Murder of a Royal Pain

CHAPTER 10

A Night of Mystery

A few minutes after Mr. Miles and Bree left the building, an officer came into the hallway and spoke to Frankenstein, aka Dylan Paine, Annette’s husband. Funny, Skye didn’t remember seeing him among the crowd as they had waited for the county crime techs to arrive, or even after everyone had been interviewed. How could she have missed a six-foot-four green monster?

As Skye watched, Dr. Paine nodded a few times at what the policeman was saying, then pointed to the trio of zombie cheerleaders. Both men went over to the group, and Dr. Paine whispered into Linnea’s ear. She looked puzzled, but followed her father and the policeman through the door leading to the inner passageway.

Fifteen minutes later, Simon emerged wheeling a gurney that held a black body bag. Skye made her way to his side and walked with him toward the exit, speaking softly. “Was the witch Annette Paine?”

He gave a brief nod.

“Did they discover anything else?”

“Not that I heard.” The low volume of his voice made it clear that what he said was for her ears only. “The crime techs are still working.”

“Any sign of Evie Harrison?”

“I didn’t see her.” Before Simon pushed the gurney through the door, he paused and asked, “Are you okay to get home by yourself?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Skye watched as Simon and Xavier loaded the body bag into the back of the hearse. She was astonished at how easily she and Simon had fallen back into their former roles. They had broken up over a year ago, and she’d been dating Wally for nearly that long, yet it had felt right to be working as a team with Simon.

She reassured herself that this marked the beginning of a new friendship with her ex, nothing more. Certainly it had nothing to do with her relationship with Wally. She relaxed. It felt good to be at ease with Simon again.

Another half hour went by before everyone was dismissed. Skye was among the last to leave. She had loitered in the bathroom as the women had taken turns getting out of their costumes and wiping off their makeup, hoping to overhear something, but nothing had been said that she didn’t already know.

Speculation about the night’s events ran wild. No one seemed to have heard that the dead woman was Annette Paine, and no one mentioned Evie Harrison’s absence. With some of the haunted-house workers held in the lobby and others kept in the hallway, and with many people leaving as soon as they were allowed to, Skye wasn’t surprised that everyone was still in the dark.

Because she’d been late, Skye had been forced to park at the very back of the lot, and the asphalt appeared endless as she trudged to the farthest corner. Clouds covered the moon, and the chilled, damp air made her shiver. She pulled her sweater coat more tightly around her, wishing she had worn a heavier jacket. She felt achy and exhausted, but her thoughts kept turning to the dead woman. Who would want to kill Annette Paine? Yes, she could be a royal pain at times, but enough to cause someone to commit murder?

Abruptly something clicked in her mind, and a terrifying realization washed over her. What if Annette wasn’t the intended victim? The killer could have been after anyone who was supposed to have been dressed as a witch. The murderer could have been after Nina or Hope or . . . Skye gulped, facing the undeniable and horrible fact that she might have been the killer’s target.

The idea that someone might want to see her dead made Skye stumble, but a hand reached out and steadied her before she fell. Screaming, she pulled loose from the grip and took off running.

She was digging frantically through her backpack for the car keys when a voice yelled after her, “Skye, wait. Stop. It’s me. Kurt. Kurt Michaels.”

She turned her head, but kept running until she recognized the man chasing her. She paused with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. She really, really had to get back to swimming in the mornings.

Kurt caught up with her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“What are you doing skulking around a dark parking lot at ten o’clock at night?”

“Waiting for you.” He offered her an easy smile. “By the way, what happened in there? I heard the call on my scanner, but they didn’t say what was wrong, only that you had requested the police and an ambulance. Then the coroner showed up with the hearse.”

“I can’t talk about it.” Skye was glad they hadn’t put the murder out over the radio.

“Sure you can.” Kurt put a hand on her arm and tried to steer her to a black Land Rover parked next to her Bel Air. “Why don’t we go get a drink at the Brown Bag and you can tell me all about it.”

She shook his hand off again. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

“The whole word.” The corners of his eyes crinkled attractively when he grinned. “It’s not a part of a reporter’s vocabulary.”

“Have it your way.” Skye found her keys and, after dropping them twice, unlocked her car. “But I’m going home. There’s a hot bath there and a glass of Diet Coke with my name on it.”

“Your hands are shaking. I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive.” He inserted himself between her and the open car door, blocking her access. “If you don’t want a drink, we could get coffee.”

“Get out of my way or I’ll Taser you.” Skye reached into her backpack and pulled out her stun gun. “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“Okay. Okay.” Kurt held up his hands and backed away. “But I am driving you home.”

