Murder of a Royal Pain srm-11 Read online

  Frannie grunted, then exhaled in a long whoosh of air. Her expression clearly stated that she thought Skye was hopelessly out of touch with reality.

  “Really.” Skye tried to convince the girl. “And I could put in a good word for you.”

  Frannie bit her lip. “It’s not only the grades and the friends. . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “I miss it here. I hate the city. I thought I’d love it, but I’m scared all the time. We’ve been told not to even walk to the library by ourselves. Besides, I miss my dad and Justin and you.”

  “Oh. But your scholarship . . .” Skye wasn’t sure how to respond. She wasn’t all that fond of the city either, but she’d lived in one for more than a month before making that judgment. And if Frannie dropped out of Loyola, she’d be giving up a full ride. Could Xavier afford tuition somewhere else? “It’s just that opportunities are never lost; someone will take the ones you miss.”

  Frannie shrugged.

  Skye tried again. “I guess all I’m saying is, you might want to give it a little more time before you make such a big decision.”

  Frannie shrugged again, then said, “Could you just call my dad?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Got to Be There

  It took forever to track down Xavier. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning before he arrived to pick up Frannie, and after two when the father and daughter finally drove off together. Then, before going to bed, Skye made the mistake of checking her answering machine.

  The first message was from Wally, a terse, “There’s still no word on why my father collapsed.” A pause. “You need to check your cell. I keep getting a busy signal. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Shoot! A busy signal? What was wrong with her cell phone?

  The second call was from Vince. His voice sounded funny, but all he said was, “I need to talk to you. I’ll stop by when I get done with work tomorrow.”

  Afterward, Skye lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She took turns picking at the various worries in her life as if they were scabs. First, there was Wally’s father. Was he okay? How would Wally handle it if he wasn’t?

  Next, her thoughts turned to the murder. Was Annette really the target, and would Quirk be able to solve the case? What if the killer had really been after Skye or one of the other witches? Would he try again?

  Then there was Frannie’s decision to quit college. Would she truly drop out? Did she plan to go somewhere else? And if she didn’t, would she end up working dead-end jobs for the rest of her life?

  Last, there was Vince’s mysterious message. What could be wrong with her brother?

  It was nearly dawn before Skye fell asleep, and she didn’t wake up until after one thirty in the afternoon. As she sipped a cup of Earl Grey tea, she turned the radio on to WSRE—the voice of Scumble River. Annette’s mysterious death dominated the local news.

  Shit! She wasn’t surprised the information was out so quickly, but Kurt had better not have been the one to leak the story. Now the murderer knew the identity of his victim. If Annette hadn’t been his intended target, his real quarry was now in danger.

  Skye ate a handful of dry cereal. She really had to go to the grocery store. She’d better call Trixie to see if her friend could give her a ride to the old American Legion hall to pick up her car. But first she needed to talk to Wally.

  While she got dressed, she punched in his number. It immediately went to voice mail, and she left a message for him to get in touch with her as soon as he could.

  Next she dialed Trixie, whose first words were, “Why do I always miss all the excitement?”

  “Yeah. Right.” Skye snorted. “It’s oh, so much fun wandering around a haunted house tripping over dead bodies.”

  Trixie ignored Skye’s statement and peppered her with questions.

  Skye finally managed to say, “Give me a ride to my car, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Once Skye explained why her car was at the American Legion hall, Trixie said, “I’ll be right over.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Skye met Trixie in the driveway, and as she hopped into her friend’s Civic, Trixie demanded, “Spill.”

  “You really had to be there.” Skye buckled her seat belt. “Last night was one of the worst, the longest, and the most bizarre nights of my life.”

  Clearly unsatisfied with Skye’s answer, Trixie said, “That’s the point. I wasn’t there. So tell me already.”

  “I guess it all started when Justin told me about the ghosts.”

  “Oh, my God!” Trixie squealed. “This is even better than I thought.”

