Murder of a Royal Pain

by Denise Swanson

  “Where’s the gall-darn fire?” He took a sip of coffee. “The body’s not going nowhere.”

  Skye’s voice was knife-edged. “Even you must know that the more time goes by, the less likely the case is to be solved.”

  “Don’t be lecturing me, missy.” McCabe took off his hat and hit the side of his leg with it. “I’m a professional peace officer.”

  “It sure doesn’t look that way.” Skye shook her head. “Maybe if the chief knew that you are unaware that time is of the essence in a murder investigation, you would no longer be working for the Scumble River PD. Heck, maybe the new sheriff might be interested as well.”

  McCabe’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a rowboat on Lake Michigan. “Now, Skye, you wouldn’t tell him that, would you?” His tone had swung from pompous to pleading.

  “Well . . .” Skye realized she had the deputy over a barrel. “No, not if you can remember what you heard about Evie Harrison.”

  “Right. No need to bother the chief . . . or the sheriff.” McCabe backed toward the exit. “I’m sure when you and Wally are together, you have better things to do than talk about me.”

  Skye raised an eyebrow, but let that comment pass. “So, then, what’s the scoop on Evie?”

  “They found her in her car.” McCabe put his hand on the doorknob. “She was drunker than a skunk and says she doesn’t remember anything after putting on her costume and taking her position at the haunted house.”

  “Did they give her a Breathalyzer or test her blood?”

  “She wouldn’t blow into the Breathalyzer.” McCabe opened the door. “And the law says we can’t force her. If she was operating a moving vehicle, she could lose her license for refusing, but since she wasn’t, there was nothing we could do. You need a court order for a blood test.”

  “Does Quirk believe her?”

  McCabe nodded.

  “Okay, one more question.”

  McCabe froze. “What?”

  “Is Quirk considering the fact that Annette Paine might not have been the intended victim?”

  “Nope.” McCabe had nearly disappeared into the garage; only his pointy nose was still in the coffee room.

  “So Quirk is sure the murderer meant to kill Annette?” Skye probed.

  “She’s the vic, and it’s her murder he’s investigating.” McCabe slammed the door, after muttering, “I can’t spend all night here jawing with you. I gotta get back on the road.”

  A few seconds later Skye heard the squad car’s engine roar to life and its tires squeal as McCabe tore out of the garage. Lost in thought, Skye walked over to the soda machine and whacked it above the coin return with the heel of her hand. A can of Jolt fell into the dispenser. She scooped out the high-voltage cola, popped the top, and took a long swallow. She felt an instant caffeine surge, and her nervous system went on red alert, but she shrugged. What the heck, she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway.

  If Quirk is only concentrating on investigating people who might want to kill Annette, and she wasn’t the intended victim, there’s a one-in-three chance that the next dead body to turn up might be mine.

  CHAPTER 14

  Stand by Me

  “Hello?” Skye squinted at the clock radio. It was six a.m. She’d been asleep for only three hours, having, as she predicted, tossed and turned for most of the night. Who could be calling her at this ungodly hour? Shoot! She should have let the machine pick up. What if her mother had decided to nag her long-distance?

  “Hi, sugar. Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to make sure to catch you at home.” Wally’s silky voice smoothed over her like expensive body lotion. “I got your messages too late to call you back yesterday. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m glad you called. I miss you.” Skye ignored Wally’s question. She’d tell him all about the murder and the rumors in a minute, but first she wanted to shake off her sleep-deprived fog and focus. “How’s your dad?”

  “He seems to be doing fine,” Wally answered. “In fact, he’s trying to talk the doctors into letting him out of the hospital.”

  “It’s wonderful that he’s feeling that much better. Does that mean you’re coming home soon?”

  “I’m not sure. I wish I were, but things are still up in the air here. Dad wants me to stay. And the doctors can’t figure out why he collapsed in the first place.”

  “Oh.” Skye was surprised by the depth of her disappointment. “Could it have been exhaustion? Your father struck me as someone who would work twenty-four/seven if he could.”

