Murder of a Royal Pain

CHAPTER 9

It Might Be You

Sheer black fright swept through Skye. Her mind reeled with confusion. Was she going insane? The situation was jarringly reminiscent of her recurring nightmare—the one in which she was attending a funeral, went up to pay her respects, and instead of finding the deceased in the casket, she saw herself.

Panic, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, welled up in her throat. Her breath whistling rapidly in and out and her heart pounding like a jackhammer, she sank to the floor. Huddled against the wall, Skye gripped the stun gun and stared at her doppelgänger, trying to make sense of what was in front of her. Several minutes ticked by, but her brain refused to function and she remained paralyzed.

The sound of running footsteps roused her from her stupor. As the initial shock began to wear off, she calmed down. Regaining a fragment of self-control, she realized that the person sprawled a few feet from her was one of the other two witches. During the rehearsals they had discovered that all three of them looked nearly identical once they were in costume and makeup. Only the strange light and her already agitated state of mind had kept her from immediately comprehending the woman’s true identity.

Once Skye understood what she was seeing, she crawled over to her double and pressed her fingertips to the woman’s carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. There was none that Skye could detect, but she did note a line across her look-alike’s throat where the green makeup had been rubbed away. As Skye took the woman’s wrist to check for a pulse there, she saw a long rope with green stains clutched in the witch’s right hand.

Unable to detect a heartbeat, Skye used the bottom of her skirt to wipe off the makeup from around the woman’s mouth. Her skin had a bluish tinge and she didn’t appear to be breathing. How long had she been lying there?

While debating whether to remove the woman’s prosthetic nose and chin in order to identify her, Skye heard a male voice from outside the door shout, “The signal came from this section.”

“Stop. Don’t come in here.” Skye struggled to her feet and blocked the entrance. Raising her voice, she ordered, “Go back and call nine-one-one. Someone’s been attacked and is badly hurt.”

The men argued, but after explaining what she had found and asserting her position as a police consultant, Skye dissuaded them from attempting to enter the passageway. She instructed them to post guards at all the outer doors and make sure no one left the building. While one of the men went to phone for help, the other ran off to round up the rest of the security detail to stand watch.

Skye was surprised at how quickly Roy Quirk arrived. According to her Timex, it had taken him less than three minutes. With the chief out of town, and as Wally’s second in command, Officer Quirk was in charge. Roy was in his early thirties, and still looked like the football player he’d been in high school.

He nodded to Skye as he stepped inside the passageway, then quickly assessed the scene. Ten minutes later two paramedics burst through the door. Quirk moved aside, giving them access to the woman. From where Skye stood pressed against the wall, she couldn’t see what the paramedics were doing, but after only a minute or two they got to their feet, murmured a few words to Quirk, and left.

Quirk flipped open his cell phone and barked out several orders, then turned to Skye. “We need to keep people out of this area. Please move into the exterior hallway.”

Skye frowned. She wasn’t exactly “people.” She was the psychological consultant to the Scumble River Police Department, which made her Quirk’s colleague, not some civilian. “I take it that, since the paramedics are gone, the woman’s dead?”

Quirk didn’t answer; instead he asked, “How long ago did you find her?”

“I’d guess close to fifteen minutes ago, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Has anyone else been in here?”

“Not since I found her.” Skye shook her head. “I persuaded the guys from the control room not to come in. Instead I had them call you and post guards at the exits.”

“How did they know you needed help in the first place? Did they just happen by?”

“No.” Skye explained about the panic button, then added, “As well as working the sound system and the lights, the men act as a sort of security force for the haunted house.”

Quirk made a note on the pad he had taken from his shirt pocket. “Did you touch anything?”

“Yes.” Skye recalled her movements. “The door, the wall from the door to the light switch, the switch, her neck, shoulder, and wrist. Oh, and I also wiped some makeup from her mouth with my skirt.”

“Son of—” Quirk cut himself off and gave her a sour look. “You contaminated the scene.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Skye put her hands on her hips. “It was pitch-black. I didn’t even know she was there until I tripped over her. Then I had to see if I could help her.”

He clamped his lips shut, took her arm, and led her to the door.

“Did you call the coroner?” Skye persisted. She certainly had no desire to stay with the body, but she suspected Quirk had never handled a murder on his own.

“I’ve got it all under control.” Quirk nearly pushed her over the threshold. “You stay here and don’t let anyone but the officials in.”

“But I need to tell you—”

Quirk shut the door before she could finish.

She yelled through the wood, “Someone needs to find Countess Dracula.” There was no response, and Skye doubted that Quirk had heard her.

