Murder of a Royal Pain (17 page)

“Wally!” Skye felt her cheeks flush.

“Just the facts, ma’am,” he said with a trace of laughter, then turned serious. “But back to my point. If Quirk resents you, the three of us will take care of that when I get back, but that doesn’t give him the right to try to make an end run around either of us.”

Skye was silent, not sure what to say. Although she was thrilled by Wally’s fierce loyalty, she didn’t want to be the reason he and his best officer argued.

Wally seemed to read her mind. “Whatever happens, none of it is your fault.”

“Thank you.” Skye snuggled under her blanket, pretending it was Wally who was keeping her warm. “My Catholic guilt gets out of hand once in a while.”

“Once in a while?” Wally chuckled. “Anyway, what were you saying about McCabe?”

“Oh, yeah.” Skye gathered her thoughts. “As I mentioned, Annette was dressed as one of the trio of witches, though she was supposed to be the Bride of Frankenstein. So I think it’s reasonable to question whether she was the intended victim or not, but McCabe claims that Quirk isn’t looking in that direction.”

“Hmm.” Wally paused. “You said that once everyone was in costume, all three of the witches looked exactly alike?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wear masks?”

“No, but the makeup includes a fake nose and chin,” Skye explained. “The resemblance is so uncanny, I don’t think our own mothers could tell us apart. Which is why I was so freaked out when I found the body. For a nanosecond I thought I was looking into a mirror.”

“Shoot. That must have been downright creepy.” Wally’s voice held a hint of a Texas twang. “I sure wish I could be there with you, sugar.”

“Me, too.” Skye felt slightly alarmed. She had never heard any trace of a Texas accent in Wally’s voice before. She hoped he wasn’t getting too used to being back in his home state.

“Unless there’s something you don’t know—which could be the case, since it doesn’t sound as if Quirk is sharing information with you—Roy may very well be going down the wrong road.”

“Yes. And it could be a detour that gets someone else killed—maybe me.” Skye’s voice quavered.

“Can you think of anyone who would want you dead? How about that parent? The one you think left you the note and slashed your tire?”

“I guess. But she’d have to be really crazy, because I don’t have that kind of power—the principal or superintendent can overrule any of my recommendations.”

“Then if it’s not Annette, it’s probably one of the other two women,” Wally soothed. “But when I talk to Quirk, I’ll mention that you received a threatening note a couple of weeks ago.” Wally’s tone became authoritative. “He
will
look into the other possible victims. And he
will
include you in the investigation.”

“That would be wonderful.” Skye hoped Wally was able to control Quirk even thousands of miles away, but she had her doubts. “It would be a relief to know he was at least bearing in mind other possibilities.”

“Consider it done.”

“Great.” She was sure it wouldn’t be as easy as that, but she changed the subject. “Are you spending all your time at the hospital?”

“Pretty much,” Wally grumbled. “It’s so frustrating trying to get answers. The doctors say Dad seems fit as a fiddle. All the tests so far have come back negative, and they’re running out of stuff to do.”

Out of the blue, a thought popped into Skye’s mind. Could Carson Boyd have faked his collapse? When she had met him last spring, he had been determined to get Wally to go back to Texas and take over the family business, even if it meant deceiving his own son. Could his illness be part of a scheme to lure Wally home? But what would that accomplish? She pushed the thought aside and said, “I’m sure your father appreciates your being there.”

“I suppose.”

“Last March you mentioned that your cousin is your dad’s second in command at CB International. Did you two grow up together? Are you close?”

“He’s ten years younger than I am, so not really,” Wally answered without elaborating, then asked, “Any other excitement in town since I’ve been gone?”

“Frannie is quitting college, and Loretta dumped Vince.”

“So, a typical Scumble River weekend.”

“Very funny.” Skye rolled her eyes. “You should do stand-up.”

Wally sniggered. “Maybe I’ll give it a try sometime.”

“Sure. Next time the Brown Bag has open-mike night, right?”

“Right.” Wally took a deep breath. “Guess I’d better let you go so you can get ready for church.”