  “That’s one of the things they’re considering, but they want to run more tests. At this point, it’s a process of elimination.”

  “Well, it’s good that they’re being thorough.” Skye adjusted the pillows behind her back so she could sit up more comfortably. “That way when they say he’s all right, you’ll know they’re sure and you won’t have to worry that they missed something.”

  “Right.” Wally’s voice was oddly gentle. “How did you make out with the haunted house? Did you overcome your fear or has it been as terrible as you expected?”

  “Haven’t you talked to Roy?”

  “No. He’s next on my list.” Wally sounded concerned. “What happened? Did some of the kids get out of hand?”

  “I wish.” Skye blew out a long breath. “Annette Paine was murdered.”

  “What!” Wally bellowed. “Son of a B. Why didn’t Quirk call me?”

  Should she tell Wally her theory behind Quirk’s silence? No. She didn’t want to sound whiny. “He probably didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Why do I think that’s not his entire motive?” Wally asked. “So, tell me, from the beginning, what’s happened in the thirty-six hours I’ve been gone.”

  Skye launched into a detailed explanation, ending with, “I talked to Otto McCabe last night, and—”

  Wally broke in, “Don’t tell me Quirk called in McCabe to work.”

  “Oops.” Skye hadn’t realized that McCabe was on Wally’s “Do Not Call” list. Now when Wally talked to Quirk, it would seem as if Skye were a tattletale. “Uh, could you pretend you don’t know that? I don’t think Quirk likes me too much to begin with, and his thinking I’ve been snitching to his boss isn’t going to help matters.” Skye bit her lip. “In fact, you need to pretend you haven’t heard about the murder.”

  “No.” Wally’s voice was firm. “We’re not playing that game. If Quirk has an issue with you, we’ll deal with it. He needs to understand I hired you as the psych consultant because of your skill as an investigator, not because of your skill in bed—although that’s outstanding, too.”

  “Wally!” Skye felt her cheeks flush.

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” he said with a trace of laughter, then turned serious. “But back to my point. If Quirk resents you, the three of us will take care of that when I get back, but that doesn’t give him the right to try to make an end run around either of us.”

  Skye was silent, not sure what to say. Although she was thrilled by Wally’s fierce loyalty, she didn’t want to be the reason he and his best officer argued.

  Wally seemed to read her mind. “Whatever happens, none of it is your fault.”

  “Thank you.” Skye snuggled under her blanket, pretending it was Wally who was keeping her warm. “My Catholic guilt gets out of hand once in a while.”

  “Once in a while?” Wally chuckled. “Anyway, what were you saying about McCabe?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Skye gathered her thoughts. “As I mentioned, Annette was dressed as one of the trio of witches, though she was supposed to be the Bride of Frankenstein. So I think it’s reasonable to question whether she was the intended victim or not, but McCabe claims that Quirk isn’t looking in that direction.”

  “Hmm.” Wally paused. “You said that once everyone was in costume, all three of the witches looked exactly alike?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wear masks?”

  “No, but the makeup includes a fake nose and chin,” Skye ex
plained. “The resemblance is so uncanny, I don’t think our own mothers could tell us apart. Which is why I was so freaked out when I found the body. For a nanosecond I thought I was looking into a mirror.”

  “Shoot. That must have been downright creepy.” Wally’s voice held a hint of a Texas twang. “I sure wish I could be there with you, sugar.”

  “Me, too.” Skye felt slightly alarmed. She had never heard any trace of a Texas accent in Wally’s voice before. She hoped he wasn’t getting too used to being back in his home state.

  “Unless there’s something you don’t know—which could be the case, since it doesn’t sound as if Quirk is sharing information with you—Roy may very well be going down the wrong road.”

  “Yes. And it could be a detour that gets someone else killed—maybe me.” Skye’s voice quavered.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want you dead? How about that parent? The one you think left you the note and slashed your tire?”

  “I guess. But she’d have to be really crazy, because I don’t have that kind of power—the principal or superintendent can overrule any of my recommendations.”

