Murder of a Pink Elephant (2 page)

Skye moved through the waiting room and paused at the entrance to the styling area. This was the juncture where the noise level went from merely painful to excruciating. She felt as if there should be a sign saying, “
ABANDON ALL HOPE OF EVER HEARING AGAIN, YE WHO ENTER HERE
” posted among the red hearts and shiny pink-foil garland that decorated the lattice archway.

The band members were scattered among the styling stations, curler carts, and freestanding hair dryers. The smell of testosterone battled with the acrid odor of perm solution, while the stink of cigarettes and beer lost the war to the sweet aroma of floral shampoo and conditioner.

Skye blinked. It wasn’t every day that she saw four macho musicians performing against a beauty salon background of delicate mauves and pinks.

Vince was crowded up against the far wall between the front windows, surrounded by drums of all sizes. Whenever he lifted his drumsticks too high they got tangled with the fronds of a fern that hung down from a shelf above his head. There were beads of sweat above his green eyes, and his butterscotch hair was tied back in a ponytail.

Opposite Vince, sitting at one of the freestanding hair dryers and hunched over the keyboard in front of him, was Finn O’Malley, a scruffy carrottop wearing faded jeans and a tattered T-shirt. At some point the dryer’s hood had slipped down and covered the top quarter of Finn’s head, making him look like an alien from a 1950s science fiction movie.

To Vince’s left, Rod Yager concentrated on strumming his guitar. Stringy brown hair obscured his face, and his
blue jeans and T-shirt were only slightly less frayed than Finn’s. At first glance it appeared that he was performing some strange version of the Mexican Hat Dance, but then Skye noticed that what he was really doing was trying to avoid tripping over the cords of the various hairstyling implements that trailed across the salon floor.

Center stage, platinum blond hair trailing down his back, cobalt blue eyes blazing with emotion, the lead vocalist Logan Wolfe screamed out the lyrics to an acid rock hit from the ‘90s. His tight black tank top was soaked in sweat and his black jeans rode low on slim hips.

Skye closed her eyes and tried to hear why someone would like this kind of music. As a school psychologist, she often watched television programs, went to movies, and listened to CDs that she would never choose on her own in order to better understand the teenagers she evaluated and counseled. But this noise masquerading as a song was beyond her comprehension.

As Logan’s voice trailed off, Vince glanced up and waved Skye over. She put the picnic basket on the counter, hung her jacket up on the coat rack, and walked through the arch toward him.

“What do you think of our new sound?” Vince yelled from across the room.

“It’s … uh … loud.” Skye tried to think of a polite lie but ended up saying, “I sort of liked the music you played before better.”

“We’ll still play that when we do gigs for the older crowd.”

Skye gave him a sharp look. Was he saying she was old? She was only thirty-two.

Vince got up from his stool and gave her a quick hug. With his arm still around her, he said, “Guys, you remember my sister, Skye?”

Rod and Finn grunted hellos.

As they wandered away to investigate the food, Finn said to Rod in what was clearly the continuation of an ongoing conversation, “I still don’t understand why the chicks don’t seem to dig me.”

Rod slung his arm around the other man’s shoulder. “It’s how you talk to them, man. You gotta quit being so sexist. Broads really hate that.”

Skye was still shaking her head at Dumb and Dumber’s remarks when Logan strolled over, took her hand, and said, “Of course I remember you. You moved back to town a couple three years ago, right?”

Skye shrugged. “It seems longer.” She had left her hometown right after she graduated from high school and returned only after finding herself fired, jilted, and broke.

“Nope, it was two years ago last summer.” He smiled seductively. “I keep track of all the pretty ladies in Scumble River—especially those with such beautiful emerald green eyes and sexy curls.”

Vince frowned and removed Skye’s hand from Logan’s. “I’m sure your wife would be thrilled to hear that.”

Skye shot her brother a puzzled glance. Considering Vince’s own reputation as a ladies’ man, she was surprised at his censure of Logan’s behavior.

The singer shrugged, not bothering to respond to Vince’s taunt. Instead he stepped closer to Skye and fingered a ringlet of her hair. “What color do you call this? It’s not brown, but it isn’t red either.”

