Murder of a Royal Pain

“It’s just that I’m so glad to see you.” Frannie’s brown eyes were shiny with tears that she quickly blinked away; then she said, “And it’s freezing out here.”

“Yeah, two weeks ago it was in the seventies; then we had a hard freeze Tuesday night and the temperature hasn’t warmed up much since then.” Skye observed that Frannie wore only a T-shirt, jeans, and a fleece hoodie, none of which were warm enough to spend much time outdoors in during an Illinois October. “Wasn’t it cold in Chicago?”

“Not as bad.” Frannie twisted a glossy brown lock of hair around her finger. “You know the lake effect keeps it warmer there.”

“Right.” Skye noticed that Frannie had cut and flat-ironed her nearly waist-length waves. Her hair now hung in a straight curtain to the middle of her back. Skye decided to ignore the girl’s change in appearance and ask the more important question. “Are you home for a visit?” Not that that would explain why Frannie was camped out on Skye’s porch so late at night, but she had to start somewhere.

Her teeth chattering, Frannie stammered, “I-it’s a long story. Can we go inside?”

“Of course. Let me find my keys.” Skye reached into her backpack and started digging through her possessions before it dawned on her that her house keys were on the same ring as her car keys. “Shoot.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Kurt has them.”

“Who’s Kurt?” Frannie narrowed her eyes. “If you broke up with the chief, why didn’t you go back to Simon?”

“We are not having this discussion now. Or ever.” Skye knew that Frannie desperately wanted her and Simon to start seeing each other again. With Frannie’s father working for Simon, and her not having any siblings, she regarded Simon as the big brother she’d never had.

“But—”

“No.” Skye silenced the teen with her most quelling teacher look. “We need to figure out how to get inside. Then we can talk.”

“Don’t you keep a key hidden outside somewhere?”

Skye shook her head.

“Who has a spare?” Frannie took a cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and tried to hand it to Skye. “We can call someone.”

“No, I’m afraid we can’t.” Skye pushed the phone away. Her parents had left that afternoon for their trip to Las Vegas, and no one else had a key.

“Can you pick the lock?” Frannie was aware of some of Skye’s more unusual talents.

“Not these. I put in dead bolts to keep someone from doing that very thing.” Skye thought of an alternate solution: Frannie could drive Skye to the American Legion hall, where Skye could unlock the old Chevy with a hanger. “Do you have your dad’s truck?”

“No. Sorry. A guy from my dorm was going home for the weekend and dropped me off.”

“Darn.” Skye paced the length of the porch several times, then shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone to call to pick us up and give us a ride to my car. Uncle Charlie will already be in bed, Vince will still be out partying, and Owen would have a fit if I called Trixie this late. I guess we’ll have to break a window.” She led Frannie to the back of the house, took off her sweater coat, and draped it around the teen’s shoulders.

“This is sure a funny-looking trellis.” Frannie wrapped her hands around one of the wrought-iron rungs. They were covered with dead vines, but still appeared sturdy enough to support a person’s weight.

“It was designed to act as a fire escape in an emergency,” Skye explained. “During the summer, when the plants are all leafy and green, you can’t tell it’s a ladder.”

“That’s so cool.”

Skye looked up at the second-story balcony. The waning crescent moon glinted off the glass panes of the French doors. She removed the flashlight from her backpack and tucked it into her cleavage. It might not be able to provide any illumination, but it was the perfect tool for knocking a hole in a window.

Putting her foot on the first rung of the trellis-cum-ladder, Skye said to Frannie, “Go back around to the front door. I’ll let you in as soon as I get inside.”

Once she reached the top, Skye hoisted a leg onto the balcony and took the flashlight from her décolleté. She advanced to the door and put her arm back to swing the makeshift club at the pane, but a faint mewing sound stopped her short. Shoot. She didn’t want Bingo to get cut from flying shards.

Trying to scare him away, she tapped on the window, but he strolled nonchalantly to where the two doors met. He got on his back paws and stretched his front feet toward the knob. It was a lever-type handle that, if pressed either up or down, disengaged the lock.

Could she get Bingo to open the door? She grasped the handle to wiggle it, hoping the cat would bat it hard enough to unlock it, and nearly fell as the French door swung open. Had she forgotten to lock it? Another explanation was that Bingo had opened it sometime earlier. Either way, at least she didn’t have to break any glass, but it was time to put dead bolts on those doors.