Murder of a Royal Pain (22 page)

Skye was livid at Evie’s threats, but knew she’d better lay off for a while. She couldn’t risk Quirk knowing she was still investigating, just in case Roy was the killer. And she couldn’t risk getting fired. Her résumé was only now recovering from the last time she was sacked.

Driving home after work, Skye brooded that the day had been a total waste. She hadn’t accomplished anything in either of her roles—as school psychologist or as police consultant. The only bright spot was that Wally was due home that evening.

Bingo greeted her at the door, and after petting him she started up the stairs to change into more comfortable clothes. Before she made it to the top, the doorbell rang. Sighing, she went back down. When she looked out the peephole, her first instinct was to turn away. On her porch, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, were Simon and Kurt.

Crap! Double crap!
Just what she needed. Pasting a smile on her face, she swung the door open and said, “What brings you two here together?”

“We arrived at the same time, but we aren’t together,” Simon explained.

“Oh. Well, come in.” Skye stepped aside and the men walked into the foyer.

Kurt glanced around, then said, “I need to talk to you in private.”

“So do I.” Simon moved to Skye’s side.

“Uh, okay. Kurt, please wait for me in the parlor.” Skye took Simon’s arm and led him down the hall.

Once they were in the kitchen Simon said, “Why don’t I come back later? I’ll take you out to dinner and we can talk then.”

Not wanting to seem to be reading too much into his offer, Skye shook her head. “Sorry. Not tonight. I may be coming down with something. I’ve been feeling sick on and off for the last couple of days.”

“You mean you get better, then get sick again?” Simon questioned, a look of concern in his eyes. When she nodded, he asked, “What are your symptoms?”

“My head hurts, my mouth is dry, my heart races, and I feel dizzy and nauseated.”

“You need to see a doctor.” Simon crossed his arms. “Let me drive you to the urgent-care clinic in Laurel.”

“No. I’ll be fine. If I’m not better by the weekend, I’ll go.” Skye took a step back. “But I would like to lie down, so can you give me the condensed version of what you wanted to tell me?”

“Annette’s death is being ruled accidental.”

“What? How? Why?” Skye heard herself stammering, and closed her mouth in order to give Simon a chance to answer.

“The county crime techs found hemp fibers caught in eyebolts that were screwed opposite each other on the walls, so the evidence suggests that the rope you found Annette holding was originally strung across the passageway. It had green makeup embedded in it, and it matches the mark on her neck. The theory is that she was running in the dark hall, slammed into the rope, which knocked the breath out of her, and as she fell she grabbed the rope, which then tore loose.”

“And that killed her?” Skye asked.

“No. But it brought on an asthma attack, which is what she died from.”

“I knew asthma was serious, but I had no idea someone like Annette could die from an attack.”

“Over four thousand people a year die because of asthma,” Simon explained. “And Annette had several risk factors. She’d had asthma since she was a child, and her doctor said she wasn’t compliant with her medication, had a poor awareness of her own reduced ability to breathe, and frequently ended up at the emergency room. Running into the rope in the dark probably caused her to panic, and a stressful or emotional situation can worsen asthma.”

“And being in a costume she didn’t expect to wear, she didn’t have her inhaler,” Skye guessed. “But wouldn’t it take her a long time to die?”

Simon shook his head. “A fatal attack can take only a few minutes.”

“Hmm.” Skye pursed her lips. “Okay, the asthma might have been what killed her, but why was the rope there, and why was she running? Did someone hang it as a trap and then chase her?”

“None of the crew admits to putting up the rope, and no one can come up with a good reason for it to be there, or remembers it being there on their final check of the setup.” Simon shrugged. “But didn’t you say part of the witches’ act was to run down the hallway as fast as possible in order to ‘disappear’ at the other end?”

“Right. I’d forgotten that.”

“The rope was strung fifty-five inches from the floor, which is throat level for a woman who’s somewhere between five-six to five-eight. It makes me think that the rope was meant as a trap for someone that height running down the hallway, as you were supposed to do. You would have collided with the rope and, at the very least, sustained a nasty rope burn across your face or neck. And maybe you would have cut off your air supply enough to pass out.”

