Murder of a Royal Pain (2 page)

“Not a Monster of a Chance” June 2001

“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales” March 2003

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters
and events portrayed in these pages are entirely
fictional, and any resemblance to living
persons is pure coincidence.

O
n Mondays, school psychologist Skye Denison liked to play a game called Name That Disaster as she made the ten-minute drive to work. It entailed guessing which calamity, catastrophe, or cataclysm would be waiting for her when she arrived.

Skye’s assignment included the elementary, junior high, and high schools in Scumble River, Illinois. This meant the crises could vary from a little boy who misunderstood his mother’s instructions to stick it out, to a thirteen-year-old methamphetamine user who thought he was Superman trying to fly from the roof of the junior high, to a cheerleader holding her own private sex party for the winning basketball team . . . or any little messes in between.

It was assumed Skye would automatically take on any duty that even bordered the realm of special education. In addition, her job description was vague enough to allow the principals to assign her any task they didn’t wish to perform—up to and including picking up their dry cleaning, although, to be fair, none of them had tried that yet.

One of the chores Homer Knapik, the high school principal, had recently handed over to Skye was to be faculty liaison to the Promfest committee. Promfest was an event designed to discourage the junior and senior classes and their dates from getting drunk, crashing their cars, and making babies after the prom.

Homer had assured Skye that it was an easy assignment: Just attend a few meetings and help put up some crepe paper. But as she approached the high school cafeteria, where the first gathering of the Promfest committee was being held, she could hear the raised voices through the closed doors, and she knew the principal had lied to her—again.

Skye crept into the cavernous space, willing herself to become invisible, which was a stretch, considering her generous curves, long, curly chestnut hair, and dramatic emerald green eyes. Her back against the rear wall, she surveyed the crowd.

The room was filled almost entirely with women in their late thirties and early forties. An occasional male also occupied the picnic-style tables arranged in rows facing the stainless-steel serving counter, but the men gave the impression they were ready to make a run for freedom at any moment.

Skye noticed one guy sitting by himself, and took a seat at his table. He was the only man in the room who didn’t look as if he wished he were somewhere else. Instead, his expression veered between amusement and disbelief as he scribbled furiously in a small notebook.

Skye smiled at him and asked, “Who are they?” gesturing to the front of the room, where two attractive women stood nose-to-nose yelling at each other.

“The one with the black hair is Annette Paine, and the blonde is Evie Harrison. They both think they’re this year’s Promfest chairwoman.”

“And they want to be?” Skye couldn’t imagine why anyone would actively seek that position. “Why?”

“Lots of power and a good way to strengthen their daughters’ chances of being elected prom queen.” He gave Skye a sidelong glance. “Both of them are former queens themselves—Evie in 1983, and Annette in 1982.”

“Oh. I heard they were campaigning for their daughters, but didn’t realize Promfest was a part of the battle.” Skye cringed. “This is going to get ugly.”

“Already has.”

Abruptly the shouting increased in volume, and Skye’s attention was drawn back to the front of the room. Several women had left their seats. About half were crowded behind Annette, and the remaining faction stood behind Evie. It was beginning to look a lot like a scene from
West Side Story.
Skye wondered which were Sharks and which were Jets.

“I don’t know where you got the impression that you were chairing this committee.” Annette poked Evie in the shoulder with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

“I got the
impression
from the election last year.” Evie bristled. “You remember the election, don’t you?”

Annette smoothed a strand of hair back into her chignon. “That vote was invalid. We didn’t have a quorum. The legitimate election took place the next week.” Her icy blue gaze lasered into the brown eyes of her rival. “As I recall, you claimed you couldn’t make it because you
had
to visit your parents in Florida.”

“You deliberately held that meeting while I was gone.” Evie stamped her Etienne Aigner–shod foot on the worn gray linoleum. “A meeting you had no right to call.”

“As the assistant chair of the prior year’s committee, I was certainly within my rights to call a meeting.” Annette flicked a piece of lint from her Yves Saint Laurent cashmere cardigan.

“That committee had already been disbanded.” Evie’s voice climbed into that high, squeaky pitch that only other women and dogs can hear. “You had no authority whatsoever.”

“You’re questioning my authority?” Annette seemed to be struggling for breath, and one of her lackeys handed her an inhaler. Impatiently she took a quick puff, then said to Evie, “I wouldn’t go down that road if I were you.” When Evie’s silence lengthened, Annette prodded: “What? Are you lost in thought?” She arched a flawlessly plucked brow and mocked, “I imagine that’s pretty unfamiliar territory for you.”

Evie lunged at her rival, hands wrapping around Annette’s throat. Annette grabbed two handfuls of Evie’s hair and pulled. Before Skye could react, the two women’s supporters had dragged them apart.

Both groups stood panting and glaring at one another until a voice from one of the tables rang out: “Let’s just take another vote and get on with it. Some of us have lives.”

The women who were still seated clearly didn’t care who the chair was and murmured their agreement, but the ones standing protested.

Skye looked at her watch and blew out an impatient breath. Much as she hated to get involved, she would have to become an active participant and hurry the committee along. If she didn’t get out of here by the end of first hour, her whole morning’s schedule would be messed up. She was supposed to be starting Brady Russell’s three-year reevaluation.

Students who received special education services were required by law to be tested by the school psychologist triennially. These reevals made up the bulk of her duties, and if she fell behind, she would have to cut her counseling and consultation hours—the part of her job she most enjoyed.

She required at least ninety minutes without interruption to give Brady the intelligence test. She would have to find another couple of hours to administer the academic and processing assessments on another day, not to mention time to do the classroom observation, teacher interviews, write the report, and attend the multidisciplinary meeting. Some school districts had gone to abbreviated reevals, but not Scumble River.