“Yep. It’s about that time.” It was already seven. If she was going to get a seat at the eight-o’clock Mass, she did need to get going, but she didn’t want to hang up. “Call me tonight?”

“Definitely. Around ten?”

“Perfect.”

There was a pause, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle. “Be careful. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

“I will.” Skye hung up slowly, hating to break their connection. Once the receiver went dead she whispered, “You be careful, too. I have a bad feeling your father is getting ready to rope and tie you like a calf at a rodeo.”

Skye kept the feeling of warmth and caring she had gotten from her conversation with Wally wrapped around herself as she showered and dressed for church, but as soon as she arrived it evaporated.

She usually managed to nab a seat in the back, preferring to be one of the observers rather than one of the observed, but in order to do that she had to get there at least twenty minutes early. Wally’s call had put her behind schedule, which meant she had to walk the entire length of the aisle to the very front. She could feel the congregation’s eyes following her every step, like a herd of hungry cows watching the bale of hay being put in their feed trough.

In Scumble River, people attended church for different reasons—some to worship God, others to exchange the latest gossip. Skye was sure the latter group’s focus today was the haunted-house murder.

Her relief at sliding into a pew was short-lived when she saw that her seatmates were Dylan Paine and his daughter, Linnea. Skye leaned toward them and whispered how sorry she was for their loss. Dr. Paine nodded, keeping his expression neutral, but Linnea burst into tears. Skye patted the girl’s hand and made comforting sounds. As they stood for the processional, Dr. Paine put his arm around his daughter and handed her a handkerchief. Skye was reminded that Annette may have been an annoyance to some people, but her daughter was certainly grieving for her.

As always, Mass was both soothing and uplifting, and Skye felt herself unwind. Father Burns achieved a perfect balance between demonstrating concern for Annette and her family, and exuding confidence that good would triumph over evil.

Clearly he knew of his flock’s tendency to spread stories, because he ended the service with a gentle admonishment: “Let us all pray; Lord, please keep your arm around my shoulder to keep me safe, and your hand over my mouth to keep me compassionate.”

As the recessional played and Skye made her way down the aisle, she noticed that Dr. Paine and his daughter were stopped time after time, by people shaking his hand and hugging Linnea.

Sadly, Father Burns’s reprimand had little effect. Once Annette’s family departed, the rumor mill revved up, and Skye overheard several groups of people at the rear of the church swapping theories about the murder.

They were all so busy getting their own opinions across, no one seemed to notice Skye, and she was able to slip behind them. She hoped that they might give her a lead, so she pretended to read the bulletin board on the back wall. Using only her peripheral vision, she kept her face averted, but her ears tuned in to what was being said.

A man dressed in a shiny polyester suit and cowboy boots stated, “Junior told me that the haunted house was black as the inside of a bull, and no one was where they were supposed to be, so anyone could’ve killed her.”

A grandmotherly-looking woman sighed. “But who would want to kill a pretty girl like that?”

Girl?
Skye rolled her eyes. Annette hadn’t been a girl since Ronald Reagan was president.

The woman standing next to the polyester cowboy patted her hair, which was teased and sprayed into the shape of a helmet. “Pretty is as pretty does,” she interjected. “Annette liked to get her own way and could be real nasty if things weren’t going how she wanted them to.”

“I think it’s terrorists,” the man in the boots replied. “Wally should call in Homeland Security. Those Moose-limbs hate American women.”

Skye blinked. It sounded as if he thought Bullwinkle, armed with a tree branch, had killed Annette.

Helmet Hair poked him in the side with her elbow. “You think everything is terrorists, Burt. Every time the chickens don’t lay as many eggs as you figure they should, you want to call the FBI.”

“Thelma’s right, Burt.” A man with slicked-back hair and a mean mouth said. “Why would terrorists kill an over-the-hill prom queen?”

“Yeah.” Thelma stuck out her chin. “Besides, everyone knows it was her husband.”

“What in tarnation are you talking about? Why would Dr. Paine kill his wife?” Burt shot Thelma a dirty look. “Did she disagree with everything he said and try to make him look like a fool?”

