Murder of a Royal Pain

by Denise Swanson

  “She said we just aren’t right for each other. We have different goals, different dreams.”

  “Maybe she meant you aren’t serious. Are you? Serious, I mean, about her?”

  He poured another shot and stared at the golden liquid before answering, “Maybe.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly did you tell her?” Skye knew Vince was fairly verbal for a guy, but he was still a guy. “What is the basis of your relationship with her?”

  He shrugged. “We didn’t talk about that.”

  “Do you want to have a serious, maybe-leading-to-marriage, relationship with Loretta?”

  Vince half nodded, then shook his head. “It’s no use. What she really meant was that she’s an important criminal attorney and I do hair for a living. Her family is rich and powerful, and ours is blue-collar. The only place we have any influence is in a town of three thousand people.”

  “Loretta’s not like that.”

  “I knew you’d take her side.”

  “I’m not taking her side, but she is my friend and I know what she’s like.” Skye put her hand over Vince’s, stopping him from taking another drink. “But you’re my brother. I’ll always be on your side.”

  “Well, she’s made up her mind.” Despair and anger were mixed in his voice. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.” He slumped back in his chair.

  Skye wondered if she should try to speak to Loretta. Probably not. At least, not if she wanted to keep their friendship intact. Still, maybe just a friendly call to say hi might be in order.

  Vince threw back another shot of tequila, wiped his mouth, and said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay.” Skye moved the liquor bottle out of her brother’s reach. “But no more of this.”

  “So.” Vince tipped his chair so he was balanced on the two back legs. “What’s this I hear about you and Wally breaking up?”

  CHAPTER 13

  These Are the Times

  “What?” Without thinking, Skye picked up the glass in front of her and downed the contents. The straight tequila burned like liquid fire. Choking, she gasped, “Where . . . did . . . you . . . hear . . . that?”

  “All the Saturday regulars were talking about it today.” Vince dropped his chair back down on all four legs, stretched across the table, grabbed the bottle of booze, and poured himself and Skye another shot.

  Vince’s regulars were the ladies that still got their hair “done” every week. Most wore styles that had been all the rage in the fifties and sixties, when poodle cuts, beehives, and the ever-popular bouffant were considered cutting-edge. Colors ranged from pure white to ash blond, with the occasional blue rinse for extra-special occasions. These women were the Internet of Scumble River. They had invented a form of instant messaging long before Skye and Vince were born.

  “You’d think they’d be talking about Annette Paine’s murder, not me,” Skye snapped once she stopped coughing.

  “They had plenty of time for both.” Vince smirked. “Besides, they find you more interesting than a dead body.”

  “Great.”

  “The radio didn’t say it was murder. How do you know so much?” Vince demanded.

  Skye explained her involvement, then asked, “What did your regulars say about Wally and me?” Could Wally have broken up with her behind her back? How would he do that? Did he take out an ad in the Laurel Herald News? He couldn’t have put it in the Scumble River Star—the local paper came out only on Wednesdays.

  “When Sally stopped by the police station yesterday to bring her son, Anthony, his supper, Thea told her that Wally up and left town last night without giving them any warning. She also informed Sally that Quirk claims he is under orders not to tell anyone where the chief was going or why he left or how long he’d be gone.”

  Skye felt her heart start again. “I know where Wally is and why he’s there. And I certainly understand his desire not to have the whole town know his business. Just because he had to go out of town doesn’t mean we broke up. How do people come up with this stuff?”

  “Search me.” Vince twitched his shoulders. “But Masie, the waitress at the diner out on the interstate—you know, the place with the homemade pies—blabbed to Hilda this morning while they were both waiting for their prescriptions to be filled at Bate’s Pharmacy that late last night when she was coming home from work, she saw you parked on the side of the road with that new reporter from the Star.”

  “It wasn’t that late,” Skye protested. “After the police let us all go, he drove me home. He stopped the car to ask me a few questions, hoping to get a story for the paper. We were there all of two minutes. Nothing happened.”

