Skye finished up with, “Oh, yeah. Frannie was waiting for me on my porch when I got home,
“What do you think that’s about?”
“My optimistic side hopes he’s going to tell me he and Loretta are getting married.”
Trixie frowned. “And your pessimistic side?”
“Hopes that whatever the problem is, it’s something I can fix before Mom and Dad get home from Vegas.”
Trixie was silent for a moment, then brought the conversation back to the murder. “Do you think Annette was the intended victim, or do you think it was supposed to be one of the three women everyone thought would be dressed as witches?”
“I don’t know.” Skye shrugged. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill me—other than a crazed parent.”
“Could one of the parents you’ve worked with be that angry?”
Skye considered Mrs. Idell and nodded reluctantly. “I guess it’s possible. I’m pretty sure a disgruntled parent slashed my tire.”
After Skye explained about the note she had found on her car, Trixie said, “We need to find out if anyone had a reason to want either Hope Kennedy or Nina Miles dead.”
“That’s a good idea.” Skye bit her lip. “I’ll try to find out if Quirk is concentrating on Annette, or if he’s looking into the other witches’ enemies, as well. But he told me to stay out of it—”
“Men are like horoscopes,” Trixie cut Skye off. “They always tell you what to do and are usually wrong.”
Skye giggled, then completed her interrupted sentence. “So, I’m not sure how to get that information.”
“You need to call Simon. With both your mom and Wally gone, he’s your only contact at the police department.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“What if he thinks I’m trying to get back together with him?”
“Then maybe your reporter friend has dug something up. Call him.”
“That’s not a good idea either.”
“Again, why?”
“Because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea either.” Skye felt her cheeks color, and quickly added, “Besides, he’d probably end up getting more info from me than I would from him.”
“Then I guess it’s you and me, Sherlock.” Trixie stomped on the brake pedal, threw the little car into reverse, turned it around, and headed in the opposite direction. “Let’s go talk to Nina and Hope.”
No one was home at Hope Kennedy’s house, so Trixie and Skye drove over to Nina Miles’s. Nina lived in the expensive part of Scumble River, where each of the houses was situated on several acres of land. It was ironic that they all backed up to an old graveyard. The homeowners had fought long and hard to have the bodies moved, but had lost the battle. At the time, Skye had wondered why they had built their houses there to begin with, if they didn’t like living next to a cemetery. It wasn’t as if the tombstones had popped up overnight.
Trixie parked in the circular driveway, and she and Skye climbed up the steps leading to the impressive double doors. The house had an ultramodern design with lots of angles, and as Skye rang the bell she craned her neck at the window that jutted overhead.
When Bree answered the door, she asked, “Ms. Frayne, what are you doing here? Did I miss a cheerleading practice?”
As well as being the school librarian and cosponsor of the student newsletter, Trixie was also the cheerleading coach.
“No, Bree.” Trixie shook her head. “We need to talk to your mom about something.”
The girl looked apprehensive. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all,” Skye reassured the teenager. “Is your mom home?”
“Yes, she’s watching TV.”
“May we talk to her?” Trixie asked.
“Sure, come on in.”
Bree pointed them down a hallway and disappeared. As Skye and Trixie rounded the corner, Skye could see Nina sitting on a couch in the family room.
Nina tried to gather up the used tissues surrounding her when she spotted Skye and Trixie, saying, “Please excuse the mess; I can’t seem to shake this bug.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Skye waved away the woman’s apology. “We’re sorry to bother you when you’re not feeling well, but we have something important to discuss with you.”
“Of course, please have a seat.” Nina motioned to the overstuffed chairs facing the sofa.
Skye wasn’t sure how to start, but Trixie said, “We’re here about Annette Paine’s murder.”
“Murder?” Nina coughed. “I thought the police didn’t know how she died yet.”
“From what I saw, I’m pretty sure it was murder.” Skye said.
“What did you see?” Nina demanded.
“Sorry, I can’t say,” Skye answered. “But I’m not sure she was the intended victim.”
“Why?” Nina sneezed and blew her nose.
“Well, you know she had on your costume?”
“Yes.”
“So, whoever killed her could have thought he was killing you, or Hope, or me.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.” Nina frowned.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill you?” Skye asked. “Does someone gain a lot of money if you die, or does anyone hold you responsible for something that happened to them?”
“No.” Nina shook her head. “I’m a stay-at-home mom. No money of my own. And I can’t believe anyone would hate me that much.”
The three women were silent until Trixie asked, “Did you know Annette very well?”
“We hung around in the same circles, but we weren’t friends.” Nina grimaced. “Queen bees don’t have friends, just minions.”
Skye leaned forward. “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Annette?”
“Anyone who ever had to be on a committee with her, or deal with her for any reason.” Nina shrugged. “She treated everyone equally badly.”
After a few more minutes of chitchat, Skye and Trixie excused themselves. It was nearly four o’clock, and Skye needed to retrieve her car and get home before Vince arrived.
Skye had just pulled into her driveway when Vince’s black Jeep threw up a plume of gravel and skidded to a stop next to her car. Vince was four years older than Skye, but his golden good looks and carefree attitude usually made him seem like the younger sibling. However, today every one of his thirty-eight years showed on his face. His butterscotch blond hair was matted as if it hadn’t been combed since the previous day, and his emerald green eyes were bloodshot.
Skye got out of the Bel Air and walked over to Vince as he exited his vehicle. She pulled him down to kiss his unshaved cheek—he was a good six inches taller than her five-foot-seven height. “That must have been quite a party last night,” she teased.
“No party.”
Skye’s stomach clenched. What in the world was wrong with Vince, the ultimate good-time guy? “Did your band have a gig?” By day Vince owned and operated Great Expectations hair salon; by night he was the drummer for a popular local rock group.
He shook his head. “We haven’t been taking as many bookings lately.”
“Why?” Skye tugged her brother up the front steps, through the door, and into her kitchen.
“The guys are all getting older. They want to spend more time with their wives and girlfriends.”
“Oh.” Skye was shocked. She’d gotten to know the members of Vince’s band pretty well a while back, when their lead singer had been murdered, and they had not struck her as stay-at-home family men. “Uh, so, you want something to drink?”
