Murder of a Royal Pain

by Denise Swanson

  Speculation about the night’s events ran wild. No one seemed to have heard that the dead woman was Annette Paine, and no one mentioned Evie Harrison’s absence. With some of the haunted-house workers held in the lobby and others kept in the hallway, and with many people leaving as soon as they were allowed to, Skye wasn’t surprised that everyone was still in the dark.

  Because she’d been late, Skye had been forced to park at the very back of the lot, and the asphalt appeared endless as she trudged to the farthest corner. Clouds covered the moon, and the chilled, damp air made her shiver. She pulled her sweater coat more tightly around her, wishing she had worn a heavier jacket. She felt achy and exhausted, but her thoughts kept turning to the dead woman. Who would want to kill Annette Paine? Yes, she could be a royal pain at times, but enough to cause someone to commit murder?

  Abruptly something clicked in her mind, and a terrifying realization washed over her. What if Annette wasn’t the intended victim? The killer could have been after anyone who was supposed to have been dressed as a witch. The murderer could have been after Nina or Hope or . . . Skye gulped, facing the undeniable and horrible fact that she might have been the killer’s target.

  The idea that someone might want to see her dead made Skye stumble, but a hand reached out and steadied her before she fell. Screaming, she pulled loose from the grip and took off running.

  She was digging frantically through her backpack for the car keys when a voice yelled after her, “Skye, wait. Stop. It’s me. Kurt. Kurt Michaels.”

  She turned her head, but kept running until she recognized the man chasing her. She paused with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. She really, really had to get back to swimming in the mornings.

  Kurt caught up with her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

  “What are you doing skulking around a dark parking lot at ten o’clock at night?”

  “Waiting for you.” He offered her an easy smile. “By the way, what happened in there? I heard the call on my scanner, but they didn’t say what was wrong, only that you had requested the police and an ambulance. Then the coroner showed up with the hearse.”

  “I can’t talk about it.” Skye was glad they hadn’t put the murder out over the radio.

  “Sure you can.” Kurt put a hand on her arm and tried to steer her to a black Land Rover parked next to her Bel Air. “Why don’t we go get a drink at the Brown Bag and you can tell me all about it.”

  She shook his hand off again. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  “The whole word.” The corners of his eyes crinkled attractively when he grinned. “It’s not a part of a reporter’s vocabulary.”

  “Have it your way.” Skye found her keys and, after dropping them twice, unlocked her car. “But I’m going home. There’s a hot bath there and a glass of Diet Coke with my name on it.”

  “Your hands are shaking. I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive.” He inserted himself between her and the open car door, blocking her access. “If you don’t want a drink, we could get coffee.”

  “Get out of my way or I’ll Taser you.” Skye reached into her backpack and pulled out her stun gun. “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Kurt held up his hands and backed away. “But I am driving you home.”

  She started to shake her head, but she noticed that his blue eyes had changed to a steely gray, and he no longer looked like the flirtatious, carefree reporter she had come to know. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but he seemed different . . . older. He stood straighter, his shoulders squared, and his features had lost any hint of boyishness.

  He took her silence as refusal and said, “You’re pale, you’re trembling so hard I’m afraid you’ll accidently pull the trigger on that stun gun of yours, and you can barely stand up.”

  “Don’t pretend to be my friend and concerned about me.” He was even more attractive at this moment, and Skye was afraid he’d persuade her to tell him everything that had happened. “You just want a story.”

  “I do want to be your friend.” He gave Skye a long look. “I want a story, too. Surely those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  Skye handed him the keys. “Fine.” The thought of trying to navigate the dark, twisting road between the old American Legion hall and her house was overwhelming. “But I’m not talking to you.” He was right: She wasn’t in any shape to drive.

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  As he started the Chevy, he commented, “I really love this car. I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it. I always wanted a vintage Bel Air.”

  Skye ignored him. He wasn’t getting her to talk that easily.

