Murder of a Royal Pain (24 page)

If she hadn’t had the whole team set up to evaluate the little Russian boy, she would have given up and gone home. Instead, she spent the rest of the time until his appointment brooding in her office at the grade school.

Later she decided she should have taken the sick day. Nothing Skye said to the boy in English, or Jackie said to him in Russian, seemed to make any impression. Instead, Vassily spent the time tearing around the room and destroying anything that was not nailed down.

His parents said his behavior was similar at home, and they were at their wits’ end. Skye assured Mr. and Mrs. Warner that she would include a behavior plan when she wrote her report. Developmentally, he appeared to be less than two years old.

Vassily had cut a wide swath of destruction through Skye’s office, and as she cleaned it up, she thought about the last few days. Chemical bombs at the high school, wannabe mommies at the junior high, and now a wild child at the elementary school—not to mention Annette’s death and Hope’s revelation about Quirk. What was next? An invasion by spacemen?

 

Why was she doing this? Yes, she wanted to talk to Evie about her affair with Dylan Paine, and also find out why the new Promfest chair had run away screaming the night of Annette’s death. Yes, she was still afraid that she would look bad in comparison to Jackie. And yes, she had given her word, but in her heart, Skye knew it was a mistake to return to the haunted house.

She hadn’t been in the bathroom for ten minutes when her instincts were proven right. As she took off her street clothes and prepared to slip her costume over her leotard, she heard a siren. Was that the police? What had happened now?

Before Skye could decide whether to put her regular clothes back on or go ahead with the witch’s outfit, the building’s fire alarms started to blare. Instantly the other women, who were also changing into their costumes in the bathroom, made a mad dash for the exit, each trying to be the first one out.

Skye stood undecided—there had been so many false alarms at school that she distrusted the system—but a nanosecond later common sense prevailed. Even the possibility of being charbroiled was enough to make her skedaddle.

Snatching her tote bag, which contained her jeans and sweater, and wiggling into the long black witch’s dress as she ran, Skye followed the others. Regrettably, the women had halted only a few steps from the bathroom door, and Skye, unable to stop her forward momentum, plowed into them, mowing them down like a broom hitting a nest of dust bunnies.

It took her a few minutes to free herself from the tangle of arms and legs, and when she did she wished she could crawl back under the pile. Standing in the hallway, dressed like a cross between a cartoon astronaut and the Tin Man from
The Wizard of Oz
, was Earl Doozier. In his hand he held a toilet plunger. On his head was a portable siren duct-taped to a baseball cap, a stringy ponytail dangling out the opening in back. At his feet sat an industrial-size Shop-Vac. Glued to its canister was a hand-lettered sign that read GHOSTFLUSHERS.

Skye closed her eyes and prayed for a twister to transport her to the Emerald City. An instant later someone screamed.

S
kye watched in appalled fascination as Earl shouted something about evil spooks and bloodthirsty bogeymen while thrusting his plunger into the growing crowd. Drawn by his hollering and the women’s screams, people from all over the haunted house poured into the hallway. Most of the group wore bemused expressions, but a few actually seemed frightened, and at least two folks were enraged.

Frankenstein, aka Dr. Paine, appeared furious enough to start busting heads, as did the woman next to him, Zinnia Idell. Skye shuddered. She knew from personal experience that Mrs. Idell could turn violent faster than a Weedwacker could decapitate a flower not perfectly aligned with its peers, and for as little reason.

Skye had forgotten that Mrs. Idell was involved in A Ghoul’s Night Out. Her presence tonight meant she had been at the hall last Friday as well. Maybe she
was
angry enough with Skye to have strung up the rope that killed Annette. Come to think of it, Zinnia had been at Mass last Sunday, too. Skye wondered what kind of car she drove.

Mrs. Idell was fingering something in her jacket pocket, and Skye winced when Earl whirled on her and yelled, “Y’all stand aside now. I’m here to save you from the spooks,” and shoved his plunger in Zinnia’s face.