The news that something awful had happened spread quickly, and as Skye stood with her back to the door, the cast and crew gathered around her and shouted questions.

“Did you really find a body?”

“Who is it?”

“Were they murdered?”

“I can’t say anything.” Skye held up her hands in a quieting gesture. “The police have arrived and are handling it.”

“Ms. Denison, why did you want to find Evie Harrison?” asked a girl dressed as a zombie cheerleader.

“What are you talking about?” Skye puckered her brow. “I’m not looking for Mrs. Harrison.”

The undead cheerleader toyed with the fake knife sticking out of her chest. “I heard you shout that you needed someone to find Countess Dracula—that’s Evie Harrison.”

“I see.” Skye digested that information. She wished she had a list of cast members and their roles. “In that case, I would like to find her.” Skye raised her voice and said to the crowd, “Does anyone know where Evie Harrison is?”

No one answered, but the cheerleader poked Skye in the arm with a pom-pom. “So why do you want her?”

“I need to ask her something,” Skye equivocated, not willing to explain that she had encountered Evie near the body, or that Evie had run off screaming.

“Oh.” The teen scratched at the makeup that made one side of her face look as if it had been shredded.

“Why are you so interested?” Skye asked.

“Evie’s my mom.” The girl bit her lip. “And it’s sort of weird that she’s not here with everyone else. I thought maybe she was hurt or something.”

“You’re Cheyenne, right?” The teen nodded and Skye reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “The last time I saw your mom, she was fine.” Skye crossed her fingers. Evie had been physically okay. “Hey, I bet you know everyone here, right?”

“Maybe.” Cheyenne’s expression became guarded. “So what?”

“Do you know the other two witches? The ones dressed like me?”

“Yeah. I know them. Mrs. Kennedy was my teacher in grade school, and the other is Bree’s mom.” Cheyenne pointed to a trio of zombie cheerleaders.

“Have you seen either one around here since the police arrived?”

“Not that I remember.” Cheyenne turned to go.

“I’ll keep an eye out for your mom.” Skye took a step after her. “And you let me know if you see Mrs. Kennedy or Mrs. Miles.”

The girl nodded, then walked away and joined a group of teenagers who stood in a tight cluster as far from the adults as possible. The kids were laughing and joking, and seemed fine, though a couple of the girls kept sneaking worried peeks in the direction of the door Skye was guarding.

What did she know about the other two witches? Skye mentally went through the Rolodex in her mind, trying to dredge up information. She had met Nina Miles a couple of years ago. Her oldest daughter, Farrah, had been a member of the cheerleading squad whose captain had been murdered. And during that same period, her youngest daughter, Shawna, had cut off the hair of one of her classmates in order to stop the other girl from performing the starring role in the annual dance recital. If Nina was the dead witch, that meant three children were now motherless.

Not that she wanted the body to be that of Hope Kennedy. Shoot! She didn’t want either of the two women to be the dead witch. She didn’t want it to be anyone. What she really wanted was for this to be a nightmare and to wake up.

She pinched herself, but other than a red mark on her arm, nothing had changed: She was still standing in the drafty hallway of the old American Legion hall. The crowd had backed off and was now milling around in small knots. Skye knew they should all be separated and not allowed to talk to one another, but what could she do? There were just too many of them.

As she strained to hear fragments of conversations, several Scumble River police officers arrived, followed closely by Simon Reid, who, in addition to owning the town funeral home and bowling alley, was also the county coroner.

Skye stepped aside and let the officers and Simon through the door. Simon touched her hand briefly as he passed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She looked up into his concerned golden hazel eyes and tried to smile. “Just a little shaken up.”

He patted her shoulder and nodded, then hurried into the passageway.

A few seconds later Anthony, one of the PD’s part-timers, came back out and said, “Roy told me to take over for you. We can’t do much until County gets here.”

Scumble River was too small to have its own crime scene techs, and called on those from the sheriff’s department when they needed forensic evidence collected.

Skye nodded. “Does he want me to do anything else?”

Anthony looked uncomfortable. Skye had helped his little sister get the special instruction she needed in school, and he was one of her biggest fans. He stared at his shoes. “Uh, no, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” she prompted.

“Uh, he said he didn’t need your help.”

“Oh.” Skye felt her face flush. She hadn’t realized that Quirk didn’t like her, or at least didn’t like her working with the police.

“I think maybe Roy is a little, uh . . . I mean, this is probably his first murder without the chief around, and he might be feeling a little . . .”