  “So, do you think A Ghoul’s Night Out will be open tomorrow?”

  She shrugged, praying that the answer was no. She never wanted to step foot in that building again, especially while it was still decorated as a haunted house.

  “It’d be a shame to waste everyone’s work.” Kurt shot her a quick glance.

  “True.”

  “I’ll bet it will be open.” He twisted the wheel to avoid a pothole. “No way will Annette Paine let anything short of a nuclear war stand in her way. Closing down a big moneymaker like this would ruin her. She’d be impeached, and Evie would get to be the Promfest chair.”

  “I doubt Annette will care.” Crap! The words had popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I, uh, I mean that—”

  “Why would Annette all of a sudden stop being obsessed with this fund-raiser?”

  Skye bit her lip.

  “Did something happen to Annette? Was she the one in the body bag?”

  Skye closed her eyes.

  “Don’t try pretending you’re asleep.” Kurt pulled the Bel Air over to the side of the road. “Not after dropping that bombshell.”

  “I can’t tell you.” Skye gritted her teeth. “Now, start this car moving or I’m getting out.”

  “I’m truly not trying to be a jerk about this, but I need to know what happened.”

  “No, you don’t need to know.” Skye unbuckled her seat belt. “You want to know.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “First, the paper doesn’t even come out until Wednesday, and I’m sure the police will make a statement in plenty of time for you to get the story in that edition.” Skye fingered the door handle. She really didn’t think she had the energy to walk home, but she wouldn’t let him bully her into saying anything more.

  “What’s second?” Kurt reached across her and rebuckled her seat belt.

  “Second.” Skye held up two fingers. “Second, freedom of the press does not mean the press gets to trample all over other people’s freedoms.”

  “I agree.”

  “You do?” Skye was so startled she forgot what her third reason had been and instead asked, “Since when do reporters think that any other freedom is as important as the First Amendment?”

  “Not all reporters are blind to the implications of what happens when that freedom is abused.”

  “The ones I’ve met have been.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Skye groaned and rested her pounding head on the back of the seat. “I’ve had a terrible day and I’m really tired.” She wasn’t up to participating in a philosophical discussion. “Won’t you please just drive me home?”

  “Okay.” Kurt sighed and started the car. “But I hope there doesn’t come a time when you’re sorry you refused to tell me what I need to know.”

  “I hope so, too.” There was an expression on his face she couldn’t read. Was he threatening her? His words gave that impression, but his body language seemed to be saying something else.

  Skye could see her driveway ahead when Kurt said, “Look, I promise what you tell me is off the record. Just nod. Is Annette Paine dead?”

  Not sure why she was giving in, Skye nodded.

  “Was she murdered?”

  Skye shrugged—though she was fairly sure
Annette had been murdered. Why else would she be clutching a rope that had clearly been tightly pressed across her neck at one time?

  “Shit!” Kurt pounded the steering wheel.

  Skye nodded again. The whole thing was, indeed, shitty.

  They were both silent as Kurt stopped the Bel Air in front of her house; then Skye said, “Thank you for driving me home. Go ahead and take the Bel Air back to the American Legion. I’ll get someone to give me a ride there to pick it up tomorrow.”

  “What about the keys?”

  “Put them under the floor mat and lock the doors.” Skye got out of the car. “I’ve got another set.”

  “Okay.” His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she muttered to herself as she waved, watching him make a three-point turn, then drive away in a cloud of dust. Kurt Michaels was a dangerous man—smart, attractive, and he had a silver tongue. Any one of those traits could get her in trouble; all three together spelled heartache for some unsuspecting woman. Skye vowed to avoid him in the future.

  The steps leading to her front porch looked like Mount Everest as she started her climb. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and when she reached the top, she took a deep breath. Before she could exhale, she heard the porch swing squeak.

  She whirled around and stared into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

  Running footsteps answered her.

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s a Jungle Out There

  “Ms. D, where have you been?” Frannie Ryan flung herself at Skye. “I’ve been waiting hours and hours for you.”