  “Then if it’s not Annette, it’s probably one of the other two women,” Wally soothed. “But when I talk to Quirk, I’ll mention that you received a threatening note a couple of weeks ago.” Wally’s tone became authoritative. “He will look into the other possible victims. And he will include you in the investigation.”

  “That would be wonderful.” Skye hoped Wally was able to control Quirk even thousands of miles away, but she had her doubts. “It would be a relief to know he was at least bearing in mind other possibilities.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Great.” She was sure it wouldn’t be as easy as that, but she changed the subject. “Are you spending all your time at the hospital?”

  “Pretty much,” Wally grumbled. “It’s so frustrating trying to get answers. The doctors say Dad seems fit as a fiddle. All the tests so far have come back negative, and they’re running out of stuff to do.”

  Out of the blue, a thought popped into Skye’s mind. Could Carson Boyd have faked his collapse? When she had met him last spring, he had been determined to get Wally to go back to Texas and take over the family business, even if it meant deceiving his own son. Could his illness be part of a scheme to lure Wally home? But what would that accomplish? She pushed the thought aside and said, “I’m sure your father appreciates your being there.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Last March you mentioned that your cousin is your dad’s second in command at CB International. Did you two grow up together? Are you close?”

  “He’s ten years younger than I am, so not really,” Wally answered without elaborating, then asked, “Any other excitement in town since I’ve been gone?”

  “Frannie is quitting college, and Loretta dumped Vince.”

  “So, a typical Scumble River weekend.”

  “Very funny.” Skye rolled her eyes. “You should do stand-up.”

  Wally sniggered. “Maybe I’ll give it a try sometime.”

  “Sure. Next time the Brown Bag has open-mike night, right?”

  “Right.” Wally took a deep breath. “Guess I’d better let you go so you can get ready for church.”

  “Yep. It’s about that time.” It was already seven. If she was going to get a seat at the eight-o’clock Mass, she did need to get going, but she didn’t want to hang up. “Call me tonight?”

  “Definitely. Around ten?”

  “Perfect.”

  There was a pause, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle. “Be careful. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

  “I will.” Skye hung up slowly, hating to break their connection. Once the receiver went dead she whispered, “You be careful, too. I have a bad feeling your father is getting ready to rope and tie you like a calf at a rodeo.”

  Skye kept the feeling of warmth and caring she had gotten from her conversation with Wally wrapped around herself as she showered and dressed for church, but as soon as she arrived it evaporated.

  She usually managed to nab a seat in the back, preferring to be one of the observers rather than one of the observed, but in order to do that she had to get there at least twenty minutes early. Wally’s call had put her behind schedule, which meant she had to walk the entire length of the aisle to the very front. She could feel the congregation’s eyes following her every step, like a herd of hungry cows watching the bale of hay being put in their feed trough.

  In Scumble River, people attended church for different reasons—some to worship God, others to exchange the latest gossip. Skye was sure the latter group’s focus today was the haunted-house murder.

  Her relief at sliding into a pew was short-lived when she saw that her seatmates were Dylan Paine and his daughter, Linnea. Skye leaned toward them and whispered how sorry she was for their loss. Dr. Paine nodded, keeping his expression neutral, but Linnea burst into tears. Skye patted the girl’s hand and made comforting sounds. As they stood for the processional, Dr. Paine put his arm around his daughter and handed her a handkerchief. Skye was reminded that Annette may have been an annoyance to some people, but her daughter was certainly grieving for her.

  As always, Mass was both soothing and uplifting, and Skye felt herself unwind. Father Burns achieved a perfect balance between demonstrating concern for Annette and her family, and exuding confidence that good would triumph over evil.

  Clearly he knew of his flock’s tendency to spread stories, because he ended the service with a gentle admonishment: “Let us all pray; Lord, please keep your arm around my shoulder to keep me safe, and your hand over my mouth to keep me compassionate.”

