Murder of a Royal Pain

CHAPTER 7

Oh, What a Night

Holy water, crucifix, garlic��check. Salt—check. Taser, flashlight, cell phone—check. Skye sat at her kitchen table inventorying the contents of her backpack. What else should she bring? She was prepared to fight off vampires, witches, and bad guys, but she needed something for werewolves.

Regrettably, she didn’t have any silver bullets for her shotgun. Hmm, maybe she should stop by the Brown Bag Liquor Store and pick up a six-pack of Coors Light. Wasn’t its nickname the Silver Bullet? If the beer didn’t kill the werewolves, at least it would get them drunk.

What worked against ghosts? Although Skye secretly thought her own house was haunted, she had never attempted to get rid of the apparition. Mrs. Griggs had been a benevolent spirit, causing trouble only if Skye tried to get intimate with Wally. Given that they had moved their more amorous activities to his place, there had been no need to drive the ghost away.

Unfortunately, the ghosts at the American Legion hall did not seem to be of the Casper persuasion, and the only idea Skye could come up with was exorcism. Was it too late to ask Father Burns to perform a quick one at A Ghoul’s Night Out?

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Five thirty. Only fifteen minutes before she had to leave. Probably not enough time to convince a priest to make a haunted-house call.

Skye considered calling Vince and asking him to adopt Bingo if she didn’t make it out of the Promfest event alive tonight. She knew her mother wouldn’t care for her pet. May’s dislike of all animals, especially cats, was legendary.

Intellectually, Skye knew she was being silly. She was no more in danger at A Ghoul’s Night Out than she was at school. But emotionally she felt she was opening herself up to the unknown—giving herself over to someone or something else’s influence. And she hated not being in control of the situation.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her chair away from the table and stood. As ordered by Annette, Skye had applied green makeup to her face, and was dressed in black tights and a leotard. Over them she wore a knee-length sweater coat—no way was she prancing around in public with her curves jiggling. She would exchange the sweater for her costume in the privacy of the bathroom once she got to the hall.

Skye was shrugging on her backpack when the phone rang. She’d better let her machine answer it—the Promfest chairwoman was not someone you kept waiting. But her curiosity wouldn’t let her ignore the call entirely, so she hurried into the parlor to listen.

After the fourth ring, Wally’s smooth baritone said, “Skye, are you there? Pick up.”

She grabbed the receiver. “I’m on my way out the door. I have to be at the haunted house by six or Annette Paine will kill me.”

“I’m glad I caught you before you left.” Wally’s tone was tense and distracted.

“Why?” Skye felt a stab of anxiety. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Wally’s voice was neutral. “It’s my dad. My cousin just called. My father collapsed at work and is in a hospital.”

“That’s terrible.” Carson Boyd ran his multimillion-dollar corporation from its headquarters in west Texas. Skye had met him for the first time last April, when he’d come to Scumble River on business. It had been an enlightening encounter on several levels. First, because Wally had never told her that he was heir to a fortune. Second, because Carson had come into town in disguise. And last, because Wally’s dad had tried to convince Skye to trick his son into returning to El Paso and taking over the family empire. “Do the doctors know what’s wrong with him?”

“No.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’m on my way to O’Hare. I was able to get a seat on a plane that leaves at nine.”

“Oh.” Skye felt a stab of . . . she wasn’t sure what. Rejection, maybe. “That was lucky.” Why hadn’t he asked her to go with him? Was he waiting for her to offer? She wanted to be by his side through good times and bad. No matter how estranged father and son were, if Carson was seriously ill, Wally would be devastated, and Skye wanted to be there for him.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. The doctors were still working on Dad when my cousin called, so he had no idea how bad it is.”

“Let me know as soon as you find out.” Skye twisted the cord around her finger, trying to decide whether she should offer to go with him.

“I will.” Wally’s tone was remote. “Keep your cell on. I’ll call you on it.”

“I will, but you know reception around here is iffy at best.”

“Then it’ll go to your voice mail.” Wally sounded slightly irritated. “You have figured out how to retrieve your voice mail, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” Skye crossed her fingers and reminded herself to have Justin show her one more time. She frowned. Why did she have such a hard time with technology? According to the IQ test she’d been given in graduate school, she was smart, but cell phones, computers, and stuff like that never seemed to work for her.

Wally broke into her thoughts. “Okay. I have to hurry if I’m going to make my flight. I’ll be cutting it close as it is.”

