Murder of a Royal Pain

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?”