Murder of a Creped Suzette

Friday afternoon Skye felt as if her good luck might be back. So far, there had been no emergency parent conferences and no inconvenient student absences. If the next hour went well, she would be able to leave work at quitting time and make her four thirty appointment with Father Burns with time to spare. And since the priest had said he didn’t mind if she brought a dog along to the meeting, she didn’t need to ask Simon to keep Toby for another night.

Glancing at the clock, Skye saw she had fifteen minutes to grab a cup of coffee before she needed to fetch the boys for her group. She locked the file she’d been working on in the cabinet, gathered up the material she needed for the session, and headed for the staff room.

The lounge was located in the back half of the basement, and Skye wound her way through a warren of construction paper rolls hung on huge cylinders, a massive cage containing balls of various sizes, and several racks of cleaning supplies. The scent of dust, sweat, and ammonia mingled in her sinuses, and she sneezed three times in rapid succession.

When Skye pushed open the door to the teachers’ lounge, she saw Yvonne Smith facing a bulletin board at the rear of the empty room. The plump middle-aged woman with a halo of brown and gray curls, half-glasses, and baby blue eyes was the epitome of everyone’s favorite teacher. The fact that she taught special education was a true bonus for children with special needs.

“Sorry.” Skye wrinkled her brow. What was up with Yvonne? She was usually one of the most unflappable teachers Skye dealt with. “Is anything wrong?”

“Really?” Skye walked over to the coffee machine, put down the equipment she was carrying, and poured the dark brew into a cup. “What happened?”

“A parent was upset because her eight-year-old came home and told her he’d learned how to make babies in my class yesterday.”

“Okay—I know you aren’t teaching sex ed, especially to third graders.” Skye opened two packs of Sweet’N Low and shook them along with some powdered creamer into her coffee. “So why would her son say that?”

Yvonne shook her head. “Yesterday I taught a lesson on plurals, and told them that to make the word babies from baby you change the y to an i and add es. My question is, why didn’t the mom ask her son what he meant?”

“True,” Yvonne agreed, then added, “I’d better get going.” She strode toward the exit, pausing to say, “I’ll send my aide down with the boys for your group as soon as we finish our after-recess quiet time minutes.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Skye snapped a lid on the cup and gathered up her supplies. “I’ll be waiting for them in the usual spot.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Yvonne smiled. “I’m grateful that you’re seeing them. Those three are a handful. It will be nice to have a little uninterrupted time to devote to the others.” She waved and hurried away.

Skye followed at a slightly slower pace. Not having to fetch the kids from the far end of the building gave her a few extra minutes.

Emerging from the basement stairway, Skye balanced three game boxes, a bag of rewards, and her cup, then hiked down the main hall. Near the office she noticed a handmade poster that read:

The fifth graders will be presenting
Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the gym Friday at 7:30 p.m.
The staff is encouraged to attend this tragedy.

Wondering if whoever made the sign had actually read it before putting it up, Skye giggled to herself as she headed into the elementary school’s oldest section. The smell of mildew hit her full force as she turned into the corridor, making her eyes water.

Previously this wing had been rented out to a church group, but they had found a better facility and moved. Three years later, the school board was still trying to figure out whether to bring it up to code for classroom use or to tear it down and start over.

It was not the best location for a group session—stifling in the spring and fall and freezing in the winter. What’s more, it was isolated and dreary. However, the principal had assured Skye that this was the only space available, and since there was no way she could squeeze three lively eight-year-old boys into her tiny office, she had to make-do. Conditions were rarely ideal when one worked in public education.

Here, at least, she was able to use a room that was the correct size. She had learned the hard way that when dealing with active children, a space that was too big was just as bad as one that was too small. When she had started the group, she had cleared out the pastor’s old office and brought in a low table and four chairs. The walls were bare and there were no windows. Another lesson she had quickly learned was that it was best to have an area without many visual stimulants.

