Murder of a Royal Pain srm-11 Read online

  Murder of a Royal Pain

  ( Scumble River Mystery - 11 )

  Denise Swanson

  When school psychologist Skye Denison stumbles over the body of pushy “Promfest” chairperson Annette Paine during a Halloween fundraiser, it looks like a clear-cut case of promicide. Annette was not the only prom mom desperate to see her daughter crowned queen. But she was also wearing the same witch costume as Skye, so which witch was the intended victim?

  “When writers as sharp as Margaret Maron, Earlene Fowler, and Jerrilyn Farmer all rave about a colleague as convincingly as they have about Denise Swanson . . . take notice."

  —Chicago Tribune

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

  “Denise Swanson neatly seasons the cleverly crafted plot . . . with a generous dash of romance as Skye’s relationship with Scumble River’s police chief, Wally Boyd, continues to simmer neatly along.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “The Scumble River mysteries are great fun. . . . Denise Swanson makes humorous writing appear effortless.”

  —Mystery News

  “Top-notch storytelling with truly unique and wonderful characters.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  “[A] hilarious mystery.”

  —The Pilot (North Carolina)

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

  “With its endearing hero, terrific cast of realistically quirky secondary characters, and generous soupçon of humor, Murder of a Botoxed Blonde . . . is a delight.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Tight plotting and plenty of surprises keep this series on my must-read list.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  “This fast-paced cozy has it all.”

  —Romantic Times

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy

  “Swanson is a born storyteller.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  “Another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.”

  —The Amplifier (KY)

  “It’s no mystery why the first Scumble River novel was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award. Denise Swanson knows small-town America, and she writes as if she might have been hiding behind a tree when some of the bodies were being buried. A delightful new series.”

  —Margaret Maron

  Murder of a Smart Cookie

  “[Swanson] smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “[A] hilarious amateur sleuth mystery. . . . [Swanson] has a lot of surprises in store for the reader.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Murder of a Pink Elephant

  “The must-read book of the summer.”

  —Butler County Post (KY)

  “One of my favorite series. I look forward to all my visits to Scumble River.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken

  “Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life . . . a solid plot [and] likable characters who never slide into caricature.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River . . . filled with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met, with a sharp, witty protagonist.”

  —Butler County Post (KY)

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass

  “An endearing and realistic character . . . a fast-paced, enjoyable read.”

  —The Herald News

  “This book is delightful. . . . The characters are human and generous and worth following through the series.”

  —Mysterious Women

  “Swanson’s Scumble River mysteries are marvelous.”

  —Jerrilyn Farmer

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

  “A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Another delightful and intriguing escapade.”

  —Mystery News

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  “More fun than the whirligig at the county fair and tastier than a corn dog.”

  —The Charlotte Austin Review

  “Swanson is on her way to the top of the genre . . . a magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  “Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”

  —Earlene Fowler, Edgar® Award–winning author

  “A lighthearted, entertaining mystery.”

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “A likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge. . . . A fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”

  —The Charlotte Austin Review

  “A charming, insightful debut.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  Other Scumble River Mysteries

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy

  Murder of a Smart Cookie

  Murder of a Pink Elephant

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2009

  All rights reserved

  In memory of Caroline Babcock

  an inspiration to us all.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Paula Washow for the dentist idea—sorry I couldn’t use your great title suggestion—and to Lois Hirt, who has been encouraging me to use a dentist office scene for years. Which brings me to my own dentist, Dr. Dan Streitz, who is nothing like Dr. Paine—except, of course, for the good characteristics. Mandy Korst—thanks for sharing your crazy prom adventure with me. And a special thanks to Luci Hansson Zahray, aka the Poison Lady. Hugs to my new niece, Rachel Dosier.

  Author’s Note

  In July of 2000, when the first book, Murder of a Small-Town Honey, was published in my Scumble River series, it was written in “real time.” It was the year 2000 in Skye’s life as well as mine, but after several books in a series, time becomes a problem. It takes me from seven months to a year to write a book, and then it is usually another year from the time I turn that book in to my editor until the reader sees it on a bookstore shelf. This can make the time line confusing. Different authors handle this matter in different ways. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided that Skye and her friends and family will age more slowly than those of us who don’t live in Scumble River. While I made this decision as I wrote the fourth book in the series, Murder of a Snake in the Grass, I didn’t realize until recently that I needed to share this information with my readers. So, to catch everyone up, the following is when the books take place.