“Overwhelmed? Defensive? Pressured?” Skye suggested.

“Yeah. All of those.” Anthony’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Chief Boyd will straighten things out when he gets back. Don’t worry. The rest of us know you’re okay.”

“Thanks.” Skye paused, considering whether to mention the Countess Dracula incident to Anthony or wait until she could speak to Quirk again. She hated to put the young man in the middle, but she decided she had no choice. Someone had to locate Evie Harrison. She may very well have witnessed the murder, and there was an outside chance she had committed it.

After Skye finished telling Anthony about her run-in with Evie, and he relayed the message to Quirk, Skye drifted from group to group, checking to see what people were saying and trying to locate Hope and Nina.

The only interesting fact she learned was that another bunch of haunted-house workers had gathered near the front entrance. The police weren’t allowing anyone to leave their present locations, so it was impossible to judge who was stuck in the lobby and who was really missing.

It took nearly an hour for the crime scene techs to arrive—the Stanley County seat was located in Laurel, down forty-five miles of winding country roads. Once the techs got there, the Scumble River police started interviewing the people who had been detained. But even after all were spoken to, they still weren’t allowed to leave. No one knew why they were being held, but Skye guessed the police wouldn’t release anyone until they had identified the victim.

Skye was in the first group questioned, and once she was finished giving her statement, she talked to the people around her. No one had seen anything prior to the police’s arrival, or afterward. And no one had seen Nina or Hope either. Skye was trying to think of what else to do when she noticed that Simon had come out into the hallway and was using his cell phone.

After he hung up, she went over to him. “Has the victim been identified?”

“No.” Simon looked at her quizzically. “Haven’t you talked to Roy?”

Skye was torn. “Uh . . .” Should she admit Quirk was cutting her out of the loop or pretend she was still on the team? “Not really.”

Simon tilted his head. “It’s not the same when Boyd’s not here, is it?”

“Well . . .”

“I suppose Roy’s within his rights. After all, you’re a consultant. If he doesn’t think he needs your help, he doesn’t have to include you.”

“But—”

“But he’d be a fool not to utilize your talents,” Simon said matter-of-factly.

Skye was too surprised to do more than nod. She would have bet good money that Simon didn’t place much value on what she did for the police department, that he disapproved of her involvement in investigations. She narrowed her eyes. Which of her other assumptions about Simon were wrong?

“I’m guessing Roy’s lack of an invitation is not going to deter you from looking into this case,” Simon said.

The denial died on her lips when she saw the devilish look in his eyes. “I can help. I’m familiar with the people and the haunted-house setup.”

“So, what do you want to know?” Simon took her arm and steered her to a more secluded area.

“You said the victim hasn’t been identified yet, but were you able to determine a time of death?”

“According to the liver temp, between when you found her and thirty minutes prior.”

Skye rummaged in her backpack for a notepad and pen, handing superfluous items to Simon as she searched. He raised an eyebrow when she produced the string of garlic, and bit his lip to stifle a grin when she pulled out the crucifix. At last she found what she was looking for and allowed Simon to give back what he’d been holding.

Amusement and tenderness flickered in his expression when he said, “Being here really scares you, doesn’t it?”

“A little.” She was glad the green makeup hid the flush she felt creeping up her neck.

“I remember your telling me how much you hated haunted houses after what happened to you when you were little. Why did you volunteer?”

Skye couldn’t meet his eyes. “I was trying to get over my phobia.” How could she admit she’d been prompted by her insecurity regarding the new social worker? Especially since Simon was apparently dating Jackie.

Simon didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. “What else do you want to know?”

“What are they doing to identify the victim?” Skye asked. She had told Quirk who the other two witches were supposed to be, but she hadn’t been able to tell whether he thought that information was important or not.

“I overheard them saying they found Hope Kennedy and she was fine, but no one has seen Mrs. Miles.”

Skye was thrilled that the teacher was okay, but felt her heart sink at the news that Nina was missing. There couldn’t be a good outcome, but she’d held on to the hope that a terminally ill stranger had wandered into the haunted house, donned the witch costume and makeup, and died of natural causes.

Simon went on, “I called Xavier, and he’s bringing over makeup remover and rubbing alcohol to loosen the spirit gum holding on the prosthetics.” Xavier Ryan was Simon’s assistant at the funeral home. “Once we reveal her face, we’ll ask Mr. Miles to take a look. Roy told Anthony to call and have him come over.”

“Poor man.” Skye shook her head and tried not to think about how awful it would be for him. “What reason did Anthony give Mr. Miles for asking him to come?”

