Murder of a Creped Suzette

Skye frowned but called out, “Yes?” She had the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob—not that it ever stopped anyone from interrupting her.

Fern Otte, the school secretary, poked her head inside. The tiny wrenlike woman’s feathers were visibly ruffled and she twittered, “Ms. Denison, Mrs. Greer needs you at the PTO meeting immediately.”

“Okay.” Skye rose from her seat, said good-bye to the PE teacher, and asked Fern where the meeting was being held.

“The gym.” Fern turned to go, saying over her shoulder, “Hurry.”

Passing a row of windows on her way to the gymnasium, Skye glanced outside. The sun was already beating off the asphalt. More unusually high temperatures were predicted for that afternoon along with a thunderstorm, and she was thankful she was scheduled to spend the afternoon in the air-conditioned high school.

Caroline Greer greeted her at the door of the gym. “An unusual situation, I’m afraid.”

Skye heard two arguing female voices as she eased inside. She surveyed the assemblage. A dozen or so women in their late twenties and early thirties sat around a couple of long tables ina T formation. Several of them gave the impression they were about to make a run for freedom.

At the center of the T, two women stood toe-to-toe yelling at each another. The tiny blonde was Skye’s cousin Ginger Leofanti, president of the PTO. The brunette facing off with Ginger was Theresa Dugan, one of the teachers. What in the world had set Theresa off? She was generally calm and good-natured.

Skye had been trying to figure out why the principal had summoned her. Caroline preferred to handle most matters by herself, usually calling on Skye only if she needed specific special education information. Now she knew. Caroline couldn’t afford to offend the PTO president, but she also didn’t want to take sides against her own employee. She was undoubtedly hoping Skye could either resolve the situation peacefully or shoulder the blame.

“What’s going on?” Skye whispered to Caroline. It was hard to tell what the disagreement was about since the women were currently stuck in a round of Did toos and Uh-huhs.

“Branson of Illinois,” Caroline answered, then edged toward the exit. As she hurried from the room, she said, “I’m sure you can smooth things over. Let me know when you’ve got this under control.”

“Wait!” Skye called after the principal, but the door had already clicked shut.

Suddenly the shouting behind Skye increased in volume, and she whirled around. The remaining women had left their seats and chosen sides.

“Everyone”—Theresa put up her hand, palm toward Ginger, and said—“calm down.”

“Have you ever noticed,” Ginger said, playing to the crowd, “that the person who tells you to calm down is the one who riled you up to start with?”

Several of the women nodded and someone shouted, “Yeah, it’s always the ones who think they’re better than everyone else.”

“Ladies, that isn’t the case at all,” Theresa appealed to her faction. “You all know I’m not like that.”

“Well, if you didn’t have such a cushy job with a guaranteed salary and benefits, you’d see how wonderful Mr. Taylor’s plans are.” Ginger poked the teacher in the middle of her chest with a stubby fuchsia fingernail. “As long as people keep popping out kids, you don’t have to worry about unemployment.”

Cushy job? Teaching? Skye always suspected her cousin wasn’t the sharpest eyebrow pencil in the makeup case, but now she had proof. Ginger wouldn’t last a day in front of a classroom.

“And if you weren’t such a selfish, greedy fool, you’d admit what his scheme would do to our town.” Theresa fluffed her short curls. “That awful man is going to turn Scumble River into a cheap tourist trap with traffic jams, tattoo parlors, and pawnshops.”

“You’re just jealous he was flirting with me yesterday after church and not you.”

Theresa’s shrewd brown gaze pinned Ginger. “What has he offered you?”

“None of your beeswax.” Ginger stamped her purple-flip-flop-shod foot on the hardwood floor. “This isn’t about just me.”

“Of course it is.” Theresa smoothed her pale yellow shirtdress. “Let me guess . . .” She tapped a finger on her lower lip. “A construction job for that lowlife husband of yours. I heard he’d been fired—again.”

“That’s a lie!” Ginger’s voice rose to a high, squeaky pitch that made Skye want to cover her ears. “Flip was not fired. The company went under. He was one of the last to go.” She appealed to her supporters. “You all know that things are so bad around here, the bank is sending out loan applications with REJECTED already stamped across them.”

A few women tittered sympathetically, and Theresa hurriedly said, “Tough times never last, but tough people do.”

“That’s just BS you read on a T-shirt.” Ginger’s voice rose in anger. “If you weren’t dumb as a post, you’d realize how stupid you sound.”

Skye knew she had to stop the women, but while she was trying to figure out how, the battle continued.