“So the trap was set for someone my height.”

“Annette was in that height range, too, as were the other two witches and about a quarter of the females working at the haunted house.”

“But they weren’t nearly mowed down by a car last Sunday,” Skye muttered.

“What?”

Skye explained about the hit-and-run after church, then said, “So either the rope was supposed to choke someone—me or one of the other witches—or maybe the murderer knew about Annette’s asthma and was trying to trigger a lethal attack. And if that’s the case, who would know her weaknesses better than her husband?”

Simon’s expression was thoughtful. “Too bad Quirk has closed the investigation.”

Skye felt faint, and she gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Had she wrongly accused the officer and dragged Wally back here for nothing? Or was Quirk so quick to close the case because he didn’t want any further investigation that might point to him?

“You really need to see a doctor.” Simon put his arm around her.

“I’ll be fine.” Skye summoned up a smile. “Don’t worry. All I need is a good night’s rest.”

“I know your folks and Wally are all out of town. If you need something tonight, call me.” Simon gave her another squeeze, then released her. “I promise not to jump to any conclusions.”

“Thank you.”

Once she showed Simon out, Skye went into the parlor. Kurt had been looking at the objets d’art in the étagère, and when Skye entered, he tapped the glass and said, “I really like this vase.”

“You have good taste. It’s one of a series made by Frank Klepper, a Dallas-based artist who worked in ceramics during the early 1930s. It’s called
Curtain of the Dawn.
”

“I thought it was from the thirties. I tend to collect more from the twenties, but occasionally something a little more recent catches my eye.” His gaze roved lazily from her head to her feet; then he grinned.

“Glad you approve,” she said dryly. It was hard to feel sexy when she might upchuck at any moment. “You said you had something to discuss with me?” She felt herself sway.

“Hey, are you all right?” Kurt’s expression became serious, and he helped her to the settee.

“I think I’m getting a bug.” Skye rested her head on the seat back and closed her eyes. She’d be fine if only the room would stop spinning.

“Guess that means no kisses,” Kurt teased. “Don’t want to get your germs.”

“Look. I feel lousy, so if you have something important to say, say it. Otherwise, I need to lie down.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Kurt sat next to Skye and put his hand on her forehead. “It doesn’t feel like you have a fever, but you are pale.”

She was touched by his concern. “Maybe it’s something I ate.”

“Can I get you something? Alka-Seltzer? Pepto-Bismol? I could run to the pharmacy.”

“No, thank you.” He was much more attractive when he wasn’t playing the fool, and despite feeling rotten, Skye found herself extremely conscious of his appeal.

“So, did you find out anything?” Kurt asked.

“Not much.” Skye quickly told him about the scene Trixie had witnessed at the grocery store between Dr. Paine and his younger daughter’s teacher, and then about Evie’s refusal to talk to her. She didn’t tell him about Hope’s fear of Quirk or what Simon had told her, since both had sworn her to secrecy.

“Interesting. I’d heard Paine was a womanizer, but didn’t know he was that slimy.” Kurt raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what Evie’s hiding.”

“I wish I knew.” Skye twitched her shoulders. “Maybe she’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll give it a try, but don’t hold your breath.”

Skye made a face, then asked, “What have you found out?”

“Annette’s only interest was her social standing. She didn’t owe anyone money, and people thought she was bossy and annoying, but no one seemed to hate her enough to kill her.”

“Except maybe her husband.” When Kurt nodded, she asked, “How about Nina Miles?”

“If she was supposed to be the victim, it was self-defense. Nina was probably boring the murderer to death.”

“Oh?” Skye felt the corner of her lips turn up. “Not your most entertaining interview, I take it?”

“She seems to have no life of her own. All she could talk about was her three daughters. Her oldest daughter, Farrah, seems to be a bit of a disappointment. But her middle one, Bree, is the most popular girl in high school, and her youngest, Shawna, is going to be a Broadway star. It seems without her, the dance school in town couldn’t even put on a recital, since she helps all the other girls with their performances.”

