Murder of a Royal Pain

McCabe twisted around, his hand on the gun on his hip. He bore an unfortunate resemblance to Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith Show, and Skye wondered whether he, like Barney, was allowed to have only a single bullet; and if so, did he keep it in his shirt pocket as the TV character had?

Once McCabe saw Skye, he scowled. “You got no business sneaking up on an armed man like that. I could have shot you dead.”

“Sorry.” Skye put up her hands. “I had no idea you were so jumpy. Maybe you should lay off the caffeine.”

“I’m not jumpy. I’m alert.” McCabe hitched up his pants and bristled. “You gotta be on your toes at all times in this job. You can’t let the perps get the drop on you.”

Skye restrained herself from pointing out that on a Saturday night in Scumble River the only “perps” McCabe was likely to run into would be drunks. And they’d be out on the roads causing accidents, not in the PD’s coffee room.

McCabe waited a few seconds for her to speak, and when she didn’t, he tugged at the collar of his uniform shirt. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I stopped by to pick up some papers that the chief wanted me to look over.” Skye crossed her fingers. “You did hear that the police department hired me as their psychological consultant, didn’t you?”

“Sure I did. Nothing gets past me. I got my ear to the ground and my eye on the prize.” He puffed out his chest and thrust his head forward. “You working the murder?”

“Yes.” She was working on the case, just not officially—yet. She would be as soon as she talked to Wally. “I was tied up today with some family business, so I didn’t get a chance to discuss things with Officer Quirk. Did he brief you when you came on duty?”

“Sure. Me and Roy go way back.”

“And?” Skye asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“It’s a mess. With all the costumes and people running around in the dark, no one has an alibi.”

Skye couldn’t believe her luck. “Yeah.” McCabe was spilling everything. “That’s a problem. Any idea of a motive for the killing?”

“Nah.” McCabe gave up on the soda machine and poured himself a cup of coffee instead. “No one seemed to like the vic, but no one seemed to hate her enough to kill her either.” He leaned a skinny hip against the counter. “That’s something you’d probably work on, right?”

“Right.” Skye wondered if Quirk knew about the battle for the Promfest leadership, not to mention the battle for whose daughter would be crowned prom queen. She doubted he read Kurt Michaels’s gossip column. “Did Roy say whether Evie Harrison was questioned?”

“Harrison . . . Harrison. I don’t rightly remember, but the name sounds familiar.”

“Well, concentrate.” Skye stepped closer. “Didn’t you take notes?”

“Hey.” McCabe’s expression turned suspicious. “If you’re the psychological consultant, why are you asking me? Why don’t you look at the file?”

Skye backed off. “I wanted to save some time.” Shoot. He was smarter than he looked.

“Where’s the gall-darn fire?” He took a sip of coffee. “The body’s not going nowhere.”

Skye’s voice was knife-edged. “Even you must know that the more time goes by, the less likely the case is to be solved.”

“Don’t be lecturing me, missy.” McCabe took off his hat and hit the side of his leg with it. “I’m a professional peace officer.”

“It sure doesn’t look that way.” Skye shook her head. “Maybe if the chief knew that you are unaware that time is of the essence in a murder investigation, you would no longer be working for the Scumble River PD. Heck, maybe the new sheriff might be interested as well.”

McCabe’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a rowboat on Lake Michigan. “Now, Skye, you wouldn’t tell him that, would you?” His tone had swung from pompous to pleading.

“Well . . .” Skye realized she had the deputy over a barrel. “No, not if you can remember what you heard about Evie Harrison.”

“Right. No need to bother the chief . . . or the sheriff.” McCabe backed toward the exit. “I’m sure when you and Wally are together, you have better things to do than talk about me.”

Skye raised an eyebrow, but let that comment pass. “So, then, what’s the scoop on Evie?”

“They found her in her car.” McCabe put his hand on the doorknob. “She was drunker than a skunk and says she doesn’t remember anything after putting on her costume and taking her position at the haunted house.”

“Did they give her a Breathalyzer or test her blood?”

“She wouldn’t blow into the Breathalyzer.” McCabe opened the door. “And the law says we can’t force her. If she was operating a moving vehicle, she could lose her license for refusing, but since she wasn’t, there was nothing we could do. You need a court order for a blood test.”

“Does Quirk believe her?”

McCabe nodded.

“Okay, one more question.”

McCabe froze. “What?”

“Is Quirk considering the fact that Annette Paine might not have been the intended victim?”

“Nope.” McCabe had nearly disappeared into the garage; only his pointy nose was still in the coffee room.

“So Quirk is sure the murderer meant to kill Annette?” Skye probed.