“Right.” Why was Wally so stiff? Duh! Because he was concerned about his dad, and distracted with the logistics of getting to him. Skye mentally slapped herself. It had been four years since her ex-fiancé jilted her, and she’d thought she was over her insecurities, but evidently they still existed. “Be careful. Traffic will be bad on a Friday night.”

“Well . . .” There was a pause; then Wally said, “I’ll talk to you later.”

She didn’t like that he was using his cop voice, not the warm and loving tone with which he usually talked to her. Come to think of it, he had acted the same way when his father had visited last spring. What was it about his father’s presence—either physically or in spirit—that changed Wally’s personality so much? Was it because he didn’t see himself as a man who would inherit millions of dollars? Skye knew he didn’t want anyone in Scumble River to know about his wealthy background.

“Have a safe trip.” Another pause, and then she said, “Your father will be in my prayers.”

Ick. That had been awkward. After she hung up, Skye chewed her lower lip, then reached for the phone, having decided she should offer to go to Texas with Wally. But what if he didn’t want her there? She didn’t want to make things worse for him when he was so concerned about his father.

Abruptly she snatched her hand back from the receiver. As she told the kids she counseled, if you ask a question you don’t want an answer to, expect an answer you don’t want to hear. If Wally had wanted her to accompany him, he would have said so.

Maybe once he got to El Paso and found out how his father was doing, he’d ask her to join him. She thought about how she’d feel if she were thousands of miles away and got a call saying her dad was sick. Her only focus would be getting to him, which was exactly how Wally was acting. It was self-centered even to think any of this was about her.

Having come to that conclusion, Skye looked at her watch. Crapola. It was five till six; she was going to be late.

It took only ten minutes for Skye to drive to the old American Legion hall, but Annette met her at the door, frown lines etched in her green makeup. “Ms. Denison, what part of prompt don’t you understand?”

“I’m so sorry.” Skye tried to edge around the angry woman, but Annette blocked the entrance. “I received an emergency phone call as I was leaving.”

“I see. Nothing serious, I hope.” Annette didn’t give Skye a chance to answer. Instead she hitched up the tattered and stained bridal gown she was wearing as her Bride of Frankenstein costume and stepped aside. Gesturing with a pointed finger, she ordered, “Hurry into your outfit and take your place.” Then she turned sharply on her white stilettos and said over her shoulder, “The dress rehearsal will start in ten minutes—whether you witches are ready or not. No one will ruin A Ghoul’s Night Out.”

Skye hurried through the haunted house toward the backstage area. The volunteers who had constructed the interior had done an amazing job. Skye couldn’t imagine the time it must have taken to build all the sets and props. There were three main sections. The first was a spa that had been turned into a chamber of horrors, the second was a demonic dance club, and the third contained scenes reenacting famous murders by women—Lizzie Borden being the star.

The trio of passageways that brought the attendees from section to section were populated by the more traditional Halloween characters. Skye and her fellow witches were each assigned to one of these corridors. They were to pop out through a door in a false wall, scare the pants off the group walking through, and then run as fast as they could to the opposite end of the hall and disappear behind another panel.

Before reporting to her spot, Skye darted behind the sets and grabbed her costume from a nearly empty rack. The lone costume still hanging there was one of her fellow witches’. Clearly she wasn’t the only late arrival. She silently cheered, glad she wasn’t alone in incurring Annette’s wrath.

Without stopping, she nipped into the outer hallway and ran past the entrance that led to her designated position. When she reached for the knob of the ladies’ room door, the hall lights flickered twice.

Skye felt her heart stop until she realized the flickering was only the signal that the dress rehearsal would start in five minutes. Not wanting to be caught in the haunted bathroom when the lights went out for real, she burst through the door, shrugged off her backpack, and dashed into the nearest of the three stalls.

She tore the plastic covering off the witch’s dress and threw the bulky garment over her head. While Skye struggled to tug it into place, she thought she heard a strange noise, but the heavy fabric muffled the sound. She mentally shrugged; it was probably the third witch, who, having finally arrived, was also in the bathroom putting on her costume.

At last Skye managed to get into her dress. When her head emerged, she realized the sound she had heard was someone crying. Her stomach clenched, but she took a steadying breath and said to herself, It is not the ghost. It’s a real person and she’s upset. Do something.

Squatting, she looked under the stalls, then toward the sinks and mirrors. Fear knotted inside her. There weren’t any feet. If no one else was in the bathroom, who was sobbing?