She started to shake her head, but she noticed that his blue eyes had changed to a steely gray, and he no longer looked like the flirtatious, carefree reporter she had come to know. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but he seemed different . . . older. He stood straighter, his shoulders squared, and his features had lost any hint of boyishness.

He took her silence as refusal and said, “You’re pale, you’re trembling so hard I’m afraid you’ll accidently pull the trigger on that stun gun of yours, and you can barely stand up.”

“Don’t pretend to be my friend and concerned about me.” He was even more attractive at this moment, and Skye was afraid he’d persuade her to tell him everything that had happened. “You just want a story.”

“I do want to be your friend.” He gave Skye a long look. “I want a story, too. Surely those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Skye handed him the keys. “Fine.” The thought of trying to navigate the dark, twisting road between the old American Legion hall and her house was overwhelming. “But I’m not talking to you.” He was right: She wasn’t in any shape to drive.

“Okay, whatever you say.”

As he started the Chevy, he commented, “I really love this car. I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it. I always wanted a vintage Bel Air.”

Skye ignored him. He wasn’t getting her to talk that easily.

“So, do you think A Ghoul’s Night Out will be open tomorrow?”

She shrugged, praying that the answer was no. She never wanted to step foot in that building again, especially while it was still decorated as a haunted house.

“It’d be a shame to waste everyone’s work.” Kurt shot her a quick glance.

“True.”

“I’ll bet it will be open.” He twisted the wheel to avoid a pothole. “No way will Annette Paine let anything short of a nuclear war stand in her way. Closing down a big moneymaker like this would ruin her. She’d be impeached, and Evie would get to be the Promfest chair.”

“I doubt Annette will care.” Crap! The words had popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I, uh, I mean that—”

“Why would Annette all of a sudden stop being obsessed with this fund-raiser?”

Skye bit her lip.

“Did something happen to Annette? Was she the one in the body bag?”

Skye closed her eyes.

“Don’t try pretending you’re asleep.” Kurt pulled the Bel Air over to the side of the road. “Not after dropping that bombshell.”

“I can’t tell you.” Skye gritted her teeth. “Now, start this car moving or I’m getting out.”

“I’m truly not trying to be a jerk about this, but I need to know what happened.”

“No, you don’t need to know.” Skye unbuckled her seat belt. “You want to know.”

“You’re wrong.”

“First, the paper doesn’t even come out until Wednesday, and I’m sure the police will make a statement in plenty of time for you to get the story in that edition.” Skye fingered the door handle. She really didn’t think she had the energy to walk home, but she wouldn’t let him bully her into saying anything more.

“What’s second?” Kurt reached across her and rebuckled her seat belt.

“Second.” Skye held up two fingers. “Second, freedom of the press does not mean the press gets to trample all over other people’s freedoms.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” Skye was so startled she forgot what her third reason had been and instead asked, “Since when do reporters think that any other freedom is as important as the First Amendment?”

“Not all reporters are blind to the implications of what happens when that freedom is abused.”

“The ones I’ve met have been.”

“Are you sure?”

Skye groaned and rested her pounding head on the back of the seat. “I’ve had a terrible day and I’m really tired.” She wasn’t up to participating in a philosophical discussion. “Won’t you please just drive me home?”

“Okay.” Kurt sighed and started the car. “But I hope there doesn’t come a time when you’re sorry you refused to tell me what I need to know.”

“I hope so, too.” There was an expression on his face she couldn’t read. Was he threatening her? His words gave that impression, but his body language seemed to be saying something else.

Skye could see her driveway ahead when Kurt said, “Look, I promise what you tell me is off the record. Just nod. Is Annette Paine dead?”

Not sure why she was giving in, Skye nodded.

“Was she murdered?”

Skye shrugged—though she was fairly sure Annette had been murdered. Why else would she be clutching a rope that had clearly been tightly pressed across her neck at one time?

“Shit!” Kurt pounded the steering wheel.

Skye nodded again. The whole thing was, indeed, shitty.

They were both silent as Kurt stopped the Bel Air in front of her house; then Skye said, “Thank you for driving me home. Go ahead and take the Bel Air back to the American Legion. I’ll get someone to give me a ride there to pick it up tomorrow.”

“What about the keys?”

“Put them under the floor mat and lock the doors.” Skye got out of the car. “I’ve got another set.”

“Okay.” His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered to herself as she waved, watching him make a three-point turn, then drive away in a cloud of dust. Kurt Michaels was a dangerous man—smart, attractive, and he had a silver tongue. Any one of those traits could get her in trouble; all three together spelled heartache for some unsuspecting woman. Skye vowed to avoid him in the future.

The steps leading to her front porch looked like Mount Everest as she started her climb. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and when she reached the top, she took a deep breath. Before she could exhale, she heard the porch swing squeak.

She whirled around and stared into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

Running footsteps answered her.