  “Hey.” Vince put his hands up. “I believe you. I’m only warning you what’s going around town.”

  “Thank God Mom is in Vegas.”

  “Like no one called her.” Vince grinned. “You can be sure one of her friends—Hester or Maggie or Aunt Kitty, or maybe all three—has let her know about it by now.”

  If that were true, Skye could only hope May was on a winning streak at the slot mchines, or her mother would be on the next flight home. In any case, she vowed to screen her calls. She was not talking to her mother until Wally was back home and the rumors had died down.

  “You haven’t heard the best part yet.” Vince’s good humor appeared to have returned.

  Skye cringed. Nothing like seeing his sister in trouble to cheer up her brother. “What?”

  “Miss Letitia said that while she was at the podiatrist’s office this morning to get her toenails trimmed—she has that awful fungus—Priscilla Van Horn, who was there for her bunions, told Miss Letitia that Wally was seeing Annette Paine on the sly. Priscilla said she heard that Annette told you about the affair and you threatened to leave Wally. So Wally killed Annette for ruining his life. Then he left town to avoid being arrested, and you were so distraught that you spent the night with Kurt Michaels.”

  “Good Lord! These women should be writing for the tabloids.”

  “Yeah. But you did dump Simon, and before the sofa cushion had cooled off, you took up with Wally.”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Skye closed her eyes. Just when you thought there was nothing else in your life that could crash and burn, the ashes of your previous disasters caught fire and burst into flame.

  “Yes. You are in deep doo-doo.”

  “This is so unfair,” Skye whined. “How many women have you inked in, then a few weeks later crossed out of your little black book? And no one talks about you like this.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault there’s a different set of rules for men and women in small towns like Scumble River.” Vince shrugged. “Get over it. You need to do something about these rumors ASAP.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Hold a press conference?”

  “Not altogether a bad idea.” Vince snickered, then turned serious. “You know, you could talk to some of the media about the murder and get out your side of the story.”

  “No.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “People who get in bed with the media usually get screwed.”

  “But you need to nip the rumors in the bud before Mom and Dad get home.”

  “I agree completely. But there has to be a better way to do it than trying to manipulate the press.” Skye thought a moment, then asked, “Who’s the reigning queen of gossip with Mom gone?”

  A second later they both said, “Aunt Minnie.”

  Skye asked, “Do you have any plans for supper?”

  Vince shook his head, taking her non sequitur in stride.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” Vince made a pitiful face. “With Mom out of town, there’s no one to bring me lunch.”

  Skye bit her tongue. This wasn’t the time to remind him that a thirty-eight-year-old man should be able to make a sandwich, stick it in a brown paper bag, and bring it with him to work.

  “Okay, then h
ere’s the plan.” Skye got up. “We’ll go get something to eat at the Feed Bag—I’m driving, since you’ve had so much to drink. Afterward we’ll drop by Aunt Minnie’s and give her the real scoop.”

  “Which means two minutes after we leave her house, all of Scumble River will know.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you going to let her in on why Wally’s out of town?” Vince asked.

  “I probably shouldn’t if he told Quirk not to tell.”

  “Wouldn’t he be more concerned about stopping all the talk than keeping his privacy?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And I’m sure he had no idea that by keeping his destination and reason for leaving a secret, he was, in fact, fueling the gossip he was trying to avoid.” Skye bit her lip. “Still, maybe I’d better check with Wally before I visit Aunt Minnie.”

  “That sounds like the smart thing to do.” Vince eyed her thoughtfully. “Can you call him?”

  “I’ll try his cell again, but I already left him a message to call me ASAP, and if he’s in the hospital he probably has his phone switched off.”

  “He’s in the hospital?” Vince sounded shocked.

  “It’s a long story, and you can’t tell anyone, but . . .” Skye filled Vince in on her Friday, starting with Wally’s call.