“Yeah, and if she doesn’t get the leading role she scalps the competition.” Skye told Kurt how Shawna had cut the hair of a fellow third grader in order to dance the lead in
Rapunzel.

“Why am I not shocked?” Kurt’s dimples appeared. “Though Nina’s main obsession right now is getting Bree voted prom queen.” Kurt scratched his head. “The prom isn’t until May, right? Seven months away?”

“Right, but the moms have turned it into a yearlong competition.”

“Maybe those women are killing each other.”

Skye had wondered that herself when Frannie mentioned how intense the prom queen and king competition had become, but now that she had thought about it more, she said, “They wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? Nina sounded pretty ruthless. I doubt she’d let a little thing like murder stand in her way. After all, she admitted to blackmail. Do you know these moms have parties for the kids who are in the running for king and queen, and take pictures of any behavior that they can use against them?”

Skye shook her head. She hadn’t known, though she wasn’t surprised. “But murdering one of the other candidates’ mothers wouldn’t help get her daughter elected, because the victim’s daughter would get the sympathy vote.” Skye struggled to her feet. “Now if one of the
girls
ended up dead, that would be a different story.”

Kurt raised his eyebrows. “And I thought the people I covered in my last job were twisted.”

“Who were they?” Skye guided Kurt toward the front door and opened it.

“Politicians.”

After Kurt left, Skye checked her messages and found one from Wally. He hadn’t been able to arrange for his father’s nurse to start early. Since he wouldn’t be home until late Friday night, he had spoken to the new sheriff, who had agreed to keep an off-the-record eye on Quirk until Wally got back to town.

Skye blew out a frustrated breath, then headed upstairs to lie down. The only good thing about feeling sick was that she didn’t have the energy to be scared.

 

Skye felt much better in the morning, and since she had recovered health-wise, she decided to work on her lingering depression by wearing one of her new fall outfits. She chose olive twill slacks, a matching T-shirt, and a short olive, rust, and brown jacket. To complete the look, she slipped on chunky gold earrings, a bangle bracelet, and the brown Coach pumps she had found on sale for seventy percent off at TJMaxx.

Because of the weekly PPS meeting at seven thirty, Skye’s schedule called for her to spend Thursday mornings at the elementary school. The team met in the special-ed room, which was about half the size of the other classrooms. It held only twelve desks—arranged in three pods of four each—and the student chairs of molded orange plastic were designed for the height and build of six- and seven-year-olds.

The sole adult chair was behind the teacher’s desk, and although Skye was the first to arrive, she knew better than to try to claim it. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

Next to appear was Abby, the school nurse. She and Skye immediately started to take the chairs off the tops of the student desks, where they had been placed at the end of the previous day.

They were removing the last two when the special-education teacher, Yvonne Smith, came in. As usual, she was dressed in a full denim skirt and an oxford-cloth blouse—today’s was blue. Yvonne was what most people pictured when they thought of an elementary school teacher—round and soft, with a halo of gray-brown curls and a smiling face.

Next to turn up was Belle Whitney, the speech therapist, who took a seat next to Abby. Belle looked like a can of Reddi-wip that had exploded. Her pale blond hair was arranged in fluffy curls and feathery waves, and her rose pink dress was made of a diaphanous material with rows of ruffles around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Even her eyeglasses had loops and curlicues on the frames.

Jackie and the grade school principal were the last to arrive. Jackie’s hand was on Caroline’s arm, and she was whispering in her ear.

The principal, a tiny woman with a puff of white hair, patted Jackie’s cheek and said, “Thank you, my dear. You are just the sweetest thing to volunteer for recess duty. Our ‘specials’ usually claim they’re too busy.” Turning her attention to the assembled group, Caroline smiled, took a seat, and plucked gold-rimmed reading glasses from the pocket of her blazer. “Shall we start?” She peered at the list she had put on the table. “Our most pressing concern this morning is a new student. Vassily Warner is five years old and recently adopted from Russia.”

“Do we have records on him?” Abby asked.