Murder of a Royal Pain

mother would kill her before Jackie could. Years ago, Skye had lived with her fiance in New Orleans and gotten away with it, but Scumble River was a small town, and both she and Wally were public figures.

Wally broke into her thoughts. “You don’t have to decide right now. We’ll talk about it tonight. Are you still at school?”

“No. I’m at Charlie’s.”

“Good. Stay there. I’ll finish what I’m working on, swing by the motor court, and follow you out to your house so you can drop off your car; then we’ll go to Laurel. We both need a nice dinner away from town.”

“Fine.” Skye fought to calm down. None of this was Wally’s fault. “How long will you be?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes, max.”

“Okay. See you then.” Skye hung up, not satisfied with Wally’s wait-and-see attitude. She wasn’t letting Jackie get away with Annette’s and Gloria’s deaths. And she wasn’t prepared to allow her own life to continue to be destroyed either.

Wait a second. Could that be Jackie’s motive? It sure seemed as if she wanted to ruin Skye’s life, not kill her. What would doing that accomplish? Revenge was the only reason she could think of. But revenge for what? Skye had never met the woman before—at least, not that she knew of.

Okay, if not payback, then what? Well, if Skye were fired, Jackie would have the office all to herself. Hmm. Was she onto something? Could Jackie not only want Skye gone from school, but gone from Scumble River as well? Did she think she could scare her away? But again, why would Jackie want that?

Skye took a deep breath. Speculation wasn’t getting her anywhere. She needed facts. Maybe Wally couldn’t do anything to obtain information, but she could.

It was only three thirty. Jackie had said that she was meeting with a parent at quarter to four, which meant she couldn’t possibly leave school for another forty-five minutes. Certainly that was enough time for Skye to have a look around her cabin, especially since Jackie was staying right there at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court. Skye wished she had her Taser with her, but she needed to seize the opportunity.

Recalling that Charlie had mentioned that Jackie was in the cabin directly across from the office, Skye grabbed the master key from the desk drawer and stepped outside. The parking lot was empty and the motor court appeared deserted. Most people who checked in arrived late in the evening, leaving the interstate only to grab some sleep before getting back on the road.

Skye took a pair of rubber gloves from the first-aid kit in her car, then made her way across the asphalt. She knocked on Jackie’s door, waited, and knocked again. When no one answered, she used the master key and slipped inside. The drapes were drawn, so she flicked on the overhead light.

Once her eyes adjusted, Skye blinked, not sure that what she was looking at was real. Several moments later she still couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing, but as her brain began to process it, she gasped.

Covering the walls were hundreds of pictures, and every one of them had Jackie’s face Photoshopped onto Skye’s body. Jackie must have been following her around for months and months, maybe as long as a year, snapping photographs with a telephoto lens. There were images of Skye at the grocery store, at school, at her parents’, out with Wally, driving the Bel Air.

Feeling violated and defiled, Skye turned to leave. Why would anyone do this? A shiver ran up her spine. How sick did someone have to be to try to become another person? How mentally ill did someone have to be to try to erase the essence of themselves?

Her hand on the doorknob, Skye paused. She couldn’t run away. This might be her only chance to prove Jackie had set the trap that killed Annette and poisoned the cookies that killed Gloria. Skye had to stay cool and not freak out. Taking a calming breath, she moved over to the dresser and snapped on the latex gloves.

In the bottom drawer, concealed inside a tampon box, she found IDs of every description. There were driver’s licenses in a half dozen names, all from different states, credit cards, Social Security cards, and an Illinois State Police identification card in the name Veronica Vail.

Veronica Vail. Why did that name seem familiar? Wait, wasn’t that the special agent who had turned up to help with the spa murder? The one who had mysteriously disappeared, leaving a wig and a theatrical makeup kit behind?

Skye flipped through the rest of the IDs and found one for Imogene Ingersoll. Skye remembered her, too, a contestant in the cooking contest Skye had participated in last spring. She’d bribed her way into the finalist position and been asking questions about Skye and her family.

Now that Skye knew that Jackie was both Veronica and Imogene, she could see the resemblance. The nose was the same, as was the size of the eyes, and the small mole on her right cheek. These features were hard to alter without plastic surgery.

But apart from those details, Jackie’s disguises had been amazing. She had changed her hair and eye color each time, as Imogene she’d worn glasses, and she’d even changed her build, going from a slim Veronica to an average Imogene and then to a curvy Jackie.

Skye shoved everything back in the box and forced herself to continue searching. So far all she could prove was that Jackie had pretended to be three different people.

The night table contained a three-ring binder with notes on Skye—her history, her habits, and her family. Ick! This was beyond creepy. There was nothing remarkable in the tiny closet, under the bed, or in the rest of the room. The only place left to investigate was the bathroom.

Skye flipped the light switch and stood in the doorway looking around. Her search would be easier if she knew what she was trying to find. The counter contained various toiletries, but nothing suspicious. Where would Jackie hide something incriminating?

She checked the toilet tank, behind the shower curtain, and in back of the door. She stood tapping her finger on the sink, letting her gaze wander from floor to ceiling. Ooh, wait a minute. What was that dark spot in the light fixture?

Dragging a chair from the bedroom into the bathroom, Skye positioned it under the light and climbed up. She carefully unscrewed the globe and shook a small bottle into her palm. Turning it, she read the label—it was prescription eyedrops, and Skye would bet the farm they contained atropine. She had the smoking gun—so to speak.

She was screwing the fixture back in place when she heard the outer door open. Scrambling off the chair, she tucked the eyedrops in her pants pocket and looked for a place to hide.

Before she found one, a familiar voice demanded, “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

It was a reasonable question. Skye tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t get her killed, but her mind refused to cooperate, as did her mouth, which hung open, producing only incoherent sounds.

On another level Skye noticed that Jackie, or whatever her name was, looked pale and that her skin was stretched tight, making her face resemble a skull. It was as if she were morphing into yet another persona, and Skye automatically knew that this one was even less sane than Jackie’s previous self.

“I’m really sorry.” Skye stripped off the plastic gloves and concealed them in her palm, all the while struggling to come up with an excuse. “I know you said you didn’t want housekeeping services because you didn’t like strangers messing with your things, but Uncle Charlie asked me to drop off fresh towels because he had to lock up the office early today.” Skye gathered the soiled towels from the floor, shoving the discarded gloves into the pile, and took a step toward the door.

Jackie’s gaze flicked to the empty rack and back to Skye. “You must really think I’m stupid.” Her mouth flattened and her face turned red. “Or maybe you think that because you’ve always had it so easy you can get away with anything.”

“No.” Skye’s voice cracked. “Of course not. I . . . uh . . . forgot the fresh towels. You know what a scatterbrain I can be. I’ll go get them right now.” Jackie blocked Skye’s attempt to edge around her by producing a switchblade from her pocket.

Jackie flicked the knife open. “You’ve ruined everything.”

Skye leapt back until she was pressed against the bathroom wall, clutching the towels to her chest like a shield.

“Why couldn’t you just leave Scumble River?” Jackie waved the blade in the air. “You left once before.”

Skye forced herself to remain composed. Which personality disorder did Jackie’s behavior indicate? She narrowed it down to three—borderline, histrionic, or narcissistic. Jackie wasn’t charming enough to be sociopathic.