Murder of a Creped Suzette

Homer didn’t open his eyes. “You call.”

“No.” Fighting the temptation to toss her legal pad at Homer’s head, Skye stuffed her notes into her tote bag. “He won’t listen to me, and the only way we can get access to all the apparatus and staff we’ll need is through him.”

Homer grunted and reached for the phone, which Skye took as both agreement and dismissal.

She quickly stood, moved to the door, and said, “I’ll be around until one thirty; then I’m heading to the junior high.”

Homer waved her off. As she exited, she heard him say, “Opal, get me the sped coordinator right now. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Although Skye didn’t like the special education coordinator—he lacked a sincere interest in the students and harangued Skye for becoming too involved with them—he was the only person who had the authority to help them. That is, of course, if the jerk could be motivated to actually do his job.

As Skye headed down the hall, she tried to come up with ideas to help Woodrow fit in and make friends. Which classmate would be a good buddy for him? Who was popular enough and had sufficient self-confidence and compassion to get the other students to accept the boy?

Skye’s deliberations had brought her to a junction in the corridor. If she went left, she’d arrive at her own office ; if she went right, she’d pass the music room. It was ten twenty-three; third period ended in two minutes and fourth period was Noreen Iverson’s plan time, which made it the perfect moment to talk to her about Suzette’s father.

As Skye headed right, she rationalized that she needed to speak to Noreen about Woodrow. His mother had mentioned that he loved music, and it should be assigned as his scheduled elective. If Noreen brought up Mr. Neal and Skye got a lead in the investigation of Suzette’s murder, she figured that would simply be a twofer.

Noreen’s room was in the oldest part of the school, in the fine and practical arts wing. Although the heating was iffy and there was no air-conditioning, it did have the coveted advantage of windows, real walls versus curtain separators, and spaciousness.

Skye expected to hear the familiar notes of flutes, violins, and drums, but instead she heard shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but accelerated her steps as the voices grew louder.

Afraid that fists would be swinging soon, Skye dashed into the room and stopped abruptly when she saw several students lined up on a dais in front of the class. Noreen stood facing them, using a conductor’s baton to point to each in turn. As she did so, each teen spoke a word; then the next person uttered the same word, only louder.

At that moment the bell rang, and Noreen said, “Excellent work, everyone. We’ll pick up here next time. Class dismissed.”

Skye hesitated, not sure what she had seen. What in the world was Noreen teaching?

Once all the students had left, Noreen approached Skye. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” Skye’s cheeks reddened. “I’m so sorry for bursting in here without knocking.” She knew she’d breached the unwritten rule that each teacher was king or queen of his or her classroom.

“No problem.” Noreen’s lips twitched. “I bet you thought the kids were about to start throwing punches.”

Skye nodded.

“We’re so isolated in this wing, I didn’t even think of what the lesson on voice as an instrument would sound like to someone in the hall.” Noreen patted Skye’s arm. “Sorry for frightening you.”

Skye blew out a breath. “I need to stop letting my imagination get the better of me, and seeing crises around every corner.”

“Don’t we all,” Noreen agreed. “So, were you coming to see me about something?”

“Yes.” Skye tipped her head toward a small table. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” Noreen led the way and took a seat. “But I need to grade papers for my next class while we talk.”

“I won’t keep you long.” Skye sat down. “We’re getting a new student who wants music on his schedule as his elective course.”

“Oh?” Noreen raised a brow. “So where does the school psychologist fit into that picture?”

Skye explained about Woodrow’s special circumstances, ending with, “Which means we don’t know yet exactly what he’ll require, but at a minimum he’ll have a teacher assistant with him at all times.”

“Then everything should be fine.” Noreen reached for a stack of papers. “I’m sure his aide will know what to do, and I’ll be happy to make any accommodations or modifications suggested.”

“That’s great.” Skye relaxed. “Thanks.” Some teachers were more comfortable than others with students who had special needs.

“I learned to be flexible during my student teaching.” Noreen smiled fondly. “One of the first lessons Quentin Neal taught me was that music teachers eventually have every kid in the school in their class, and we’d better be able to handle all types.”

“It sounds as if he was a terrific trainer.” Skye couldn’t believe her luck; Quentin was exactly who she really wanted to talk about.

Noreen nodded, then asked, “Have you heard anything more about his daughter’s death?”