Royally Dead

by Greta McKennan

  Kneeling on the floor, I finished pinning on my makeshift pattern and held my breath as I made the first cut. So much of sewing was ripping out and starting over, but it was really hard to change what had already been cut.

  “God and Glory,” I said. “Where do they come up with these titles?”

  Pete straddled an old wooden chair that I’d picked up at a garage sale. Dark shadows smudged below his eyes. A memory shot through me, of Pete lying on the couch in the tenth grade, wiped out by mono. He didn’t look much better now.

  “When did your movie fold?” I demanded.

  “Oh, it was the day after Halloween. Trick or treat!”

  “But it’s June fifth,” I cried.

  Pete cut me off. “Don’t fuss, Daria. I’ve been out of work for seven months, okay? There’s a recession on, in case you hadn’t noticed. But I’ve landed on my feet here in Laurel Springs. Camera operator on God and Glory is good enough for me.” He took a deep breath. “But there is one small detail.” He grinned his crazy, pleading grin at me. “I need a place to stay. You’ve got this huge old house—got a spare room for your big brother?”

  “Hmm.” I pretended to consider him. “Can you provide any references?” It wasn’t necessarily a stupid question. I hadn’t seen him since he left to follow his Hollywood dream six years ago. We’d talked on birthdays and Christmas, but not much more. A lot could change in six years.

  He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in mock supplication. All of a sudden, I knew what was different about his face. His nose was crooked, bent along the bridge up between his eyes. He must have broken his nose in Hollywood—unless someone had broken it for him. It gave him a slightly desperate look that was intensified by the sharpness of his cheekbones. He looked like a panhandler down at Centennial Park.

  As if he’d read my mind, he stretched out his arms. “Come on, Daria, give a guy a break. I don’t want to have to stay with Dad.”

  That did it. “Okay, okay. You can have the third floor bedroom. But be forewarned, you’ll have to deal with the renter from hell.” A thump and a muffled groan came from the room next door. I looked up from my cutting and rolled my eyes. “There she is now.”

  Pete sat cross-legged on the floor. “What’s the big deal?”

  I bent over my fabric again. “Aileen’s the lead singer in a metal band, the Twisted Armpits. They practice in the basement. Loudly.” Slamming noises emanated from the next room. “She’s recovering from a gig at the Hourglass Tavern last night. The band played till two a.m., evidently. She’s just now getting up. Drives me crazy.”

  “So why put up with her?”

  I heaved an overly dramatic sigh, and waved my naked left hand in his face. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but there isn’t anyone else lining up to share the house with me. I’ve got to make ends meet somehow, in the midst of this recession that you so kindly reminded me of.”

  Pete contemplated the fading tan lines on my ring finger. “What happened to what’s-his-name, that lawyer guy you were with?”

  “Good ol’ what’s-his-name. His name was Randall. It was Randall for the past four years.” I took a breath, concentrating on the pattern pieces. It wasn’t Pete’s fault that he couldn’t remember Randall’s name. He’d never even met the guy. With any luck, I’d forget his name too. “But he’s gone.” I didn’t feel like going into specifics at the moment. I didn’t want to admit to Pete that Randall had conned me from start to finish. The hurt was still too raw, too new.

  Pete didn’t press for details. “So you never got to wear that white dress down the aisle, huh?”

  The dress was gorgeous—rich white satin with an off-the-shoulder neckline and tight bodice flowing down to a flaring A-line skirt. I’d spent every evening for two whole months sewing lace and seed pearls on by hand. The dress was tucked away in a garment bag at the back of my closet. “Did you get an invitation? Or did you think I just skipped that part?”

  “Obviously I didn’t think much about it at all,” Pete confessed with a grin. “I figured you’d get married someday, and I’d have to make a speech or something, after spending the night out on the town with your boyfriend.” A teasing note crept into his voice. “At least it won’t be old what’s-his-name. He sounded like a loser—definitely not the guy for my little sister.”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime. You know all those lawyer jokes? They were thinking of Randall when they made them up.”

  Pete’s laugh was drowned out by Aileen’s dramatic entrance. Her door flew open with a crash that rattled the house, shaking my “Home, Sweet Home” cross-stitch right off the wall. She stomped out of her room and stopped in my doorway, glaring at Pete. He stared right back, his mouth dropping open.

  Aileen always had this effect on people. Nearly six feet tall, with spiky black hair streaked with pink and black makeup that never really washed off, she was used to causing a stir. She thrived on attention, soaking it up like a dry plant drinks in water. If people didn’t stare, she’d probably shrivel up and turn into an ordinary person like the rest of us. This morning she wore a black T-shirt with obscenities splashed across the front and a pair of lacy black panties.

  Pete gulped and gave it his best try. “You must be the rock star,” he said.

  “You must be the moron,” Aileen shot back. “I thought the men were going to stay downstairs,” she said to me.

  I pasted on a smile. “Aileen, this is my big brother, Pete. He’s going to move into the third-floor bedroom.”

  “Like hell he is,” Aileen snapped. “I’m gonna get some breakfast.” She stomped off toward the stairs.

  “Charming girl,” Pete said lightly. “Has a real way with people, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, stop. She pays her rent. Like I said, I can’t afford to live here by myself.” I scrambled to my feet and faced my brother. “If you can cover her share, six fifty a month, I’d gladly kick her out.”

  Pete picked up my pincushion and fiddled with the pins and needles. “Uh, yeah, I’m sure we’ll get along great, once she gets to know me.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I crossed my arms and glared at him. “You will chip in for groceries, or you won’t be staying here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll clean the bathroom and take out the trash, and I make a killer lasagna.” He stood up and folded his hands meekly in front of him like a good little boy. “You just say the word.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Come on, let’s give it another try. Maybe some food will have mellowed her a bit.”

  We walked into my high-ceilinged kitchen. Aileen sat at the table, eating powdered sugar donuts straight from the bag.

  I sat down across from her. Pete hovered in the doorway.

  “How was the gig?” I asked.

  “It was awesome,” she mumbled through her mouthful of donut. “Three guys got into it and smashed a couple chairs and dumped a pitcher of beer on the waitress.” Puffs of powdered sugar punctuated each sentence. “You like music?” she shot at Pete.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m a big Springsteen fan.”

  Aileen snorted and stuffed another donut into her mouth.

  “Pete’s just moved back home.” I ran my fingers along the vine pattern stenciled into the table edge. “He’s been in Hollywood for almost six years.”

  She humphed and wiped her sugary hands on her shirt. “Big Hollywood dude, huh? What’d you come back to the boonies for?”

  Pete shrugged. “Guess I didn’t make it in Hollywood. Pennsylvania’s the place to be in the movies right now.”

  “He’s got a job as a camera operator on a movie here, God and Glory,” I said. “It’s about the Civil War.”

  Aileen grinned at me. “You’re gonna get your fill of the Civil War.” She scraped her chair against the floor and stood up as if she owned the place. “Alright, Moron, you can stay. For now.”
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br />   “You can call me Pete. I don’t answer to ‘Moron,’” Pete said mildly.

  Aileen clomped out of the room, waving her long black fingernails behind her. “Whatever.”

  About the Author

  Greta McKennan is a wife, mother, and author, living her dream in the boreal rainforest of Juneau, Alaska. She enjoys a long walk in the woods on that rare sunny day, reading cozy mysteries when it rains, and sewing the Christmas jammies on her antique Singer sewing machine. She is hard at work on a new cozy mystery series set in Alaska. Visit her on the web at gretamckennan.com.

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