“Because Annette caught him messing around. I heard she threatened to divorce him and take half of everything,” Thelma answered with a malicious look in her porcine eyes. “And while he may want to trade his forty-year-old wife for two twenties, he doesn’t want to trade his fancy lifestyle for the one he’d get after she took him to the cleaner’s.”

“That would do it.” The grandmotherly woman nodded. “Guys like that want their first wives to just disappear. They act like she had nothing to do with their success, and they don’t care if their kids have to eat cereal three meals a day, as long as the men don’t have to skip a golf game or give up their plasma TVs.”

Burt protested: “If Dr. Paine is such a sleaze, how come everyone keeps him as their dentist?”

“It’s like that joke: What do you call a male slut?” Thelma paused, then said, “A man.” She cackled at her own witticism. “If he was a woman and behaved that way, no one would go to him, but a man can screw his brains out and no one cares.” She shrugged. “Besides, he’s a great dentist.”

Voices rose as everyone in the group offered an opinion and Skye slunk away. The info about Dr. Paine had been enlightening, but she was fairly sure she had heard everything these four had to say. Maybe some other group would have more information she could use.

Skye walked down the steps and out the double doors. Another knot of people had gathered on the front lawn. She stopped near them, half-hidden by a large evergreen, and pretended to use her cell phone.

The three thirty-something women were talking about Evie Harrison, and Skye’s ears perked up. The leader of the trio was Andrea Pantaleone, a tall, lean brunette whom Skye had met a year and a half ago during the Route 66 hundred-mile yard sale. Andrea had been the health inspector assigned to the event, and Skye had found her both observant and intelligent. It would be interesting to hear what she had to say.

“It’s a shame about Annette Paine.” Andrea shook her head. “I didn’t like her, but I hate to see anyone that young die.”

The other two women nodded.

“I don’t know why everyone is acting so surprised to hear that Evie drinks.” Andrea folded her arms. “She’s done it since high school.”

“It’s one of those nonsecret secrets,” a shorter, slightly thinner woman stated. “Everyone knows, but no one says anything. Now it’s out in the open.” She turned to the third woman and demanded, “Isn’t that right, Kay Lynn?”

“That’s because no one wants to hurt her husband. He’s so distinguished.” Kay Lynn
tsk
ed. “And with him being a minister, it’s hard on him, having a drunk for a wife.”

“I wonder if Evie killed Annette and then blacked out.” Andrea asked the middle woman. “Laurie, didn’t you tell me that she was really ticked off about the whole head-of-Promfest thing?”

“Yes,” Laurie agreed. “She was really mad at Annette about that, but then she just let it go and even agreed to be Annette’s assistant. I think Annette had something on her and threatened to tell.”

“You’re probably right,” Andrea concurred. “And I bet Evie stayed on the committee to keep Cheyenne in the running for prom queen. If you’re not one of the Promfest movers and shakers, no way will your daughter be elected.”

Kay Lynn nodded, and Skye decided it was time to leave. If she stuck around much longer, someone was sure to notice and start grilling her about finding the body.

Because she had been so late getting to Mass, Skye’d had to park across the street. She stood at the corner, waiting for a break in the stream of cars pouring out of the lot. Finally an older sedan paused. The sun visor was down and a scarf obscured the lower half of the driver’s face. All Skye could see was a hand motioning for her to go.

Waving back, Skye stepped off the curb. While she walked, she dug her hand into her purse, feeling for her key ring. As she pulled it out of her bag, she glanced downward to separate the car key from the others on the ring. Immediately she heard an engine rev, and when she looked up, a chrome grille was roaring toward her. She stood frozen. A nanosecond later she flew into the air, sailed across the asphalt, and landed on the side of the road.

“
I
’m fine, really.” Skye got up, brushed the dry leaves and dirt from her shins, and looked herself over. Her clothing had survived her fall better than she had. Her hands and her knees were scraped and bloody, but her skirt was pristine.

A concerned group of parishioners surrounded her, and Skye heard one man mutter, “We never used to have crazy drivers in Scumble River. There’re too many outsiders here these days.”