“Chestnut.” She assessed the singer. He was handsome in a pop idol sort of way. She could see the appeal he would have to a lot of women, but he wasn’t her type. Piercings and tattoos left her cold. Not that she thought for a minute he was really coming on to her. He was obviously the kind of guy who flirted with every female he met.

Vince moved between them, forcing Logan to step away from Skye.

She could feel the tension between the two men and wondered what was causing it. She didn’t flatter herself that it had anything to do with the singer’s behavior toward her.

Vince and Logan continued to stare at each other until Skye took each of them by the arm and moved them toward the food. “Mom sent over some supper for you guys. Don’t make me tell her you didn’t eat every bite.”

Skye watched as the men filled their plates, grabbed cans of beer from the cooler, and sat down to eat. It took her a few minutes to realize that they weren’t talking to each other. Well, Rod and Finn were still discussing the mysterious ways of women, but no one else was saying a word. Logan had his back to the group and was staring at a poster of Monet’s
Water Lilies
, and Vince had retreated behind the reception counter. Was something wrong with the band?

Skye had planned to leave right after dropping off the sandwiches, but the mood among the musicians concerned her. She had recommended the group to play at the high school dance Saturday night. What if they were breaking up? Everyone would blame her if there was no music at the Valentine’s Day Ball, and the superintendent would kill her.

Grabbing the manicurist’s chair, she wheeled it over to where Vince was sitting and asked in a low voice, “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?”

“You guys seem upset with each other or something.”

“Nah, just a difference of opinion.” He finished his sandwich and crumpled his napkin. “It’ll blow over soon.”

“Why were you so mad at Logan when he was flirting with me before?” Skye raised an eyebrow. “You know he wasn’t serious, and even if he were, I can take care of myself with guys like that.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Besides, he could never compete with Simon.” Skye
was referring to Simon Reid: funeral home owner, local coroner, and currently her boyfriend.

“I know,” he repeated. “But the guy irritates me sometimes with his never-met-a-mirror-he-didn’t-like attitude.”

“That’s what you’re upset about?”

“Nah.” He didn’t look her in the eye. “We’re trying some new music tonight and it’s just not sounding good. It makes me jumpy.”

“So, why don’t you just do the soft rock stuff you’ve been playing? The band sounded great at the last wedding reception I heard you at.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say we’re tired of playing the ‘Chicken Dance.”’

Skye hid her grin and asked innocently, “Why?”

“Because it’s the redneck ‘Macarena.”’ He hummed a few bars and shuddered. “Yech!”

“You could always do the ‘Hokey Pokey’ instead.”

Vince swatted her arm. “Gee. Can we? Please?” Before she could return the conversation to why Vince was upset, he sprang up from his chair and said, “We need to get back to practice.”

Skye was forced to let the matter drop. As long as the band showed up and played for the dance Saturday, she’d worry about their interpersonal relationships later. “Are you going to return the basket and cooler to Mom, or should I take them?”

“I’ll bring it over to the folks’ house tomorrow, before I open the salon.” Vince moved back behind his drums, and the other guys took up their instruments. “Want to stick around and listen?”

Skye cringed, thinking,
No, thanks, I could hear you just fine from the parking lot, inside the car, with the heater and the fans running full blast.
Out loud she said, “Darn. I’m expecting an important phone call, so I’d better get home. I’ll
see you guys at the school’s Valentine’s Day Ball. I’m one of the lucky chaperones.”

“Right. I just hope we can get it together by then.”

Skye put her coat on and moved toward the door. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll knock ’em dead.”

  
CHAPTER 2
  

T
he next afternoon, as Skye pulled into the high school parking lot, a Scumble River Fire Department truck roared out. The driver waved as he passed, and she waved back. He looked somewhat familiar, but then in a town of barely three thousand, most people did.

Usually fire drills took place only during nice weather, but today students and staff stood shivering in raggedy lines along the blacktop, and none of the teachers had their coats on, a sure sign of an unplanned evacuation. What in the world had happened?