  As the recessional played and Skye made her way down the aisle, she noticed that Dr. Paine and his daughter were stopped time after time, by people shaking his hand and hugging Linnea.

  Sadly, Father Burns’s reprimand had little effect. Once Annette’s family departed, the rumor mill revved up, and Skye overheard several groups of people at the rear of the church swapping theories about the murder.

  They were all so busy getting their own opinions across, no one seemed to notice Skye, and she was able to slip behind them. She hoped that they might give her a lead, so she pretended to read the bulletin board on the back wall. Using only her peripheral vision, she kept her face averted, but her ears tuned in to what was being said.

  A man dressed in a shiny polyester suit and cowboy boots stated, “Junior told me that the haunted house was black as the inside of a bull, and no one was where they were supposed to be, so anyone could’ve killed her.”

  A grandmotherly-looking woman sighed. “But who would want to kill a pretty girl like that?”

  Girl? Skye rolled her eyes. Annette hadn’t been a girl since Ronald Reagan was president.

  The woman standing next to the polyester cowboy patted her hair, which was teased and sprayed into the shape of a helmet. “Pretty is as pretty does,” she interjected. “Annette liked to get her own way and could be real nasty if things weren’t going how she wanted them to.”

  “I think it’s terrorists,” the man in the boots replied. “Wally should call in Homeland Security. Those Moose-limbs hate American women.”

  Skye blinked. It sounded as if he thought Bullwinkle, armed with a tree branch, had killed Annette.

  Helmet Hair poked him in the side with her elbow. “You think everything is terrorists, Burt. Every time the chickens don’t lay as many eggs as you figure they should, you want to call the FBI.”

  “Thelma’s right, Burt.” A man with slicked-back hair and a mean mouth said. “Why would terrorists kill an over-the-hill prom queen?”

  “Yeah.” Thelma stuck out her chin. “Besides, everyone knows it was her husband.”

  “What in tarnation are you talking about? Why would Dr. Paine kill his wife?” Burt shot Thelma a dirty look. “Did she disagree with everything he said and try to make him look like a fool?”

  �
��Because Annette caught him messing around. I heard she threatened to divorce him and take half of everything,” Thelma answered with a malicious look in her porcine eyes. “And while he may want to trade his forty-year-old wife for two twenties, he doesn’t want to trade his fancy lifestyle for the one he’d get after she took him to the cleaner’s.”

  “That would do it.” The grandmotherly woman nodded. “Guys like that want their first wives to just disappear. They act like she had nothing to do with their success, and they don’t care if their kids have to eat cereal three meals a day, as long as the men don’t have to skip a golf game or give up their plasma TVs.”

  Burt protested: “If Dr. Paine is such a sleaze, how come everyone keeps him as their dentist?”

  “It’s like that joke: What do you call a male slut?” Thelma paused, then said, “A man.” She cackled at her own witticism. “If he was a woman and behaved that way, no one would go to him, but a man can screw his brains out and no one cares.” She shrugged. “Besides, he’s a great dentist.”

  Voices rose as everyone in the group offered an opinion and Skye slunk away. The info about Dr. Paine had been enlightening, but she was fairly sure she had heard everything these four had to say. Maybe some other group would have more information she could use.

  Skye walked down the steps and out the double doors. Another knot of people had gathered on the front lawn. She stopped near them, half-hidden by a large evergreen, and pretended to use her cell phone.

  The three thirty-something women were talking about Evie Harrison, and Skye’s ears perked up. The leader of the trio was Andrea Pantaleone, a tall, lean brunette whom Skye had met a year and a half ago during the Route 66 hundred-mile yard sale. Andrea had been the health inspector assigned to the event, and Skye had found her both observant and intelligent. It would be interesting to hear what she had to say.

  “It’s a shame about Annette Paine.” Andrea shook her head. “I didn’t like her, but I hate to see anyone that young die.”

  The other two women nodded.

  “I don’t know why everyone is acting so surprised to hear that Evie drinks.” Andrea folded her arms. “She’s done it since high school.”