfest was originally conceived. Nowadays it resembles a Chuck E. Cheese party for teenagers, but on steroids.”

Before Skye could grasp that image, her attention was drawn back to the front of the room by Evie’s gasp.

As Skye watched, the blonde shot Annette a look of loathing, walked back to the center of the room, and announced, “For the good of the Promfest and the sake of our children’s special night, I concede the chair to Annette Paine.”

Skye sat back down and stared speculatively at the blonde, then raised an eyebrow at the man next to her. “What in the world could Annette have said to Evie to make her give up a position that was obviously important to her?”

“Got me.” He tapped his pen on his notebook. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Oh?” It wasn’t often Skye met someone even more nosy than she was. “Why?”

“It’s my job.”

“Really?” Skye studied him for a moment. He was in his mid-thirties and devilishly handsome. “What do you do?”

“I’m the new reporter for the
Scumble River Star.
” He held out a tanned hand to Skye. “My name’s Kurt Michaels. I’m starting a column called Talk of the Town.”

“Gossip?”

“I like to call it vital information.” He shrugged. “After all, it’s the lifeblood of any small town.”

“True, but with you being an outsider, will people give you the real scoop?”

“I guess we’ll see. My first column is in this week’s paper. But ask yourself this—you’re a native Scumble Riverite, right?”

Skye nodded.

“And which of us knew about the feud between Annette and Evie for Promfest chair?” He got up and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.” Over his shoulder he added, “Nothing else interesting is going to happen.”

Skye watched him as he left. His powerful, well-muscled body moved with an easy grace. On second thought, considering his sexy smile, hot body, and charm, the ladies of Scumble River would almost certainly be willing to tell him all their secrets, not to mention those of their neighbors and friends. Heck, if he took off his shirt, they’d probably be willing to make something up.

Kurt had been right; the rest of the meeting was a snooze.

It had started with Annette explaining that the main mission of the Promfest committee was to solicit donations and raise money, which eventually led to her announcement: “The first fundraiser of the year is our Witch’s Ball haunted house. We need volunteers to sell tickets, construct the set, and act as the monsters. I’m sending around a sign-up sheet, and I expect to see not only your name, but your spouse’s and teenager’s, as well.”

There was a murmur from the crowd and several hands shot into the air.

Annette ignored them and started the sheet of paper around. “Remember, in order for your student to fully enjoy Promfest, he or she will need a bank account full of Prom
Bucks to spend on food, games, and activities. And you can earn these PBs with every hour you volunteer, prize you solicit, and donation you make. Just for attending today’s meeting you’ve earned your teen five thousand PBs.”

Skye watched in amazement for a few minutes as the parents vied to sign away their free time; then she quietly got up and slipped out of the room before the volunteer list reached her table. Not that she would have volunteered for any activity, but she particularly hated haunted houses.

She hadn’t been in one since she was six years old, when her brother, Vince, who was ten at the time, abandoned her to go play with his friends. She had wandered around lost and crying until some adult finally noticed her and led her to an exit.

Skye shuddered at the memory, quickened her steps, and nearly ran toward the safety of her office.

As she slid into her desk chair, panting, she noticed the phone’s message light flashing. The bell would ring in five minutes. Three minutes after that, Brady Russell would show up at her door expecting to be tested. Did she have time to listen to her voice mail and get set up for him, as well?

She’d never be able to concentrate with that little red light blinking. Cradling the receiver between her neck and shoulder, Skye punched in her password. As she waited for her code to be approved, she grabbed Brady’s file and started to fill out the identifying data on the IQ protocol.

She was figuring out his exact age—the current date minus his birthday—when the mechanical voice said, “You have three messages.”

Darn. She’d been hoping for a hang-up, but nothing was ever quick and easy in this job. Skye shook her head and pushed the correct button to continue.

“Message number one, left Monday, September thirteenth at eight-fifteen.”

There was a slight pause, then Homer’s voice boomed from the receiver. “Where in blue blazes are you? Come to my office immediately.”

The next one, left at eight-twenty-five, was also from the principal, but the volume of his voice had risen considerably. “Opal said you signed in at seven-thirty. Are you ignoring me?”

By the time Skye got to the last message, recorded at eight-thirty, his baritone blasted in her ear, “Get your butt down here ASAP. I don’t have all day to babysit this woman.”

Apparently, the first crisis of the day had materialized.