Denise Swanson - Murder of a Royal Pain

“You’re kidding!” Shoot! She had heard rumblings from the students that Promfest had become more elaborate, but she hadn’t taken too much notice, since most of the kids she worked with had more serious problems than what to do after the prom—not that many of them even attended the dance.

“Not at all.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “There’re also the party favors, which last year consisted of a full-size wheeled suitcase filled with DVDs, popcorn, chocolates, et cetera.”

“Holy smokes.” Skye was stunned. Note to self: Pay more attention to what’s going on in the whole school, not just the part concerning the kids I work with.

“Think a teenage Chuck E. Cheese party on steroids,” he added.

While Skye was attempting to come to terms with that image, a loud gasp drew her gaze to where Annette and Evie stood off to the side.

As Skye watched, the blonde shot Annette a look of pure loathing, walked back to the center of the room, and announced, “For the good of the Promfest and the sake of our children’s special night, I concede the chair to Annette Paine.”

Skye sat back down and stared speculatively at Evie, then raised an eyebrow at the man next to her. “What in the world could Annette have said to make her give up a position that was obviously important to her?”

“Got me.” He tapped his pen on his notebook. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Oh?” It wasn’t often that Skye met someone who was even nosier than she was. “Why?”

“It’s my job.”

“Really?” Skye studied him for a moment. He was in his mid-thirties and devilishly handsome. “What do you do?”

“I’m the new reporter for the Scumble River Star .” He held out a tanned hand to Skye. “My name’s Kurt Michaels. I’m also starting a column called ‘Talk of the Town.’ ”

“Gossip?”

“I like to call it vital information.” He shrugged. “After all, it’s the lifeblood of any small town.”

“True, but considering you’re an outsider, will people give you the real scoop?”

“I guess we’ll see. My first column is in this week’s paper. But ask yourself this. You’re a native Scumble Riverite, correct?”

Skye nodded.

“And which of us knew about the feud between Annette and Evie for Promfest chair? Not to mention the rivalry between their daughters Linnea and Cheyenne for prom queen.” He got up and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.” Over his shoulder he added, “Nothing else interesting is going to happen.”

Skye watched him as he left, his powerful, well-muscled body moving with an easy grace. On second thought, considering his sexy smile, hot body, and oodles of charm, the ladies of Scumble River would almost certainly be willing to tell him all their secrets, not to mention those of their neighbors and friends. Heck, if he took off his shirt and gave them a look at his six-pack abs, they’d probably be willing to make up a scandal or two.

Kurt was right: The rest of the meeting was a snooze. It started with Annette explaining that the main mission of the Promfest committee was to solicit donations and raise money, and eventually led to her announcement, “The first fund-raiser of the year is our A Ghoul’s Night Out haunted house. We need volunteers to sell tickets, construct the set, and act as the monsters. I’m sending around a sign-up sheet, and I expect to see not only your name, but those of your spouse and teenager, as well.”

There was a murmur from the crowd, and several hands shot into the air.

Annette ignored them, passing the clipboard and a pen to those at the table closest to her. “Remember, in order for your student to fully enjoy Promfest, he or she will need a bank account full of Prom Bucks to spend on food, games, and activities. And you can earn these PBs with every hour you volunteer, prize you solicit, and donation you make. Just for attending today’s meeting you’ve earned your teen five thousand PBs.”

Skye watched in amazement as the parents vied to sign away their free time; then she quietly got up and slipped out of the room before the volunteer list reached her table. Not that she would have volunteered for any activity, but she particularly hated haunted houses.

She hadn’t been in one since she was six years old, when her brother, Vince, who was ten at the time, abandoned her to go play with his friends. She had wandered around lost and crying until some adult finally noticed her and led her to an exit.

Skye shuddered at the memory, quickened her steps, and nearly ran toward the safety of her own office. A few weeks later, when she stood over the dead body of someone who had been vibrant and alive just a few minutes before, she thought back to this instant and realized how silly her fears had been. Because no make-believe monster could possibly inspire the terror she felt in that moment, knowing that a real murderer was somewhere very near.

CHAPTER 2

From This Moment On

As Skye slid into her desk chair, panting, she noticed the phone’s message light flashing. The bell would ring in five minutes. Three minutes later, Brady Russell would show up at her door expecting to be tested. Did she have time to listen to her voice mail and get set up for him as well?

Cradling the receiver between her neck and shoulder, Skye punched in her password—she knew she couldn’t concentrate with that little red light blinking. While she waited for her code to be approved, she grabbed Brady’s file and reread the note his mother had written her. Dear Ms. Denison,Brady did not fail English last year. He is just passing impaired. Please find out why and fix him.Sincerely,Dodie Russell

Skye vowed to try her darnedest to comply with Mrs. Russell’s request, and started to fill out the identifying data on the IQ protocol. She was figuring out his exact age—the current date minus his birthday—when the mechanical voice said, “You have three messages.”

Shoot. She’d been hoping for hang-ups, but nothing was ever quick and easy in this job.

“Message number one, left Monday, September thirteenth, at eight fifteen.”

There was a slight pause; then Homer’s voice boomed from the receiver: “Where in blue blazes are you? Come to my office immediately.”

The next one, left at eight twenty-five was also from the principal, but the volume of his voice had risen considerably. “Opal said you signed in at seven thirty. Are you ignoring me?”

By the time the last message was recorded, ten minutes ago, his irritated baritone blasted in her ear: “Get your butt down here ASAP. I don’t have all day to babysit this woman.”

Apparently the first crisis of the day had materialized. Skye reluctantly locked Brady’s file in her drawer, taped a note to the door telling him to go back to class, and hurried to the principal’s office.

Behind the counter, Opal Hill, the school secretary, said, “Thank goodness you’re here. Mr. Knapik has been looking all over for you.”

“Why didn’t he have you call me over the PA system?” Skye asked.

“It’s broken, as is the furnace, again.” Opal’s watery brown eyes made her look as if she were about to burst into tears.

“So I take it Homer is in a foul mood.”

“Oh, my, yes.” Opal’s pink nose twitched. “You’d better go right in.”

Skye took a few steps down a dark, narrow hall, knocked on the principal’s closed door, then opened it a crack. “You wanted to see me?”

A gruff voice yelled from behind a massive desk, “It’s about time. Why are you standing in the hall? Get your rear end in here.”

Skye took a calming breath. Homer was Homer, and she couldn’t change him at this stage in his life, which, metaphorically speaking, was about five minutes before he signed his retirement papers. Putting a pleasant expression on her face, she entered the office. A plump woman in her thirties with long reddish brown hair was seated on one of the visitors’ chairs.