Murder of a Royal Pain

“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.”