Murder of a Creped Suzette

“I’ll try calling that number again tomorrow.” Wally’s shoulders hunched forward. “Maybe we can work something out.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I’m behind you a hundred percent.” Skye started the Bel Air’s engine. “If we don’t get a letter from Darleen supporting your request for an annulment, it may take a bit longer, but it will still come through and we’ll still get married.”

Skye had been praying it wouldn’t come to this. She’d been sure they’d find the name of Suzette’s brother last night in the police file. But now that the file was officially stolen, that hope had vanished.

Noreen had said only two people currently at Scumble River High were at the school when Quentin Neal worked there—Homer Knapik and Pru Cormorant, the English teacher. Voluntarily spending time in Homer’s company was bad enough, but questioning Pru ventured into the realm of appalling.

Pru hadn’t liked Skye when she had her as a student, and she disliked her even more as a colleague. The animosity was mutual, especially since last month when the English teacher had tried to shut down the newly opened bookstore in town, claiming the romances it sold were pornography and the horror novels were satanic.

Skye had been putting off the discussions with Homer and Pru all day. But by the afternoon, when the elementary school student she had scheduled for testing was absent, Skye had run out of excuses and reluctantly headed over to the high school. Pru wouldn’t be available until eighth hour, which was her second planning period, but Homer was almost always free.

The session with Homer went remarkably well. Having successfully turned over the administrative problems pertaining to Woodrow Buckingham’s integration to the special education coordinator, the principal was in a mellow mood.

Homer answered Skye’s questions with only a few snide remarks, but he could add nothing to what Noreen had already reported. Homer’s sole recollection of Quentin Neal was that he had done his job and kept out of trouble.

When the seventh-hour bell rang, Skye waited for the kids to leave before approaching Pru’s room.

“Hi, Pru,” Skye called from the open doorway. “Got a minute?”

The English teacher was facing a six-foot-high double-door metal cabinet. At Skye’s greeting, she swung around and scowled. “Did Mrs. Cook complain about that note I sent home yesterday?”

“What note?” Skye asked cautiously. Homer usually sent her to deal with Pru when the teacher ticked off a parent, but he hadn’t mentioned a problem.

“The one I wrote that said, ‘Your son sets low standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.’ ”

“Holy smokes!” Skye blurted out. “What possessed you to send a parent something like that?”

“I know you think I’m crazy,” Pru snapped, “but I’ve just been in a very bad mood for the past twenty-odd years.”

“Of course I don’t think you’re crazy,” Skye soothed, thinking, Mean as a polecat, but not crazy.

“Fine.” Pru crossed her arms. “Which of your little darlings needs special treatment this time?”

“No one at the moment.” Skye forced a smile. Pru thought everyone should be treated equally—that is, everyone but the two or three students she selected as her pets every year. “However, I always appreciate your cooperation when I do have a request.”

The English teacher narrowed her wintry blue eyes and twitched her pointy nose. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Skye held on to her smile. “I understand you knew Quentin Neal. He was a music teacher who worked here quite a while ago.”

“He was here only for a year, so I wouldn’t exactly say I knew him,” Pru quibbled. “Especially since he taught a fluff subject.”

“I understand. But is there anything at all you can recall about him?” Skye was fairly sure that Pru, who acted as gossip central for the school, kept track of all the new teachers, even the ones she dismissed for teaching superfluities like music and art. “Maybe who his friends were?”

“I do remember he was a handsome man.” Pru gave a small shrug, her expression contemptuous. “All the young females on the staff, and several of the older ones who should have known better, were atwitter.”

“Did he chirp back?” Skye asked, wondering if Pru had been one of the cheeping flock. “I imagine that kind of adulation would be tempting to him.”

“No.” Pru smoothed her stringy dun-colored hair back into its chignon. “He was pleasant, but he kept his distance.”

“Did you ever meet his family?” Skye asked. “I understand he had twins.”

“Yes to both your questions. And since the girl was just murdered here in town a couple of days ago”— Pru’s smile was superior—“I imagine she is why you’re so interested in Quentin.”

“That’s true,” Skye admitted, not allowing herself to be baited. “Do you remember his son’s name?”

“Let me think.” Pru tapped a bony finger on her receding chin and pursed her thin lips. “It wasn’t an S name like Stephen or Scott, as you’d expect with twins.”