  Frannie was a little taller than average, and a lot curvier than was fashionable. During Frannie’s years at Scumble River High, Skye had tried to help the size-fourteen adolescent navigate the size-four high school world. When Frannie left for college a month ago, Skye had prayed that the girl’s hard-won confidence wouldn’t be lost.

  “Frannie, you scared the heck out of me.” Skye extracted herself from the teenager’s hug.

  “It’s just that I’m so glad to see you.” Frannie’s brown eyes were shiny with tears that she quickly blinked away; then she said, “And it’s freezing out here.”

  “Yeah, two weeks ago it was in the seventies; then we had a hard freeze Tuesday night and the temperature hasn’t warmed up much since then.” Skye observed that Frannie wore only a T-shirt, jeans, and a fleece hoodie, none of which were warm enough to spend much time outdoors in during an Illinois October. “Wasn’t it cold in Chicago?”

  “Not as bad.” Frannie twisted a glossy brown lock of hair around her finger. “You know the lake effect keeps it warmer there.”

  “Right.” Skye noticed that Frannie had cut and flat-ironed her nearly waist-length waves. Her hair now hung in a straight curtain to the middle of her back. Skye decided to ignore the girl’s change in appearance and ask the more important question. “Are you home for a visit?” Not that that would explain why Frannie was camped out on Skye’s porch so late at night, but she had to start somewhere.

  Her teeth chattering, Frannie stammered, “I-it’s a long story. Can we go inside?”

  “Of course. Let me find my keys.” Skye reached into her backpack and started digging through her possessions before it dawned on her that her house keys were on the same ring as her car keys. “Shoot.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Kurt has them.”

  “Who’s Kurt?” Frannie narrowed her eyes. “If you broke up with the chief, why didn’t you go back to Simon?”

  “We are not having this discussion now. Or ever.” Skye knew that Frannie desperately wanted her and Simon to start seeing each other again. With Frannie’s father working for Simon, and her not having any siblings, she regarded Simon as the big brother she’d never had.

  “But—”

  “No.” Skye silenced the teen with her most quelling teacher look. “We need to figure out how to get inside. Then we can talk.”

  “Don’t you keep a key hidden outside somewhere?”

  Skye shook her head.

  “Who has a spare?” Frannie took a cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and tried to hand it to Skye. “We can call someone.”

  “No, I’m afraid we can’t.” Skye pushed the phone away. Her parents had left that afternoon for their trip to Las Vegas, and no one else had a key.

  “Can you pick the lock?” Frannie was aware of some of Skye’s more unusual talents.

  “Not these. I put in dead bolts to keep someone from doing that very thing.” Skye thought of an alternate solution: Frannie could drive Skye to the American Legion hall, where Skye could unlock the old Chevy with a hanger. “Do you have your dad’s truck?”

  “No. Sorry. A guy from my dorm was going home for the weekend and dropped me off.”

  “Darn.” Skye paced the length of the porch several times, then shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone to call to pick us up and give us a ride to my car. Uncle Charlie will already be in bed, Vince will still be out partying, and Owen would have a fit if I called Trixie this late. I guess we’ll have to break a window.” She led Frannie to the back of the house, took off her sweater coat, and draped it around the teen’s shoulders.

  “This is sure a funny-looking trellis.” Frannie wrapped her hands around one of the wrought-iron rungs. They were covered with dead vines, but still appeared sturdy enough to support a person’s weight.

  “It was designed to act as a fire escape in an emergency,” Skye explained. “During the summer, when the plants are all leafy and green, you can’t tell it’s a ladder.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  Skye looked up at the second-story balcony. The waning crescent moon glinted off the glass panes of the French doors. She removed the flashlight from her backpack and tucked it into her cleavage. It might not be able to provide any illumination, but it was the perfect tool for knocking a hole in a window.