  “Is the Promfest committee still putting on the haunted house?” Vince asked when she finished.

  “Not this weekend. There was a message on my answering machine from Evie Harrison when I got up this morning. The police haven’t released the scene yet, but they told the committee that A Ghoul’s Night Out can reopen by next Friday.”

  “Are you going back?”

  “I don’t want to.” Skye’s voice was unsteady. “I’ll have to think about it.” Vince shot her a concerned look, but she changed the subject, telling him about Frannie’s bombshell, and ending with, “Not one of my best nights.”

  “Nope.” Vince’s expression had returned morose. “Sounds as if neither one of us should have gotten out of bed yesterday.”

  “Probably not.” Skye gazed out the window. “Maybe not today either.”

  After Skye and Vince ate at the Feed Bag, she drove a sobered-up Vince back to his car, dropped him off, and considered her next move. She hadn’t been able to get hold of Wally—as she had predicted, his cell was switched off. She’d left another voice mail, but he hadn’t gotten back to her yet, so the visit to Aunt Minnie’s had to be postponed.

  Kurt hadn’t phoned, and neither had Simon. She was both relieved and annoyed. She didn’t want to lead Simon on, or slip and give Kurt more information, but lacking the two men’s input, she had no idea what was going on in the murder investigation.

  Hmm. Who else could tell her what she needed to know? Skye checked her watch. It was close to seven. Given that in the chief’s absence Quirk was in charge, he would have taken the day shift, which ended at three. So, who would be working afternoons? With any luck, Anthony would be on duty, but even if it were one of the other part-timers, she might be able to get the lowdown. And if all else failed, there was always the dispatcher, who often knew more than all the officers combined.

  With that plan in mind, she headed to the police station. It was housed in the same redbrick building that also contained the city hall and town library. During the weekday, the parking lot was often crowded, but on a Saturday night Skye had her choice of spots. She pulled the Bel Air in between a purple Gremlin and a white Ford Focus. It didn’t bode well that neither vehicle looked familiar.

  When Skye pushed open the glass door, a series of chimes announced her arrival. She waved at the dispatcher, who sat at a desk to Skye’s right; a shoulder-height counter with bulletproof glass reaching to the ceiling separated the woman from the reception area.

  May’s friend Thea and cousin Char were the only dispatchers Skye knew well. Thea generally worked days with Wally, May worked afternoons with Quirk, and Char worked midnights.

  Recently two weekend dispatchers, Silvia and Betty, had been hired to work twelve-hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday. Skye was pretty sure the one on duty tonight was Silvia, but they both were medium height and weight, with short brown hair and glasses.

  Skye knocked on the glass, and Silvia—or maybe it was Betty—nodded, and buzzed her through the security door at the end of the counter.

  Once inside, Skye poked her head around the corner and said, “Hi. Who’s on?”

  “McCabe.” The dispatcher made a face, but didn’t turn her head. She was expected to type data into the computer, monitor the radios, and answer the phones simultaneously.

  That explained the purple Gremlin. It was a car only Otto McCabe, an inept county deputy who moonlighted in Scumble River when no one else was available, would drive and/or think was cool. Quirk would have been the worst on-duty officer to run into, but McCabe was a close second.

  “Is he out patrolling?”

  “Yeah. He’s making the circuit. He should be back before long.”

  The circuit was from one end of Basin Street to the other, and was patrolled mainly to keep an eye on the numerous bars that were scattered down its length.

  “Mind if I wait?” Skye didn’t like McCabe, but he was dumb enough to let something slip if she needled him.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  As Skye stepped into the dispatcher’s tiny cubicle, she could make out the nameplate pinned to her uniform. It said, SILVIA; Skye had been right. “Anything interesting happening out there?”

  “Nope.” Silvia continued to focus on the computer monitor. “Been pretty quiet, not like last night.”