Skye held her breath and listened. The weeping had stopped. Had she imagined it? She adjusted her costume, stuffed the sweater she’d been wearing into her backpack, and cautiously pushed the stall door open. She was alone. She was loath to look into the mirror—terrified that a bloody woman would stare back. Nevertheless, by telling herself to quit being so stupid, she forced herself to turn toward the glass.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she used spirit gum to attach the prosthetic nose and chin that were a part of her makeup. She was fiddling with a fake wart that was supposed to be worn on her chin when she caught sight of her watch. The dress rehearsal was starting in less than a minute. She swiftly stuck the black pointed hat on her head, ran to the door, and pushed. It wouldn’t budge.

She put her shoulder to it and shoved with all of her not inconsiderable weight. It opened a couple of inches, but immediately slammed shut. Someone or something was holding it closed from the other side. Was this a joke? Why would someone want to trap her in the john?

Skye grabbed the flashlight from her backpack, preparing for when the lights went out for good. But she stuffed the light back into her pack when she remembered that the safety inspector had said that the bathroom lights had to remain on throughout the event.

Next she scooped out her cell phone. Whom should she call? As she considered her options, she glanced at the digital display. No signal. Shit! Now what? If she didn’t get out of there and to her appointed place on time, Annette would have her head on a platter.

Skye looked around. Was there any other way out? There were no windows, and the three small stalls and the larger handicapped one took up nearly all of the space, except for a small area in front of the sinks. Skye nudged open each stall door with her foot. She could see at a glance that the first three were empty, but she had to step inside the bigger one in order to check the entire interior.

She swept her gaze over the area, biting off a scream at the sight of a bloody ax propped beside the toilet. She backed out and swung around. Still no sign of anyone else in the room. Panic welled in her throat, but she forced herself to swallow it. Was she imagining sights and sounds, or were they all real?

Despite her fear, she pushed open the stall door again. The ax was still there, and this time she recognized it as a prop from the Lizzie Borden scene. The blood was red paint. Whoever was playing Lizzie must have brought it with her when she went to use the bathroom, leaned it against the wall to free her hands, then forgotten it.

Skye shook her head. She was letting this whole “haunted” haunted-house thing get to her. Had she imagined the blocked exit as well? She darted over to the door and gave it a mighty shove, nearly falling flat on her face when it swung wide open without any resistance.

The hall was now pitch-black, and it took her a minute or so to orient herself. Fumbling, she once again retrieved the flashlight from her backpack and clicked it on. The corridor was deserted.

Skye took a few steps toward the entrance of her assigned passageway and shrieked. Something had taken hold of her ankle! She gasped, panting in terror, but managed to aim the light downward. A plastic hand had been set up so that a person walking close to the wall would think that someone had grabbed his or her leg.

Damn! Damn! Damn! She should never have volunteered, no matter how bad it made her look in the eyes of the Promfest committee. What had she been thinking?

Eerie sounds poured in from the haunted house’s interior, battering at her brittle nerves, and a wave of apprehension swept through her. The pockets of darkness that her flashlight beam couldn’t penetrate closed in on her, and she started to shake as fearful images began to build in her mind.

Skye stopped and backed up against the wall. Trembling and unable to catch her breath, she was back in that moment when she was six years old, reliving the terror of her first and, until now, last experience in a haunted house.

She had been fine as long as she had held Vince’s hand, but the moment he had gone off with one of his friends, Dracula had lunged out at her. As she ran away from him, a giant spider had dropped from the ceiling and landed on her head. Shrieking, she had torn herself free and raced into the next room.

There she had tripped and ended up sprawled in a greenly glowing cemetery among tilted tombstones. Before she could get up, a zombie had risen from his grave and was looming over her.

All Skye remembered after that was screaming and screaming. Then she was outside, and Vince was kneeling in front of her, begging her not to tell their mother that he’d left her alone. She never had, but she had threatened to reveal his secret anytime she needed to make him do something for her.

The thought of all the times she had blackmailed Vince throughout the years brought a smile to her lips, and she slowly managed to calm herself down. After she took a few deep breaths, her heart rate returned to normal and she no longer felt like throwing up.

Squaring her shoulders, Skye picked up her backpack—it had dropped to the floor during her panic attack—and forced herself to continue walking down the hallway. Still hoping to be on time for her first appearance (she was the last of the three witches to emerge), she picked up her pace. She was only a few steps from the door leading to her assigned spot when she heard the first scream.

Skye came to an abrupt stop, her heart jumping in her chest. She had gotten used to the fake moans, groans, and shrieks of the haunted house, but what she had just heard was not one of them. It was real.