Skye set up the first game—one designed to encourage cooperation—then took a sip of her coffee as she waited for her group to arrive. After a couple of swallows, she became aware of an unsettling silence. Usually schools were full of noise, but she was totally on her own here.

The isolation made her think of Suzette’s mother—supposedly alone in the house, with a three-year-old as the sole witness to her accident. What had really happened to Mrs. Neal all those years ago? And what had happened to her daughter a few days ago? Skye hastily scribbled down thoughts as they occurred to her.

Before she could come up with more questions, her clients burst into the room. The teacher’s aide hurried after them, a harried expression on her face. She nodded at Skye, then turned on her heels and fled.

The boys were definitely unusual. Clifford, the brightest of the three, handed Skye a white square of paper.

She thanked him, unfolded it, and read: The opinions expressed by this child are not necessarily those of his parents. Fighting to keep a straight face, Skye stuffed the paper into her pocket.

Glaring at Skye, Clifford sat down and slammed a thick hardcover Harry Potter into the middle of the game board. Playing pieces scattered everywhere.

Skye silently looked at him until he dropped his gaze; then she checked on the other boys. Alvin, who was tall for his age and built like a mini-linebacker, immediately got down on all fours. He crawled after the tokens, making excited yipping noises.

For an unprofessional moment, Skye wondered why Alvin insisted he was a dog named Spot instead of a singing chipmunk. At least the cartoon Alvin talked; her Alvin communicated only by barking.

The third boy had his back pressed to the door and was waving a can of Lysol in the others’ direction, as if warding off mosquitoes. Duncan—or, as the kids called him, Mr. Clean—liked everything to be perfectly orderly and hygienic. So much so that he had insisted on having his head shaved so no hair would ever be out of place. Skye still couldn’t believe his mother had gone along with that.

Clifford, aka Book Boy, glanced around and smiled contentedly. He retrieved his novel, flipped it open to the bookmarked page, and started to read.

Needless to say, none of the three kids had been able to make any friends, which concerned both their parents and the school staff. At their Individual Education Plan conference last fall, Skye had volunteered to provide a socialization group. This was their second meeting. Clearly she had her work cut out for her.

Reaching over, Skye plucked the book from Clifford’s hands, swiftly put it on her chair, and sat on it. Then, in a mild tone, she said, “Would you all please help collect the pieces so we can begin our game?”

Alvin picked up one of the larger tokens in his mouth, trotted over, and dropped it into Skye’s hands. Duncan gingerly approached a few pieces, sprayed them with Lysol, and brought them to the table. Clifford stared at Skye without moving.

Ignoring the recalcitrant boy, Skye showed the other two boys the rewards they could earn for taking turns, following directions, and speaking in their indoor voices. Once she had their interest, she got them started on the game.

Less than ten minutes had passed when Clifford grabbed a token and put it on the board. Alvin growled and Duncan aimed his Lysol can at the intruder.

“Should we let our friend Clifford join our game?” Skye selected a small rubber ball from her reward bag. “Alvin, do you think Clifford should get a turn?”

“Duncan, do you agree we should let our friend Clifford join us in our game?” Skye held up a miniature container of hand sanitizer.

“Excellent decision.” Skye checked her watch. The group was scheduled to last a half hour, and they still had ten minutes left. She handed the dice to Clifford and said, “Your friends agree it’s your turn.”

The rest of the time went well, and the boys were putting the game pieces away in the box when the same teacher’s aide who had brought the boys to the session eased the door open. “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Denison, but Mrs. Smith needs you. Two of the older children are having a disagreement about the proposed music theater and she’s afraid it’s about to turn physical.”

“Oh, my.” Skye swiftly stood and hurried out of the room, leaving the aide to supervise the boys.

Once she had helped the special education teacher with a conflict resolution exercise, Skye picked up her counseling equipment, then headed back to her office. As she walked down the hall, she thought about the similarities between the students’ disagreement and the argument between Ginger and Theresa. It was sad that the kids had behaved better than the PTO board. The boys hadn’t hit each other, shredded any clothing, or called each other names.