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey—August 2000

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady—March 2001

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty—April 2002

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass—August 2002

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken—November 2002

  Murder of a Pink Elephant—February 2003

  Murder of a Smart Cookie—June 2003

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy—September 2003

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde—November 2003

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry—April 2004

  Murder of a Royal Pain—October 2004

  The Scumble River short story and novella take place:

  “Not a Monster of a Chance” June 2001

  “Dead Blondes Tel
l No Tales” March 2003

  Scumble River is not a real town. The characters

  and events portrayed in these pages are entirely

  fictional, and any resemblance to living

  persons is pure coincidence.

  CHAPTER 1

  Let the Good Times Roll

  On Mondays, school psychologist Skye Denison liked to play a game called Name That Disaster as she made the ten-minute drive to work. It entailed guessing which calamity, catastrophe, or cataclysm would be waiting for her when she arrived.

  Skye’s assignment included the elementary, junior high, and high schools in Scumble River, Illinois. This meant the crises could vary from a little boy who misunderstood his mother’s instructions to stick it out, to a thirteen-year-old methamphetamine user who thought he was Superman trying to fly from the roof of the junior high, to a cheerleader holding her own private sex party for the winning basketball team . . . or any little messes in between.

  It was assumed Skye would automatically take on any duty that even bordered the realm of special education. In addition, her job description was vague enough to allow the principals to assign her any task they didn’t wish to perform—up to and including picking up their dry cleaning, although, to be fair, none of them had tried that yet.

  One of the chores Homer Knapik, the high school principal, had recently handed over to Skye was to be faculty liaison to the Promfest committee. Promfest was an event designed to discourage the junior and senior classes and their dates from getting drunk, crashing their cars, and making babies after the prom.

  Homer had assured Skye that it was an easy assignment: Just attend a few meetings and help put up some crepe paper. But as she approached the high school cafeteria, where the first gathering of the Promfest committee was being held, she could hear the raised voices through the closed doors, and she knew the principal had lied to her—again.

  Skye crept into the cavernous space, willing herself to become invisible, which was a stretch, considering her generous curves, long, curly chestnut hair, and dramatic emerald green eyes. Her back against the rear wall, she surveyed the crowd.

  The room was filled almost entirely with women in their late thirties and early forties. An occasional male also occupied the picnic-style tables arranged in rows facing the stainless-steel serving counter, but the men gave the impression they were ready to make a run for freedom at any moment.

  Skye noticed one guy sitting by himself, and took a seat at his table. He was the only man in the room who didn’t look as if he wished he were somewhere else. Instead, his expression veered between amusement and disbelief as he scribbled furiously in a small notebook.

  Skye smiled at him and asked, “Who are they?” gesturing to the front of the room, where two attractive women stood nose-to-nose yelling at each other.

  “The one with the black hair is Annette Paine, and the blonde is Evie Harrison. They both think they’re this year’s Promfest chairwoman.”

  “And they want to be?” Skye couldn’t imagine why anyone would actively seek that position. “Why?”

  “Lots of power and a good way to strengthen their daughters’ chances of being elected prom queen.” He gave Skye a sidelong glance. “Both of them are former queens themselves—Evie in 1983, and Annette in 1982.”

  “Oh. I heard they were campaigning for their daughters, but didn’t realize Promfest was a part of the battle.” Skye cringed. “This is going to get ugly.”

  “Already has.”

  Abruptly the shouting increased in volume, and Skye’s attention was drawn back to the front of the room. Several women had left their seats. About half were crowded behind Annette, and the remaining faction stood behind Evie. It was beginning to look a lot like a scene from West Side Story. Skye wondered which were Sharks and which were Jets.

  “I don’t know where you got the impression that you were chairing this committee.” Annette poked Evie in the shoulder with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

  “I got the impression from the election last year.” Evie bristled. “You remember the election, don’t you?”

  Annette smoothed a strand of hair back into her chignon. “That vote was invalid. We didn’t have a quorum. The legitimate election took place the next week.” Her icy blue gaze lasered into the brown eyes of her rival. “As I recall, you claimed you couldn’t make it because you had to visit your parents in Florida.”

