Murder of a Royal Pain

She usually managed to nab a seat in the back, preferring to be one of the observers rather than one of the observed, but in order to do that she had to get there at least twenty minutes early. Wally’s call had put her behind schedule, which meant she had to walk the entire length of the aisle to the very front. She could feel the congregation’s eyes following her every step, like a herd of hungry cows watching the bale of hay being put in their feed trough.

In Scumble River, people attended church for different reasons—some to worship God, others to exchange the latest gossip. Skye was sure the latter group’s focus today was the haunted-house murder.

Her relief at sliding into a pew was short-lived when she saw that her seatmates were Dylan Paine and his daughter, Linnea. Skye leaned toward them and whispered how sorry she was for their loss. Dr. Paine nodded, keeping his expression neutral, but Linnea burst into tears. Skye patted the girl’s hand and made comforting sounds. As they stood for the processional, Dr. Paine put his arm around his daughter and handed her a handkerchief. Skye was reminded that Annette may have been an annoyance to some people, but her daughter was certainly grieving for her.

As always, Mass was both soothing and uplifting, and Skye felt herself unwind. Father Burns achieved a perfect balance between demonstrating concern for Annette and her family, and exuding confidence that good would triumph over evil.

Clearly he knew of his flock’s tendency to spread stories, because he ended the service with a gentle admonishment: “Let us all pray; Lord, please keep your arm around my shoulder to keep me safe, and your hand over my mouth to keep me compassionate.”

As the recessional played and Skye made her way down the aisle, she noticed that Dr. Paine and his daughter were stopped time after time, by people shaking his hand and hugging Linnea.

Sadly, Father Burns’s reprimand had little effect. Once Annette’s family departed, the rumor mill revved up, and Skye overheard several groups of people at the rear of the church swapping theories about the murder.

They were all so busy getting their own opinions across, no one seemed to notice Skye, and she was able to slip behind them. She hoped that they might give her a lead, so she pretended to read the bulletin board on the back wall. Using only her peripheral vision, she kept her face averted, but her ears tuned in to what was being said.

A man dressed in a shiny polyester suit and cowboy boots stated, “Junior told me that the haunted house was black as the inside of a bull, and no one was where they were supposed to be, so anyone could’ve killed her.”

A grandmotherly-looking woman sighed. “But who would want to kill a pretty girl like that?”

Girl? Skye rolled her eyes. Annette hadn’t been a girl since Ronald Reagan was president.

The woman standing next to the polyester cowboy patted her hair, which was teased and sprayed into the shape of a helmet. “Pretty is as pretty does,” she interjected. “Annette liked to get her own way and could be real nasty if things weren’t going how she wanted them to.”

“I think it’s terrorists,” the man in the boots replied. “Wally should call in Homeland Security. Those Moose-limbs hate American women.”

Skye blinked. It sounded as if he thought Bullwinkle, armed with a tree branch, had killed Annette.

Helmet Hair poked him in the side with her elbow. “You think everything is terrorists, Burt. Every time the chickens don’t lay as many eggs as you figure they should, you want to call the FBI.”

“Thelma’s right, Burt.” A man with slicked-back hair and a mean mouth said. “Why would terrorists kill an over-the-hill prom queen?”

“Yeah.” Thelma stuck out her chin. “Besides, everyone knows it was her husband.”

“What in tarnation are you talking about? Why would Dr. Paine kill his wife?” Burt shot Thelma a dirty look. “Did she disagree with everything he said and try to make him look like a fool?”

“Because Annette caught him messing around. I heard she threatened to divorce him and take half of everything,” Thelma answered with a malicious look in her porcine eyes. “And while he may want to trade his forty-year-old wife for two twenties, he doesn’t want to trade his fancy lifestyle for the one he’d get after she took him to the cleaner’s.”

“That would do it.” The grandmotherly woman nodded. “Guys like that want their first wives to just disappear. They act like she had nothing to do with their success, and they don’t care if their kids have to eat cereal three meals a day, as long as the men don’t have to skip a golf game or give up their plasma TVs.”

Burt protested: “If Dr. Paine is such a sleaze, how come everyone keeps him as their dentist?”

“It’s like that joke: What do you call a male slut?” Thelma paused, then said, “A man.” She cackled at her own witticism. “If he was a woman and behaved that way, no one would go to him, but a man can screw his brains out and no one cares.” She shrugged. “Besides, he’s a great dentist.”