  Skye filled her friend in, concluding with, “Anyway, after the police let us go, guess who was waiting in the parking lot for me?”

  “Simon.”

  “No. He had to go with the body. The new reporter in town, Kurt Michaels.”

  “Oh, he’s a hunk. I hope you were nice to him.”

  Skye described their conversation and drive home. “Don’t you think that was odd?”

  “He’s definitely hiding something. Maybe he’s an FBI agent.”

  “Investigating what?” Skye snickered. “Illegal haunted houses?”

  They both laughed.

  Skye finished up with, “Oh, yeah. Frannie was waiting for me on my porch when I got home, and she’s decided to quit college. And to add icing to the cake, there was a mysterious message from Vince on my answering machine. He said he needs to talk to me and is coming by after work.”

  “What do you think that’s about?”

  “My optimistic side hopes he’s going to tell me he and Loretta are getting married.”

  Trixie frowned. “And your pessimistic side?”

  “Hopes that whatever the problem is, it’s something I can fix before Mom and Dad get home from Vegas.”

  Trixie was silent for a moment, then brought the conversation back to the murder. “Do you think Annette was the intended victim, or do you think it was supposed to be one of the three women everyone thought would be dressed as witches?”

  “I don’t know.” Skye shrugged. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill me—other than a crazed parent.”

  “Could one of the parents you’ve worked with be that angry?”

  Skye considered Mrs. Idell and nodded reluctantly. “I guess it’s possible. I’m pretty sure a disgruntled parent slashed my tire.”

  After Skye explained about the note she had found on her car, Trixie said, “We need to find out if anyone had a reason to want either Hope Kennedy or Nina Miles dead.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Skye bit her lip. “I’ll try to find out if Quirk is concentrating on Annette, or if he’s looking into the other witches’ enemies, as well. But he told me to stay out of it—”

  “Men are like horoscopes,” Trixie cut Skye off. “They always tell you what to do and are usually wrong.”

  Skye giggled, then completed her interrupted sentence. “So, I’m not sure how to get that information.”

  “You need to call Simon. With both your mom and Wally gone, he’s your only contact at the police department.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “What if he thinks I’m trying to get back together with him?”

  “Then maybe your reporter friend has dug something up. Call him.”

  “That’s not a good idea either.”

  “Again, why?”

  “Because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea either.” Skye felt her cheeks color, and quickly added, “Besides, he’d probably end up getting more info from me than I would from him.”

  “Then I guess it’s you and me, Sherlock.” Trixie stomped on the brake pedal, threw the little car into reverse, turned it around, and headed in the opposite direction. “Let’s go talk to Nina and Hope.”

  No one was home at Hope Kennedy’s house, so Trixie and Skye drove over to Nina Miles’s. Nina lived in the expensive part of Scumble River, where each of the houses was situated on sever
al acres of land. It was ironic that they all backed up to an old graveyard. The homeowners had fought long and hard to have the bodies moved, but had lost the battle. At the time, Skye had wondered why they had built their houses there to begin with, if they didn’t like living next to a cemetery. It wasn’t as if the tombstones had popped up overnight.

  Trixie parked in the circular driveway, and she and Skye climbed up the steps leading to the impressive double doors. The house had an ultramodern design with lots of angles, and as Skye rang the bell she craned her neck at the window that jutted overhead.

  When Bree answered the door, she asked, “Ms. Frayne, what are you doing here? Did I miss a cheerleading practice?”

  As well as being the school librarian and cosponsor of the student newsletter, Trixie was also the cheerleading coach.

  “No, Bree.” Trixie shook her head. “We need to talk to your mom about something.”

  The girl looked apprehensive. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Skye reassured the teenager. “Is your mom home?”

  “Yes, she’s watching TV.”

  “May we talk to her?” Trixie asked.

  “Sure, come on in.”

  Bree pointed them down a hallway and disappeared. As Skye and Trixie rounded the corner, Skye could see Nina sitting on a couch in the family room.