  Putting her foot on the first rung of the trellis-cum-ladder, Skye said to Frannie, “Go back around to the front door. I’ll let you in as soon as I get inside.”

  Once she reached the top, Skye hoisted a leg onto the balcony and took the flashlight from her décolleté. She advanced to the door and put her arm back to swing the makeshift club at the pane, but a faint mewing sound stopped her short. Shoot. She didn’t want Bingo to get cut from flying shards.

  Trying to scare him away, she tapped on the window, but he strolled nonchalantly to where the two doors met. He got on his back paws and stretched his front feet toward the knob. It was a lever-type handle that, if pressed either up or down, disengaged the lock.

  Could she get Bingo to open the door? She grasped the handle to wiggle it, hoping the cat would bat it hard enough to unlock it, and nearly fell as the French door swung open. Had she forgotten to lock it? Another explanation was that Bingo had opened it sometime earlier. Either way, at least she didn’t have to break any glass, but it was time to put dead bolts on those doors.

  Skye pulled a pair of jeans over her tights, then ran down the stairs, tugging a sweatshirt on over her leotard. As soon as Skye pulled open the front door, Frannie burst over the threshold and headed toward the kitchen.

  Skye followed her and watched as she peered into the refrigerator, complaining, “There’s nothing in here to eat.”

  “Sorry. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a while.” Skye held out a couple of cans. “Tomato or chicken soup?”

  Frannie made a face. “Anything else?”

  Skye tried the freezer. “Frozen peas, a mystery casserole, and ice cream.”

  “We got a winner.” Frannie grinned. “I’ll take the ice cream.”

  “I thought you were cold.”

  “It’s never too cold for ice cream.”

  Skye grabbed the container, pried off the lid, and scooped the contents into two bowls, marveling that the manufacturers actually thought a pint of ice cream held four servings. She added spoo
ns and joined Frannie at the table.

  “Phish Food. My favorite,” Frannie said as she dug into the Ben & Jerry’s. Through a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow she asked, “So, who is this Kurt guy? Where were you all night? And why do you look like crap?”

  Not taking offense—Skye was well aware she looked awful—she explained about the reporter, the haunted house, and her role as a witch. She omitted finding Annette dead. Wanting to change the subject, Skye asked, “Why didn’t you and Justin go to the prom or the Promfest last year?” She knew that the teens hadn’t been dating when Frannie was a junior, but they’d been a solid couple by her senior year.

  “Money, mostly.” Frannie dug out a chocolate fish from the ice cream and crunched it between her teeth. “It costs a fortune to go to the prom—at a minimum you need a dress and shoes, and your hair done.”

  Frannie had worked evenings and summers at the bowling alley’s grill since it had opened, and had saved every penny she made for college.

  “I’m sure your father would have been happy to pay for that stuff,” Skye commented.

  “Maybe, but you know Justin’s folks didn’t have the money for a tux, flowers, and a limo,” Frannie pointed out.

  It was only recently that Justin had been able to find work as a bagger at the local supermarket, and his parents didn’t have any extra cash. Justin’s dad was on disability, and his mother was too depressed by her husband’s illness to cope with anything else.

  “But Promfest is free, and a lot of kids who don’t go to the prom go to that. I hear it’s a lot of fun. Why didn’t you two go?” Skye persisted.

  “No Prom Bucks.” Frannie finished her ice cream and put the dish in the sink. “What with his job, his work with the Vietnam vets, and taking care of the house, Dad didn’t have time to volunteer.” She came back to the table. “And can you see either of Justin’s folks doing anything to earn him PBs?”

  “Hmm, that’s a flaw in Promfest that I hadn’t thought about. We need to do something about it.”

  “Right.” Frannie blew out an exasperated puff of air. “Like those ex–prom queens who run Promfest care about kids like us. They’re happy we don’t attend. Leaves more prizes and goodies for their precious offspring. Those bi—uh . . . witches are vicious. You should see the stuff they pull trying to get their sons and daughters elected king and queen.”