  “You deliberately held that meeting while I was gone.” Evie stamped her Etienne Aigner–shod foot on the worn gray linoleum. “A meeting you had no right to call.”

  “As the assistant chair of the prior year’s committee, I was certainly within my rights to call a meeting.” Annette flicked a piece of lint from her Yves Saint Laurent cashmere cardigan.

  “That committee had already been disbanded.” Evie’s voice climbed into that high, squeaky pitch that only other women and dogs can hear. “You had no authority whatsoever.”

  “You’re questioning my authority?” Annette seemed to be struggling for breath, and one of her lackeys handed her an inhaler. Impatiently she took a quick puff, then said to Evie, “I wouldn’t go down that road if I were you.” When Evie’s silence lengthened, Annette prodded: “What? Are you lost in thought?” She arched a flawlessly plucked brow and mocked, “I imagine that’s pretty unfamiliar territory for you.”

  Evie lunged at her rival, hands wrapping around Annette’s throat. Annette grabbed two handfuls of Evie’s hair and pulled. Before Skye could react, the two women’s supporters had dragged them apart.

  Both groups stood panting and glaring at one another until a voice from one of the tables rang out: “Let’s just take another vote and get on with it. Some of us have lives.”

  The women who were still seated clearly didn’t care who the chair was and murmured their agreement, but the ones standing protested.

  Skye looked at her watch and blew out an impatient breath. Much as she hated to get involved, she would have to become an active participant and hurry the committee along. If she didn’t get out of here by the end of first hour, her whole morning’s schedule would be messed up. She was supposed to be starting Brady Russell’s three-year reevaluation.

  Students who received special education services were required by law to be tested by the school psychologist triennially. These reevals made up the bulk of her duties, and if she fell behind, she would have to cut her counseling and consultation hours—the part of her job she most enjoyed.

  She required at least ninety minutes without interruption to give Brady the intelligence test. She would have to find another couple of hours to administer the academic and processing assessments on another day, not to mention time to do the classroom observation, teacher interviews, write the report, and attend the multidisciplinary meeting. Some school districts had gone to abbreviated reevals, but not Scumble River.

  With the clock ticking away precious minutes, Skye stood, ready to make an impassioned plea along the lines of “Can’t we all just get along?” when Annette leaned toward Evie and whispered furiously in the blonde’s ear. Evie narrowed her eyes, jerked her chin for Annette to follow her, and moved away from the others.

  Skye moved closer to the man next to her and lowered her voice. “Aside from Evie and Annette wanting their daughters elected prom queen, I can’t imagine why being in charge of putting up a few streamers, hiring a deejay, and setting out some chips and punch is such a big deal.”

  “Where have you been? From what I’ve heard this morning, maybe that was true when Promfest was originally conceived, but each year the parents try to outdo what was done before. Nowadays they take over half the school, set up inflatable adult-size ball pits and crawling tubes, hire magicians and hypnotists, and give away door prizes that range from dorm-size refrigerators to flat-screen TVs.”

  “You’re kidding!” Shoot! She had heard rumblings from the students that Promfest had become more elaborate, but she hadn’t taken too much notice, since most of the kids she worked
with had more serious problems than what to do after the prom—not that many of them even attended the dance.

  “Not at all.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “There’re also the party favors, which last year consisted of a full-size wheeled suitcase filled with DVDs, popcorn, chocolates, et cetera.”

  “Holy smokes.” Skye was stunned. Note to self: Pay more attention to what’s going on in the whole school, not just the part concerning the kids I work with.

  “Think a teenage Chuck E. Cheese party on steroids,” he added.

  While Skye was attempting to come to terms with that image, a loud gasp drew her gaze to where Annette and Evie stood off to the side.

  As Skye watched, the blonde shot Annette a look of pure loathing, walked back to the center of the room, and announced, “For the good of the Promfest and the sake of our children’s special night, I concede the chair to Annette Paine.”

  Skye sat back down and stared speculatively at Evie, then raised an eyebrow at the man next to her. “What in the world could Annette have said to make her give up a position that was obviously important to her?”

  “Got me.” He tapped his pen on his notebook. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Oh?” It wasn’t often that Skye met someone who was even nosier than she was. “Why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Really?” Skye studied him for a moment. He was in his mid-thirties and devilishly handsome. “What do you do?”