When the woman whipped out a pistol and aimed it at Earl’s heart, Skye took an involuntary step backward and shrieked, “Don’t shoot!”

Despite the fact that Earl had traded his customary fall ensemble of sweatpants and flannel shirt for a Michelin Man jacket with the lid of a garbage can duct-taped to its front, Skye was pretty sure he was still in trouble. The new outfit might be the latest thing in fighting ghosts, but it wasn’t bulletproof.

Skye’s fellow haunted-house workers surged forward to get a better view of the show, crowding Mrs. Idell, Dr. Paine, and Earl closer together. The proximity caused Earl’s thrusts with the plunger to become jerkier, and Mrs. Idell’s hand to move back and forth. Dr. Paine stood absolutely still, staring at the gun as it swung from side to side.

Someone had turned off the alarm, but that shouldn’t stop the firefighters from arriving to check things out. Where were they? Maybe, unlike the schools, this building’s system wasn’t directly connected to the fire station.

Whatever the reason, help didn’t seem to be arriving. Now what? Skye briefly considered battling her way to the edge of the crowd and hightailing it out of there, but curiosity and her instinctive desire to help won out. She needed a plan.

Spotting Evie hovering near the exit with a cell phone pressed to her ear, Skye elbowed her way toward her, shouting above the noise, “Any thoughts on what to do about this?”

“As soon as I get a signal,” Evie continued, pressing buttons, “I’m calling the cops to come arrest the freak.”

Skye flinched. “You do know that arresting a Doozier usually takes the National Guard, and I have a feeling it might require the Special Forces to bring in Zinnia Idell.”

“Don’t be silly.” Evie edged around Skye. “Situations like this are why we pay taxes.” Pushing open the exit, she stepped outside and closed the door emphatically in Skye’s face.

Skye raised an eyebrow. If the chairwoman had that kind of confidence in the government, she must be a lot happier writing her check to the Internal Revenue Service on April fifteenth than most people were.

Cell phone reception on the sidewalk didn’t seem to be any better than it was inside the building. As Skye watched, Evie furiously pirouetted in different directions like a ballerina dancing
Swan Lake
, all the while thrusting her cell phone in the air.

After a few moments of enjoying the performance, Skye realized this was her opportunity to get things under control before Quirk arrived and made a bad situation worse. Her adrenaline pumping, she zigzagged back toward the front of the crowd.

Following her belief that effective communication could solve most problems, Skye pushed through the crowd until she was only a couple of feet from Zinnia, and called in a loud voice, “Mrs. Idell. Mrs. Idell.”

“You!” Zinnia kept the gun leveled at Earl, but turned her head toward Skye. “Why are you always around when there’s a problem? What does it take to make you mind your own business, a grenade up your butt?”

“Uh . . . I’m just trying to help.” Skye realized that putting herself within bullet range of an armed parent who hated her guts had not been a wise move, and she scrambled for something calming to say. “I know everyone’s a little nervous, with the murder and all, but Earl, here, is completely harmless.”

“No, I’m not.” Earl grabbed the hose of the Shop-Vac and shook it. “I’m the Ghostflusher. I’m the only one here who can tell the fake ghouls and goblins from the real ones. Without me, you’re all in danger.” Earl made a loud woo-wooing sound.

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.”

“Why do I always find you doin’ somethin’ stupid with her around watchin’?”

Glenda jerked her thumb at Skye, whose gaze was drawn to the woman’s bright red fingernails. They were long and curved, and Skye was fairly certain they could pry open tin cans.

“Now, honey pie, Miz Skye needs me—”

“Yeah. Like a dog needs a bra.”

“You ain’t got no call to talk to me that way.” Earl took his life in his hands when he sassed his wife.

“I’m countin’ to three.” Glenda crushed out her cigarette under a scarlet stiletto–shod foot. “And you better have your skinny butt out the door and in the car, or you’re in for the ass-whuppin’ of your life.”

Skye decided she needed to intervene if she was ever going to find out who had told Earl she needed saving. “Could I talk to him a minute first?” She took hold of his arm.