“Roy told Anthony to say there was a problem at the haunted house and he should come right away, then hang up.” Simon rubbed his chin. “Not to give him a chance to ask for details.”

“You know his daughter is here somewhere. She’s one of the zombie cheerleaders. Quirk needs to take her aside now, before she hears something.”

“Anthony said something to that effect, but Roy didn’t want to alert anyone, so he refused.”

Skye’s mouth tightened. “I understand his reasoning, but Bree’s an eighteen-year-old girl.” Roy Quirk was really beginning to annoy her. “It’s not right for her to find out about her mother through the grapevine.” Wally would get an earful when he called.

“I’m sure once Mr. Miles makes the identification, Roy will have an officer bring the girl to her father.”

“Maybe I should go find her and sort of stand nearby until that happens.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” Simon ran a hand through his short auburn hair. “But Roy’s not going to be happy I’ve told you all this.”

“I’ll be subtle.” She gave Simon a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, Quirk isn’t the boss of you.”

Simon chuckled softly, but broke off when Xavier approached and handed him a small paper bag. Xavier nodded to Skye, then said to Simon, “Here’s the makeup remover and rubbing alcohol you wanted. Give me a call if you need anything else. I’ll be waiting in the hearse.”

When Skye had first met Xavier, his pale blue lashless eyes magnified behind old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses had made him seem reptilian, but she had come to like and respect Simon’s soft-spoken assistant. He was a widower, and his daughter, Frannie, was a freshman in college.

Skye thought Xavier was probably lonely with her gone—or maybe not. Frannie had been one of Skye’s favorite students, but she was extremely intelligent and curious, not always the easiest qualities for a parent to deal with.

Simon touched Skye’s hand. “I’ve got to return to the victim. Once we make the identification, I’ll be transporting the body. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Skye squeezed his arm. “Thanks . . . for everything.”

After Simon left, Skye scanned the area for Bree Miles. Four girls were dressed as zombie cheerleaders, and Skye wasn’t sure which one was Bree. She could eliminate Cheyenne Harrison and Linnea Paine, but the other two were unfamiliar to her. Luckily, since they were all huddled together, it didn’t matter.

Skye dragged a chair over to a spot against the wall next to the group and pulled a book out of her backpack, pretending to be engrossed in the novel. Although it was only October, the girls were talking about the prom.

Skye shook her head. Cats were the only ones that were supposed to have nine lives, but teenagers certainly carried on as if they did, too. The girls had to have heard that someone had died, yet as far as Skye could tell, the big topic of conversation, after who was going with whom to the prom, was the dress each wanted and how much it would cost.

A half hour went by, and Cheyenne was describing an elaborate copper-colored strapless dress with a mermaid hem, made by some designer named BCBG for only seven hundred dollars, when an angry-looking man in his early forties marched over and said, “Bree, get your things. It’s time to go home.”

“But, Dad, Mom said I could stay out until midnight.”

“A woman’s been killed.” Mr. Miles pulled the girl aside and said so softly that Skye had to lean forward to hear, “They thought it was your mother.”

“But isn’t Mom home sick with the flu?”

“Yes.” Mr. Miles propelled the girl toward the outside door, and Skye followed, hugging the wall. “And we need to get back there before some busybody hears the rumor and calls to offer their condolences on her death.”

“Yeah. She’d freak.”

As Mr. Miles and Bree waited at the exit for the officer on duty to check with Quirk before he let them out, Bree asked, “So, who was the dead woman?”

Mr. Miles looked around, and Skye quickly averted her gaze so he wouldn’t guess she was listening. But as soon as he turned back to his daughter, Skye moved closer.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said in a low voice, “but it’s Linnea’s mother. Mrs. Paine.”

Skye swallowed a gasp. Annette Paine! She was the last person Skye would have guessed. Tears slid down her cheek. Annette may have been overbearing, but she was also a mother and a wife. Her death would create a void in many lives.

Skye felt a stab of guilt. She hadn’t liked Annette, had made fun of her obsession with Promfest, but no one deserved to be murdered. Wiping away the wetness under her eyes, Skye squared her shoulders. She would make sure Annette’s killer was found and brought to justice.

The first question Skye needed to answer was this: Why in the world had Annette been dressed as a witch when she was supposed to be the Bride of Frankenstein? Both the witches and Mrs. Frankenstein wore green makeup, so all Annette would have had to do was stick on the prosthetic nose and chin. Still, how had she had time to change costumes, arrive at Skye’s assigned spot, and get herself killed?