Murder of a Royal Pain (15 page)

“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?”

“
W
hat?” 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?”

“Search me.” Vince twitched his shoulders. “But Masie, the waitress at the diner out on the interstate—you know, the place with the homemade pies—blabbed to Hilda this morning while they were both waiting for their prescriptions to be filled at Bate’s Pharmacy that late last night when she was coming home from work, she saw
you
parked on the side of the road with that new reporter from the
Star
.”

“It wasn’t that late,” Skye protested. “After the police let us all go, he drove me home. He stopped the car to ask me a few questions, hoping to get a story for the paper. We were there all of two minutes. Nothing happened.”

“Hey.” Vince put his hands up. “I believe you. I’m only warning you what’s going around town.”

“Thank God Mom is in Vegas.”

“Like no one called her.” Vince grinned. “You can be sure one of her friends—Hester or Maggie or Aunt Kitty, or maybe all three—has let her know about it by now.”

If that were true, Skye could only hope May was on a winning streak at the slot mchines, or her mother would be on the next flight home. In any case, she vowed to screen her calls. She was not talking to her mother until Wally was back home and the rumors had died down.

“You haven’t heard the best part yet.” Vince’s good humor appeared to have returned.

Skye cringed. Nothing like seeing his sister in trouble to cheer up her brother. “What?”

“Miss Letitia said that while she was at the podiatrist’s office this morning to get her toenails trimmed—she has that awful fungus—Priscilla Van Horn, who was there for her bunions, told Miss Letitia that Wally was seeing Annette Paine on the sly. Priscilla said she heard that Annette told you about the affair and you threatened to leave Wally. So Wally killed Annette for ruining his life. Then he left town to avoid being arrested, and you were so distraught that you spent the night with Kurt Michaels.”

“Good Lord! These women should be writing for the tabloids.”

“Yeah. But you did dump Simon, and before the sofa cushion had cooled off, you took up with Wally.”

“Shit! Shit!
Shit!
” Skye closed her eyes. Just when you thought there was nothing else in your life that could crash and burn, the ashes of your previous disasters caught fire and burst into flame.

“Yes. You are in deep doo-doo.”

“This is so unfair,” Skye whined. “How many women have you inked in, then a few weeks later crossed out of your little black book? And no one talks about you like this.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault there’s a different set of rules for men and women in small towns like Scumble River.” Vince shrugged. “Get over it. You need to do something about these rumors ASAP.”

“What am I supposed to do? Hold a press conference?”

“Not altogether a bad idea.” Vince snickered, then turned serious. “You know, you could talk to some of the media about the murder and get out your side of the story.”

“No.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “People who get in bed with the media usually get screwed.”

“But you need to nip the rumors in the bud before Mom and Dad get home.”

“I agree completely. But there has to be a better way to do it than trying to manipulate the press.” Skye thought a moment, then asked, “Who’s the reigning queen of gossip with Mom gone?”

A second later they both said, “Aunt Minnie.”

Skye asked, “Do you have any plans for supper?”

Vince shook his head, taking her non sequitur in stride.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” Vince made a pitiful face. “With Mom out of town, there’s no one to bring me lunch.”

Skye bit her tongue. This wasn’t the time to remind him that a thirty-eight-year-old man should be able to make a sandwich, stick it in a brown paper bag, and bring it with him to work.

“Okay, then here’s the plan.” Skye got up. “We’ll go get something to eat at the Feed Bag—I’m driving, since you’ve had so much to drink. Afterward we’ll drop by Aunt Minnie’s and give her the real scoop.”

“Which means two minutes after we leave her house, all of Scumble River will know.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you going to let her in on why Wally’s out of town?” Vince asked.

“I probably shouldn’t if he told Quirk not to tell.”

“Wouldn’t he be more concerned about stopping all the talk than keeping his privacy?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And I’m sure he had no idea that by keeping his destination and reason for leaving a secret, he was, in fact, fueling the gossip he was trying to avoid.” Skye bit her lip. “Still, maybe I’d better check with Wally before I visit Aunt Minnie.”

“That sounds like the smart thing to do.” Vince eyed her thoughtfully. “Can you call him?”

“I’ll try his cell again, but I already left him a message to call me ASAP, and if he’s in the hospital he probably has his phone switched off.”

“He’s in the hospital?” Vince sounded shocked.

“It’s a long story, and you can’t tell anyone, but . . .” Skye filled Vince in on her Friday, starting with Wally’s call.

“Is the Promfest committee still putting on the haunted house?” Vince asked when she finished.

“Not this weekend. There was a message on my answering machine from Evie Harrison when I got up this morning. The police haven’t released the scene yet, but they told the committee that A Ghoul’s Night Out can reopen by next Friday.”

“Are you going back?”

“I don’t want to.” Skye’s voice was unsteady. “I’ll have to think about it.” Vince shot her a concerned look, but she changed the subject, telling him about Frannie’s bombshell, and ending with, “Not one of my best nights.”

“Nope.” Vince’s expression had returned morose. “Sounds as if neither one of us should have gotten out of bed yesterday.”

“Probably not.” Skye gazed out the window. “Maybe not today either.”

 

After Skye and Vince ate at the Feed Bag, she drove a sobered-up Vince back to his car, dropped him off, and considered her next move. She hadn’t been able to get hold of Wally—as she had predicted, his cell was switched off. She’d left another voice mail, but he hadn’t gotten back to her yet, so the visit to Aunt Minnie’s had to be postponed.