With the clock ticking away precious minutes, Skye stood, ready to make an impassioned plea along the lines of “Can’t we all just get along?” when Annette leaned toward Evie and whispered furiously in the blonde’s ear. Evie narrowed her eyes, jerked her chin for Annette to follow her, and moved away from the others.

Skye moved closer to the man next to her and lowered her voice. “Aside from Evie and Annette wanting their daughters elected prom queen, I can’t imagine why being in charge of putting up a few streamers, hiring a deejay, and setting out some chips and punch is such a big deal.”

“Where have you been? From what I’ve heard this morning, maybe that was true when Promfest was originally conceived, but each year the parents try to outdo what was done before. Nowadays they take over half the school, set up inflatable adult-size ball pits and crawling tubes, hire magicians and hypnotists, and give away door prizes that range from dorm-size refrigerators to flat-screen TVs.”

“You’re kidding!”
Shoot!
She had heard rumblings from the students that Promfest had become more elaborate, but she hadn’t taken too much notice, since most of the kids she worked with had more serious problems than what to do after the prom—not that many of them even attended the dance.

“Not at all.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “There’re also the party favors, which last year consisted of a full-size wheeled suitcase filled with DVDs, popcorn, chocolates, et cetera.”

“Holy smokes.” Skye was stunned.
Note to self: Pay more attention to what’s going on in the whole school, not just the part concerning the kids I work with.

“Think a teenage Chuck E. Cheese party on steroids,” he added.

While Skye was attempting to come to terms with that image, a loud gasp drew her gaze to where Annette and Evie stood off to the side.

As Skye watched, the blonde shot Annette a look of pure loathing, walked back to the center of the room, and announced, “For the good of the Promfest and the sake of our children’s special night, I concede the chair to Annette Paine.”

Skye sat back down and stared speculatively at Evie, then raised an eyebrow at the man next to her. “What in the world could Annette have said to make her give up a position that was obviously important to her?”

“Got me.” He tapped his pen on his notebook. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Oh?” It wasn’t often that Skye met someone who was even nosier than she was. “Why?”

“It’s my job.”

“Really?” Skye studied him for a moment. He was in his mid-thirties and devilishly handsome. “What do you do?”

“I’m the new reporter for the
Scumble River Star
.” He held out a tanned hand to Skye. “My name’s Kurt Michaels. I’m also starting a column called ‘Talk of the Town.’ ”

“Gossip?”

“I like to call it vital information.” He shrugged. “After all, it’s the lifeblood of any small town.”

“True, but considering you’re an outsider, will people give you the real scoop?”

“I guess we’ll see. My first column is in this week’s paper. But ask yourself this. You’re a native Scumble Riverite, correct?”

Skye nodded.

“And which of us knew about the feud between Annette and Evie for Promfest chair? Not to mention the rivalry between their daughters Linnea and Cheyenne for prom queen.” He got up and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.” Over his shoulder he added, “Nothing else interesting is going to happen.”

Skye watched him as he left, his powerful, well-muscled body moving with an easy grace. On second thought, considering his sexy smile, hot body, and oodles of charm, the ladies of Scumble River would almost certainly be willing to tell him all their secrets, not to mention those of their neighbors and friends. Heck, if he took off his shirt and gave them a look at his six-pack abs, they’d probably be willing to make up a scandal or two.

Kurt was right: The rest of the meeting was a snooze. It started with Annette explaining that the main mission of the Promfest committee was to solicit donations and raise money, and eventually led to her announcement, “The first fund-raiser of the year is our A Ghoul’s Night Out haunted house. We need volunteers to sell tickets, construct the set, and act as the monsters. I’m sending around a sign-up sheet, and I expect to see not only your name, but those of your spouse and teenager, as well.”

There was a murmur from the crowd, and several hands shot into the air.

Annette ignored them, passing the clipboard and a pen to those at the table closest to her. “Remember, in order for your student to fully enjoy Promfest, he or she will need a bank account full of Prom Bucks to spend on food, games, and activities. And you can earn these PBs with every hour you volunteer, prize you solicit, and donation you make. Just for attending today’s meeting you’ve earned your teen five thousand PBs.”

Skye watched in amazement as the parents vied to sign away their free time; then she quietly got up and slipped out of the room before the volunteer list reached her table. Not that she would have volunteered for any activity, but she particularly hated haunted houses.

She hadn’t been in one since she was six years old, when her brother, Vince, who was ten at the time, abandoned her to go play with his friends. She had wandered around lost and crying until some adult finally noticed her and led her to an exit.

Skye shuddered at the memory, quickened her steps, and nearly ran toward the safety of her own office. A few weeks later, when she stood over the dead body of someone who had been vibrant and alive just a few minutes before, she thought back to this instant and realized how silly her fears had been. Because no make-believe monster could possibly inspire the terror she felt in that moment, knowing that a real murderer was somewhere very near.

A
s Skye slid into her desk chair, panting, she noticed the phone’s message light flashing. The bell would ring in five minutes. Three minutes later, Brady Russell would show up at her door expecting to be tested. Did she have time to listen to her voice mail and get set up for him as well?

Cradling the receiver between her neck and shoulder, Skye punched in her password—she knew she couldn’t concentrate with that little red light blinking. While she waited for her code to be approved, she grabbed Brady’s file and reread the note his mother had written her.

Skye vowed to try her darnedest to comply with Mrs. Russell’s request, and started to fill out the identifying data on the IQ protocol. She was figuring out his exact age—the current date minus his birthday—when the mechanical voice said, “You have three messages.”