Skye found an empty spot near the back of the lot. Getting out of the car, she stepped ankle deep into a puddle of slush and swore under her breath. It had been a tough winter. The snow had started in November, and now in February there was no sign of an early spring. After shaking the icy water off her foot, she picked her way carefully across the slick asphalt. The last thing she needed was to perform a pratfall in front of four hundred teenagers with long memories and warped senses of humor.

Homer Knapik, the high school principal, was standing on the school’s front steps bellowing through a bullhorn that appeared glued to his mouth. “Everyone may now go back
into the building.” Homer was squarely built, with a surplus of body hair and a permanent scowl. He reminded Skye of a cantankerous collie.

The kids rushed for the door, while their teachers shouted for an orderly return. Skye lingered outside, avoiding the crush. As the last student straggled in, she followed.

Homer caught her as she crossed the threshold. “Just the gal I wanted to see.” He led her into his office and shut the door.

“What happened?” Skye took off her coat before taking a seat, preparing for a lengthy discussion.

Homer dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Arlen Yoder pulled the fire alarm.”

“Shit!”

“My sentiments exactly,” Homer agreed.

Two years ago Arlen’s older brother had been expelled, and in September of this year Arlen had gotten into serious trouble, resulting in his temporary suspension. The boys’ parents didn’t feel either punishment was justified and were extremely difficult to deal with. Once, months ago, Mr. Yoder had even been physically violent toward Skye during a meeting about his older son. She had always regretted not reporting him to the police at that time.

“Why on earth did Arlen pull the fire alarm?” Skye asked. Unlike his brother, he wasn’t a malicious kid. He had fallen into some bad company over the summer, but since that other boy’s removal, he’d been toeing the line.

“He claims that someone shoved him against the wall during passing time and one of the flaps on his shirt got caught in the fire alarm mechanism. When he tried to get free he pulled the lever accidentally.” Homer folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back.

“Do you believe him?” Skye asked.

“That’s the thing.” Homer scratched behind a hairy ear. Skye half expected him to dig out a flea. “While we were
waiting for the firemen to clear the building and tell us it was okay to go back inside, I looked at his shirt. It was one of those with all kinds of pockets and zippers, and one of the flaps
was
torn.”

“What did you do?” Skye asked.

“Before I announced that the kids could come back inside, I called his mother to come and get him.”

Skye pulled her appointment book from her tote and made a note. “Maybe I can figure out if he’s telling the truth. I’ll see him at nine Monday morning.”

“That will require that he lives that long.” Homer’s eye twitched.

The ringing of the phone saved Skye from responding.

Homer snatched up the handset and barked “Yes?” He paused, then said, “No. No. Don’t put him through … Hello, Mr. Yoder. What can I do for you?” Homer listened before saying, “No, I’m sorry, that would be against board policy.” He listened again. “Feel free to call the superintendent. No. I can’t change the rules for your son. Look, just have him report to the school psychologist at nine Monday morning, and we’ll sort things out from there.” He banged down the receiver and told Skye, “Mr. Yoder wants me to let his son attend the Valentine’s Day dance this weekend.” Homer dug a roll of antacids out of his desk drawer.

“Did you suspend Arlen?”

“Yes, pending a full investigation.” Homer had crunched two of the Tums, and the white fizz around his lips made him look like he was foaming at the mouth.

Skye bit back a smile; the situation with Arlen was serious. “So, you can’t let him attend an extracurricular function.”

Homer nodded and popped two more tablets. “You know his father is going to hound me about it. He’ll ruin my Valentine’s Day weekend.”

“Put on your answering machine.”

“He’ll
come to the house.” Homer moaned.

“If that happens, let the police deal with him.”

Homer appeared to make a sudden decision. “I’ve got to make a call.” He picked up the phone. “You can go now.”

As she was gathering her things, Skye heard part of Homer’s conversation. “It’s me. I’ve decided we should go away for the weekend. Make us a hotel reservation in St. Louis. We’ll leave tonight as soon as school gets out. I’ll tell the superintendent that I have a death in the family, and they have to handle Saturday’s St. Valentine’s Day dance without me.”

Apparently there wasn’t room in Scumble River for both Homer and Mr. Yoder, and Homer wasn’t taking any chances on who would win that particular showdown at the OK Corral.