Skye grabbed Trixie and pointed at the retreating figure. “Do you remember my cousin Hugo?”

“Yes, good-looking, but a little too smooth?”

“Right, there goes his wife, Victoria. I wonder what she’s up to.”

“What do you mean?”

Skye described Victoria’s actions. “Maybe my imagination is running overtime, but it was almost as if she didn’t want to be seen, or saw someone she wanted to avoid.”

“Or maybe she just forgot something.” Trixie suggested.

“That’s probably it. I’m not too fond of her, so I was doubtlessly thinking the worst of her.” Skye sighed. “She’s hard to like.”

Trixie patted Skye’s arm. “I have heard her referred to around town as Mrs. Perfect and Queen Victoria.”

Skye nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think she has many friends. I should try again, I suppose. She is family.”

“Why is she so disliked? Is it just her incredible looks?”

“I’m sure that’s part of it, but everything she says has a barb attached. Sometimes it pinches right away. Sometimes it’s like a time bomb, waiting for the right moment to detonate.”

“And?”

“She’s materialistic and a snob and she’s raising her son, Prescott, to be just like her.” Skye looked in the direction Victoria had headed. “I can’t figure out how Hugo supports her in the manner she demands. You wouldn’t think selling cars would earn that much income.”

Skye sat back in the restaurant’s plush red velvet seat and sipped an iced tea. “I forgot to ask. Did you get the job at the high school?”

“Yes, they called this morning.” Trixie grinned.

“Great. We’ll be working together. Unless, of course, I’m fired by next year.” Skye felt her chest tighten as she said the words.

“I’m sure everything will be fine. You’ll come up with something that will satisfy the superintendent.”

Skye decided to change the subject. “What do you think of the restaurant?”

“Sort of elegant for the Kankakee I remember.”

“Don’t worry. Kankakee may now have Chez Philippe, but it still has a Farm and Fleet store, too.” Skye picked up the huge menu.

“What a relief. We wouldn’t want to have to run all the way to Ottawa for a Farm and Fleet fix. How would the citizens of Scumble River survive without it? Where would they get their clothes, candy, and car supplies?”

Skye snickered and added, “Don’t forget electronics, hunting equipment, and livestock needs.”

Giggling, Trixie added a few more essential items that could be purchased at the discount store.

“But I must admit,” Skye said, feeling forced to be honest, “I have found some nice brand-name clothes there and the prices are about thirty percent less than Carson’s or Field’s.”

“Me too,” Trixie confessed. “I just don’t normally admit where I got them.”

Both women were laughing so hard the waiter was forced to raise his voice. “Good afternoon, ladies. Are you ready to order?”

They agreed to share a plate of tomato basil bruschetta. For her main course Trixie ordered a steak sandwich with Gorgonzola butter and fries. Skye decided on the seafood salad.

When the waiter finished the grand production of writing down their order and left, Skye asked, “Have you worked in a school before?”

“No, I just got my certification. I worked in a public library for a while as a clerk.”

“Schools are a different situation. I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that makes things so intense.” Skye paused to allow their appetizer to be served. “The special education coordinator at my last school used to blame it on so many women having PMS at the same time. His other favorite excuse was ‘mental pause,’ as he so charmingly called the change of life.”

“What a jerk. I’ll bet you didn’t let him get away with crap like that.” Trixie scooped up a piece of toasted bread with chopped tomato and basil sprinkled on top.

Skye smiled thinly, but didn’t offer that that same man had fired her. “The best explanation I have so far is that no matter what we do it’s eighty percent odds that we’ll be in trouble with either a parent or an administrator.”

“That sounds a little dramatic.”

“Not at all. If you call a student for doing something wrong, six out of ten parents will argue about your decision. On the other hand, if you let something pass to give a kid a chance to straighten up, some other child will tell his folks, who then will complain to the superintendent.”

“Sounds rough.”

“And that doesn’t even touch my job. Almost everything I have to say upsets someone. If I don’t find a referred student eligible for services, the teacher is mad at me. If I do find a handicapping condition, the parent is upset. And if I can’t tell and need additional tests, the administration is irritated.”

“Hard to believe anyone wants to be a school psychologist.”

“Believe me, they don’t tell you this stuff in graduate school, and even in your internship you are rarely made aware of the everyday realities of the job.” Skye moved her hands out of the way, allowing the waiter to center her salad in front of her.

The women turned back to their previous topic.

Trixie asked, “Has the staff of the high school been friendly to you?”

“In their own way.” Skye speared a shrimp, a piece of lettuce, and a black olive. “The thing with my job is that I only pop in and out of the building, and rarely have a chance to socialize in the lounge. Even when I do, I think I make a lot of them uncomfortable because they think I’m analyzing everything they say and do.”

“I suppose you get that a lot as a psychologist.”

Skye shrugged. “The other weird thing is that there are still teachers working there who taught us.”

Trixie shuddered. “Not Mr. Zullo? His freshman English was the worst class I’ve ever been in.”

“Yep, he’s still there. He’s only in his fifties.”

“Yuck. He always made me feel so uncomfortable. He stood too close, and I know he was trying to look up my skirt or down my blouse.”

“Yeah, me too. I observed his class a couple of times.”

“Did you see anything?”

“He’s not going to make any moves on the girls while I’m watching.”

“Did you talk to the principal?”

“Homer?” Skye shook her head. “What’s the use? Besides, I have no proof.”

Trixie scowled. “You need to be invisible.”

Skye opened her mouth, but a commotion at the door drew her attention. Her cousin Hugo, his wife, Victoria, and a familiar looking middle-aged man were standing at the maître d’s podium.

Skye’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. Could her cousins’ dining companion really be who she thought he was? She deliberately dropped her napkin so she could take a good look at the man without anyone noticing.

Victoria’s voice could be heard clearly even under the table. “What is the problem? You have our reservation; I can see our name written in your book.” She stabbed the ledger with a gleaming fingernail the shape of a dagger.

“But, madame, the booth you requested is still occupied. If you insist on that particular spot you must wait. I could seat you elsewhere immediately.” Philippe’s French accent thickened.

Victoria crossed her arms and turned to Hugo. “Do something, sugar. I want ‘our’ table.”

Hugo glanced at the man, who was now standing a little apart from them, and patted Victoria’s arm. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Slipping his wallet from his jacket pocket, Hugo selected a bill and approached the restaurant owner. They spoke in whispers for a moment. Philippe finally accepted the money and walked over to a banquette in the back of the room. It was occupied by two women sipping after-dinner coffee and chatting.

He bent low and whispered to one of the women. She listened, consulted with her friend, and nodded. The women got up and moved toward the bar. A busboy appeared instantly and cleared the table, resetting it with fresh linens.