Murder of a Royal Pain

Skye hissed at Earl, “Shut up.” Then she turned to Zinnia and said, “You know Earl, Mrs. Idell. His reality check bounced long ago.”

“You ain’t got no call to be talking about me that way.” Earl gave Skye a hurt look. “I ain’t never bounced a check. I ain’t even got a checking account.”

Zinnia’s expression hardened. “That doesn’t give him the right to come in here and scare everyone half to death.” Her voice was querulous. “I ought to tie that long ponytail of his to the short hair on his ass.”

Skye made a placating gesture at Zinnia. “Earl doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just a prong short of a plug.”

Mrs. Idell scratched her head with her gun hand, and everyone around them ducked. “Then what’s he doing here?”

Relieved that Zinnia was talking instead of shooting, Skye switched her attention back to the Doozier. “What are you doing here, Earl?”

“I heard that some ghosts were bothering you last Friday, Miz Skye, and I came to take care of them.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Earl, but I’m fine.” Skye made a shooing motion with her hands. “Why don’t you go to the Brown Bag and have a nice cold beer?” She dug in her tote bag and came out with a five-dollar bill. “My treat.”

“Nosirreebob.” Earl licked his lips, but shook his head. “I heard you were so scared they found you curled up in the fecal position. And that ain’t right.”

He was correct on that point. It wasn’t right. Skye’s brow furrowed. She fixed him with a hard stare and demanded in her best teacher voice, “Who told you that?”

“I can’t rightly say, Miz Skye.”

Earl’s expression had gone from stubborn to mulish, and Skye knew she had to rethink her approach. The Dooziers were not your run-of-the-mill Scumble River family, and her usual methods didn’t work with them.

The Doozier family was legendary—colorful and boisterous didn’t begin to describe them. They were a bit like Bigfoot, but a lot more visible. Members of an extended clan of misfits called the Red Raggers, they seemed to be around whenever there was a troublesome situation, and Earl was their king.

The Red Raggers didn’t usually make the first move, but they never missed an opportunity to make the second, especially if it involved a chance to fight or to make a profit.

Red Raggers didn’t have stock portfolios—they had lottery tickets. They didn’t have retirement plans—they had money buried in mason jars in their backyard. They didn’t order personalized license plates—their kin made them in the local prison.

Earl regarded Skye as an honorary Doozier because of all she’d done for his children, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews in her job as a school psychologist. And in return, Skye had developed a certain respect for Earl and his relatives. Not to mention they had managed to save her butt on more than a few occasions. Unhappily, this meant they now treated her like their pet hound dog—with affectionate indifference, unless someone bothered her; then it was all-out war.

While Skye had been mentally reviewing the Red Raggers’ résumé, Earl had stuck his hand into his pants pocket, and Zinnia had jerked her gun back toward him while ordering him to freeze.

Earl ignored the irate woman. He thrust a fistful of white rectangles in the air and said, “Here’s my business card. I hear a lot of you good folks will be having trouble with spooks in your houses, and my rates are real reasonable.” Zinnia fired a shot into the Shop-Vac at the Ghostflusher’s feet. At the resounding boom, Earl leapt behind Skye and bawled, “Save me! Save me!”

“Hold your fire.” Skye stepped as far away from the gunwoman as she could. “Remember, this is Earl Doozier. He’s not all there.” She pointed to the side of her forehead and twirled her finger.

Earl bleated, “That ain’t a nice thing to say about a friend who’s jist trying to help you and the community out, Miz Skye.”

“Shut up, Earl.” Skye looked nervously at Zinnia, who was a few bullets short of a clip herself. “Mrs. Idell, how about you escort everyone into the lobby and let me sort this out with Earl.”

Zinnia didn’t budge.

“Really, he doesn’t mean any harm,” Skye pleaded. “It’s just that his antenna doesn’t pick up all the channels.”

“Miz Skye!” Earl fussed. “You know we got cable.”

She ignored him. “Look, give us some room. You still have the gun. If he tries anything, you can shoot him.”

“Hush, Miz Skye! You’re gonna get me kilt!”

Zinnia shrugged, then, along with Dr. Paine, moved the crowd out of the hall and into the lobby, leaving Skye alone with Earl. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the outside door slammed open, and the queen of the Red Raggers burst into the passageway.

Skye whimpered. Just what she needed. Earl’s wife, Glenda, had hair like a skunk’s fur, breasts like a porn star’s, and the personality of a Tasmanian devil.

Ignoring Skye, Glenda glared at her husband. “Earl Doozier,” she screamed, “you get your ass home right this minute.”

Earl backed up, keeping Skye between him and his bride. “But, sweetie, I told you I was startin’ a new business.”