Skye’s lucky streak continued, and she was able to leave school on time, which meant she had a luxurious half hour in which to pick up Toby and get over to the rectory. Skye thought she might even have a chance to talk to Simon about Suzette. If he hadn’t been able to figure out why the singer looked familiar, maybe Skye could nudge his memory.

Simon swung open the front door of his house as soon as Skye knocked, almost as if he had been waiting for her in the foyer. She cringed. Had Toby destroyed a valuable antique or misbehaved so badly that Simon couldn’t wait to get rid of him? No, that couldn’t be it. The little dog sat obediently at Simon’s feet, neither barking nor jumping.

“Well . . .” A small voice inside her warned that being alone with Simon in his home might be misconstrued by both her ex and Wally. But it had been a month since Simon’s last over-the-top stunt in his quest to win her back, and she was hoping he’d finally realized his continued pursuit was futile. “I have a few minutes before I have to be at the church.”

“Great.” Simon stepped back so she could enter. “I want to show you a trick I taught Toby.” He led her down the hall, through the kitchen, and into a screened-in porch, gesturing for her to take a seat.

She chose a bronze wrought-iron chair with black-and-tan-plaid cushions. Simon perched on the end of a matching chaise longue.

“Look.” Simon made a motion with the flat of his hand and Toby trotted over. Another gesture and the little dog sat in front of Simon.

“His mistress must have trained him, because as soon as I figured out the correct signals he was terrific.” Simon grinned. “Now watch this.” He pointed his finger at the dog and mimicked shooting a gun. Toby immediately fell over, all four paws pointed upward.

“Yeah.” Simon reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and gave Toby a treat. “He’s extremely smart.” Simon scratched behind the dog’s pointy white ears and crooned, “Aren’t you, boy?”

“He sure seems that way when he’s with you.” Skye was pleased to see Simon so happy. It had been a rough year for him because of her engagement to Wally, as well as a friend’s betrayal. Maybe now that he wasn’t obviously trying to sweep her off her feet, they could be pals. “I’d say you two are getting along like gangbusters.”

“We are.” Simon stroked the dog’s silky fur. “He loves my fenced-in backyard.” Simon pointed through the screens. “And I really like having him around to talk to.”

Skye swallowed. She hated that she had caused Simon pain. He was a good man, and for a while she had thought she loved him. She remembered one evening together when he had brought her to his house for dinner. A trail of rose petals had greeted her at the door and led into the dining room, where the table had been set with a crisp white linen tablecloth.

Delicate china, sparkling crystal, sterling flatware, and candles in silver holders had contributed to the beautiful table setting, and a mouthwatering meal waited in the kitchen. But the gourmet food had grown ice cold before they ever got around to eating it.

Skye knew that too much had happened since then to go back, but she exhaled a long sigh of regret before refocusing on the present and asking, “Did the police drop off a picture of Suzette a day or two ago?”

“Yes. That new officer, Martinez, brought it over yesterday.” Simon rubbed his temples. “I’ve stared at it and stared at it, but I just can’t shake loose why she looks so familiar to me.”

“Sure.” Simon left the room, returning almost immediately with a glossy head shot of the dead singer. “What’s your idea?”

Skye took out a legal pad from her tote bag and ripped off a sheet. Eyeing the picture, she carefully tore a face-size hole in the paper, then laid it over the photo. “Now look. Does that help any?”

She had remembered a facial recognition test she used with younger children in which the removal of hair and background made a difference in their ability to identify faces as being the same.

Simon studied the altered image for several seconds, opened his mouth to speak, then pounded his forehead with the heel of his hand. “This is so frustrating. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“Do me a favor.” Skye glanced at her watch. “Leave the picture covered like that; then after you’ve forgotten about it, look at it again.” It was twenty after four. “Memory is a tricky thing. Sometimes if you stop thinking about something, it will come to you.”

“Thanks.” Skye stood and scooped up Toby. “And thanks for taking care of this guy, too.” Simon looked bereft, but she had to go.