  “Yeah.” That was the opening Skye was looking for. “Phew. Last night was way too exciting.”

  “You were there, right? You found the vic?”

  “Yep.”

  “That must have been scary, being in a haunted house and stumbling across a dead body.”

  “I was terrified.” Skye slid a glance at the woman behind the desk, but she was still busy checking data on the screen. “Have they gotten any leads yet?”

  “When I took over from Char this morning, she said Quirk had Dr. Paine in the interrogation room all night, but let him go around six.”

  “I wonder if Quirk found out anything.”

  “I doubt it.” Silvia shrugged. “He was like a bear with a pinecone up his ass.”

  Skye blinked, trying to get that picture out of her head, and before she could ask any more questions she spotted Otto McCabe as he strolled through the garage entrance into the station’s coffee/interrogation room. It seemed strange to see him in the navy Scumble River police uniform rather than the tan Stanley County one.

  “There’s McCabe.” Skye quickly rose from her chair. “I’d better catch him before he goes out again. See you later, Silvia.”

  McCabe stood in front of the soft-drink machine. He repeatedly stabbed the Jolt button with his index finger, but no can of soda fell down the chute and into the slot.

  Skye sidled up behind him and said, “That stuff will kill you.”

  McCabe twisted around, his hand on the gun on his hip. He bore an unfortunate resemblance to Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith Show, and Skye wondered whether he, like Barney, was allowed to have only a single bullet; and if so, did he keep it in his shirt pocket as the TV character had?

  Once McCabe saw Skye, he scowled. “You got no business sneaking up on an armed man like that. I could have shot you dead.”

  “Sorry.” Skye put up her hands. “I had no idea you were so jumpy. Maybe you should lay off the caffeine.”

  “I’m not jumpy. I’m alert.” McCabe hitched up his pants and bristled. “You gotta be on your toes at all times in this job. You can’t let the perps get the drop on you.”

  Skye restrained herself from pointing out that on a Saturday night in Scumble River the only “perps” McCabe was likely to run into would be drunks. And they’d be out on the roads causing accidents, not in the PD’s coffee room.

  McCab
e waited a few seconds for her to speak, and when she didn’t, he tugged at the collar of his uniform shirt. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I stopped by to pick up some papers that the chief wanted me to look over.” Skye crossed her fingers. “You did hear that the police department hired me as their psychological consultant, didn’t you?”

  “Sure I did. Nothing gets past me. I got my ear to the ground and my eye on the prize.” He puffed out his chest and thrust his head forward. “You working the murder?”

  “Yes.” She was working on the case, just not officially—yet. She would be as soon as she talked to Wally. “I was tied up today with some family business, so I didn’t get a chance to discuss things with Officer Quirk. Did he brief you when you came on duty?”

  “Sure. Me and Roy go way back.”

  “And?” Skye asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “It’s a mess. With all the costumes and people running around in the dark, no one has an alibi.”

  Skye couldn’t believe her luck. “Yeah.” McCabe was spilling everything. “That’s a problem. Any idea of a motive for the killing?”

  “Nah.” McCabe gave up on the soda machine and poured himself a cup of coffee instead. “No one seemed to like the vic, but no one seemed to hate her enough to kill her either.” He leaned a skinny hip against the counter. “That’s something you’d probably work on, right?”

  “Right.” Skye wondered if Quirk knew about the battle for the Promfest leadership, not to mention the battle for whose daughter would be crowned prom queen. She doubted he read Kurt Michaels’s gossip column. “Did Roy say whether Evie Harrison was questioned?”

  “Harrison . . . Harrison. I don’t rightly remember, but the name sounds familiar.”

  “Well, concentrate.” Skye stepped closer. “Didn’t you take notes?”

  “Hey.” McCabe’s expression turned suspicious. “If you’re the psychological consultant, why are you asking me? Why don’t you look at the file?”

  Skye backed off. “I wanted to save some time.” Shoot. He was smarter than he looked.