It took several hours to convince Frannie to give JJC a chance, but when Skye pointed out to her that she’d need transportation from Scumble River to Joliet in order to attend, the girl gave in. Frannie had been bugging her father to buy her car since she’d turned sixteen. Once Frannie left, Skye went to bed and fell immediately asleep.
When she woke up Wednesday morning, Skye felt as if she had a hangover, but she forced herself to get up and go to work. Jackie and Skye interviewed students all morning, but none of the kids seemed to know anything about the bombs. Homer was not happy with their lack of results. And when the principal wasn’t happy, no one in the school was happy.
Trixie hadn’t had any better luck when she talked to Bree Miles, Cheyenne Harrison, and Ross Kennedy. None of the three had revealed any useful information. Linnea Paine was still out of school, so Trixie hadn’t been able to speak to her.
To top it off, at noon Skye had found a note in her box from Evie Harrison, which read:
Skye was livid at Evie’s threats, but knew she’d better lay off for a while. She couldn’t risk Quirk knowing she was still investigating, just in case Roy was the killer. And she couldn’t risk getting fired. Her resume was only now recovering from the last time she was sacked.
Driving home after work, Skye brooded that the day had been a total waste. She hadn’t accomplished anything in either of her roles—as school psychologist or as police consultant. The only bright spot was that Wally was due home that evening.
Bingo greeted her at the door, and after petting him she started up the stairs to change into more comfortable clothes. Before she made it to the top, the doorbell rang. Sighing, she went back down. When she looked out the peephole, her first instinct was to turn away. On her porch, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, were Simon and Kurt.
“We arrived at the same time, but we aren’t together,” Simon explained.
“Oh. Well, come in.” Skye stepped aside and the men walked into the foyer.
Kurt glanced around, then said, “I need to talk to you in private.”
“So do I.” Simon moved to Skye’s side.
“Uh, okay. Kurt, please wait for me in the parlor.” Skye took Simon’s arm and led him down the hall.
Once they were in the kitchen Simon said, “Why don’t I come back later? I’ll take you out to dinner and we can talk then.”
Not wanting to seem to be reading too much into his offer, Skye shook her head. “Sorry. Not tonight. I may be coming down with something. I’ve been feeling sick on and off for the last couple of days.”
“You mean you get better, then get sick again?” Simon questioned, a look of concern in his eyes. When she nodded, he asked, “What are your symptoms?”
“My head hurts, my mouth is dry, my heart races, and I feel dizzy and nauseated.”
“You need to see a doctor.” Simon crossed his arms. “Let me drive you to the urgent-care clinic in Laurel.”
“No. I’ll be fine. If I’m not better by the weekend, I’ll go.” Skye took a step back. “But I would like to lie down, so can you give me the condensed version of what you wanted to tell me?”
“Annette’s death is being ruled accidental.”
“What? How? Why?” Skye heard herself stammering, and closed her mouth in order to give Simon a chance to answer.
“The county crime techs found hemp fibers caught in eyebolts that were screwed opposite each other on the walls, so the evidence suggests that the rope you found Annette holding was originally strung across the passageway. It had green makeup embedded in it, and it matches the mark on her neck. The theory is that she was running in the dark hall, slammed into the rope, which knocked the breath out of her, and as she fell she grabbed the rope, which then tore loose.”
“And that killed her?” Skye asked.
“No. But it brought on an asthma attack, which is what she died from.”
“I knew asthma was serious, but I had no idea someone like Annette could die from an attack.”
“Over four thousand people a year die because of asthma,” Simon explained. “And Annette had several risk factors. She’d had asthma since she was a child, and her doctor said she wasn’t compliant with her medication, had a poor awareness of her own reduced ability to breathe, and frequently ended up at the emergency room. Running into the rope in the dark probably caused her to panic, and a stressful or emotional situation can worsen asthma.”
“And being in a costume she didn’t expect to wear, she didn’t have her inhaler,” Skye guessed. “But wouldn’t it take her a long time to die?”
Simon shook his head. “A fatal attack can take only a few minutes.”
“Hmm.” Skye pursed her lips. “Okay, the asthma might have been what killed her, but why was the rope there, and why was she running? Did someone hang it as a trap and then chase her?”
“None of the crew admits to putting up the rope, and no one can come up with a good reason for it to be there, or remembers it being there on their final check of the setup.” Simon shrugged. “But didn’t you say part of the witches’ act was to run down the hallway as fast as possible in order to ‘disappear’ at the other end?”
“Right. I’d forgotten that.”
“The rope was strung fifty-five inches from the floor, which is throat level for a woman who’s somewhere between five-six to five-eight. It makes me think that the rope was meant as a trap for someone that height running down the hallway, as you were supposed to do. You would have collided with the rope and, at the very least, sustained a nasty rope burn across your face or neck. And maybe you would have cut off your air supply enough to pass out.”
“So the trap was set for someone my height.”
“Annette was in that height range, too, as were the other two witches and about a quarter of the females working at the haunted house.”
“But they weren’t nearly mowed down by a car last Sunday,” Skye muttered.
“What?”
Skye explained about the hit-and-run after church, then said, “So either the rope was supposed to choke someone—me or one of the other witches—or maybe the murderer knew about Annette’s asthma and was trying to trigger a lethal attack. And if that’s the case, who would know her weaknesses better than her husband?”
Simon’s expression was thoughtful. “Too bad Quirk has closed the investigation.”
Skye felt faint, and she gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Had she wrongly accused the officer and dragged Wally back here for nothing? Or was Quirk so quick to close the case because he didn’t want any further investigation that might point to him?
“You really need to see a doctor.” Simon put his arm around her.
“I’ll be fine.” Skye summoned up a smile. “Don’t worry. All I need is a good night’s rest.”
“I know your folks and Wally are all out of town. If you need something tonight, call me.” Simon gave her another squeeze, then released her. “I promise not to jump to any conclusions.”
“Thank you.”
Once she showed Simon out, Skye went into the parlor. Kurt had been looking at the objets d’art in the etagere, and when Skye entered, he tapped the glass and said, “I really like this vase.”
“You have good taste. It’s one of a series made by Frank Klepper, a Dallas-based artist who worked in ceramics during the early 1930s. It’s called
“I thought it was from the thirties. I tend to collect more from the twenties, but occasionally something a little more recent catches my eye.” His gaze roved lazily from her head to her feet; then he grinned.
“Glad you approve,” she said dryly. It was hard to feel sexy when she might upchuck at any moment. “You
