Murder of a Creped Suzette

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.

1. Did Mrs. Neal’s death have anything to do with Suzette’s murder?

2. Did Suzette’s brother have anything to do with either death?

3. Why use a steamroller to kill Suzette?

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?”

The large boy cocked his head, nodded, and said, “Woof.”