  Nina tried to gather up the used tissues surrounding her when she spotted Skye and Trixie, saying, “Please excuse the mess; I can’t seem to shake this bug.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Skye waved away the woman’s apology. “We’re sorry to bother you when you’re not feeling well, but we have something important to discuss with you.”

  “Of course, please have a seat.” Nina motioned to the overstuffed chairs facing the sofa.

  Skye wasn’t sure how to start, but Trixie said, “We’re here about Annette Paine’s murder.”

  “Murder?” Nina coughed. “I thought the police didn’t know how she died yet.”

  “From what I saw, I’m pretty sure it was murder.” Skye said.

  “What did you see?” Nina demanded.

  “Sorry, I can’t say,” Skye answered. “But I’m not sure she was the intended victim.”

  “Why?” Nina sneezed and blew her nose.

  “Well, you know she had on your costume?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, whoever killed her could have thought he was killing you, or Hope, or me.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.” Nina frowned.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill you?” Skye asked. “Does someone gain a lot of money if you die, or does anyone hold you responsible for something that happened to them?”

  “No.” Nina shook her head. “I’m a stay-at-home mom. No money of my own. And I can’t believe anyone would hate me that much.”

  The three women were silent until Trixie asked, “Did you know Annette very well?”

  “We hung around in the same circles, but we weren’t friends.” Nina grimaced. “Queen bees don’t have friends, just minions.”

  Skye leaned forward. “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Annette?”

  “Anyone who ever had to be on a committee with her, or deal with her for any reason.” Nina shrugged. “She treated everyone equally badly.”

  After a few more minutes of chitchat, Skye and Trixie excused themselves. It was nearly four o’clock, and Skye needed to retrieve her car and get home before Vince arrived.

  Skye had just pulled into her driveway when Vince’s black Jeep threw up a plume of gravel and skidded to a stop next to her car. Vince was four years older than Skye, but his golden good looks and carefree attitude usually made him seem like the younger sibling. However, today every one of his thirty-eight years showed on his face. His butterscotch blond hair was matted as if it hadn’t been combed since the previous day, and his emerald green eyes were bloodshot.

  Skye got out of the Bel Air and walked over to Vince as he exited his vehicle. She pulled him down to kiss his unshaved cheek—he was a good six inches taller than her five-foot-seven height. “That must have been quite a party last night,” she teased.

  “No party.”

  Skye’s stomach clenched. What in the world was wrong with Vince, the ultimate good-time guy? “Did your band have a gig?” By day Vince owned and operated Great Expectations hair salon; by night he was the drummer for a popular local rock group.

  He shook his head. “We haven’t been taking as many bookings lately.”

  “Why?” Skye tugged her brother up the front steps, through the door, and into her kitchen.

  “The guys are all getting older. They want to spend more time with their wives and girlfriends.”

  “Oh.” Skye was shocked. She’d gotten to know the members of Vince’s band pretty well a while back, when their lead singer had been murdered, and they had not struck her as stay-at-home family men. “Uh, so, you want something to drink?”

  Like Skye, Vince was not much of a drinker, but today he rummaged under her sink and grabbed a bottle of tequila that had been left over from a party last fall. “Got any lime?”

  Skye nodded. She liked lime with her Diet Coke, and still had a couple in the crisper drawer, although they were past their prime. As she sliced one, Vince got down a pair of shot glasses from the cupboard over the stove, blew the dust out of them, and sat at the table.

  Skye joined him, putting the bowl of lime quarters in front of him. He poured the liquor into the glasses and pushed one over to Skye. Vince squeezed lime juice onto the side of his hand, added salt from the shaker on the table, and licked, then downed the entire contents of the shot glass in one gulp.

  Skye tried to frame the right question, but Vince broke the silence first, saying in a raw, hurt voice, “Loretta dumped me last night.”

  “What?” It was the last thing Skye had expected to hear. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Vince had been the dumper, but her handsome brother was rarely, if ever, the dumpee.

  “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?”