Murder of a Royal Pain

Skye tried to frame the right question, but Vince broke the silence first, saying in a raw, hurt voice, “Loretta dumped me last night.”

“What?” It was the last thing Skye had expected to hear. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Vince had been the dumper, but her handsome brother was rarely, if ever, the dumpee.

“She said we just aren’t right for each other. We have different goals, different dreams.”

“Maybe she meant you aren’t serious. Are you? Serious, I mean, about her?”

He poured another shot and stared at the golden liquid before answering, “Maybe.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly did you tell her?” Skye knew Vince was fairly verbal for a guy, but he was still a guy. “What is the basis of your relationship with her?”

He shrugged. “We didn’t talk about that.”

“Do you want to have a serious, maybe-leading-to-marriage, relationship with Loretta?”

Vince half nodded, then shook his head. “It’s no use. What she really meant was that she’s an important criminal attorney and I do hair for a living. Her family is rich and powerful, and ours is blue-collar. The only place we have any influence is in a town of three thousand people.”

“Loretta’s not like that.”

“I knew you’d take her side.”

“I’m not taking her side, but she is my friend and I know what she’s like.” Skye put her hand over Vince’s, stopping him from taking another drink. “But you’re my brother. I’ll always be on your side.”

“Well, she’s made up her mind.” Despair and anger were mixed in his voice. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.” He slumped back in his chair.

Skye wondered if she should try to speak to Loretta. Probably not. At least, not if she wanted to keep their friendship intact. Still, maybe just a friendly call to say hi might be in order.

Vince threw back another shot of tequila, wiped his mouth, and said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay.” Skye moved the liquor bottle out of her brother’s reach. “But no more of this.”

“So.” Vince tipped his chair so he was balanced on the two back legs. “What’s this I hear about you and Wally breaking up?”

CHAPTER 13

These Are the Times

“What?” Without thinking, Skye picked up the glass in front of her and downed the contents. The straight tequila burned like liquid fire. Choking, she gasped, “Where . . . did . . . you . . . hear . . . that?”

“All the Saturday regulars were talking about it today.” Vince dropped his chair back down on all four legs, stretched across the table, grabbed the bottle of booze, and poured himself and Skye another shot.

Vince’s regulars were the ladies that still got their hair “done” every week. Most wore styles that had been all the rage in the fifties and sixties, when poodle cuts, beehives, and the ever-popular bouffant were considered cutting-edge. Colors ranged from pure white to ash blond, with the occasional blue rinse for extra-special occasions. These women were the Internet of Scumble River. They had invented a form of instant messaging long before Skye and Vince were born.

“You’d think they’d be talking about Annette Paine’s murder, not me,” Skye snapped once she stopped coughing.

“They had plenty of time for both.” Vince smirked. “Besides, they find you more interesting than a dead body.”

“Great.”

“The radio didn’t say it was murder. How do you know so much?” Vince demanded.

Skye explained her involvement, then asked, “What did your regulars say about Wally and me?” Could Wally have broken up with her behind her back? How would he do that? Did he take out an ad in the Laurel Herald News? He couldn’t have put it in the Scumble River Star—the local paper came out only on Wednesdays.

“When Sally stopped by the police station yesterday to bring her son, Anthony, his supper, Thea told her that Wally up and left town last night without giving them any warning. She also informed Sally that Quirk claims he is under orders not to tell anyone where the chief was going or why he left or how long he’d be gone.”

Skye felt her heart start again. “I know where Wally is and why he’s there. And I certainly understand his desire not to have the whole town know his business. Just because he had to go out of town doesn’t mean we broke up. How do people come up with this stuff?”

“Search me.” Vince twitched his shoulders. “But Masie, the waitress at the diner out on the interstate—you know, the place with the homemade pies—blabbed to Hilda this morning while they were both waiting for their prescriptions to be filled at Bate’s Pharmacy that late last night when she was coming home from work, she saw you parked on the side of the road with that new reporter from the Star.”

“It wasn’t that late,” Skye protested. “After the police let us all go, he drove me home. He stopped the car to ask me a few questions, hoping to get a story for the paper. We were there all of two minutes. Nothing happened.”

“Hey.” Vince put his hands up. “I believe you. I’m only warning you what’s going around town.”

“Thank God Mom is in Vegas.”