Death of a Bacon Heiress (12 page)

The man leapt from the creaky aluminum stands, jostling the other parents, and charged over to the college-age coach, wagging a finger in his face and shouting, “You need to put my son in left field now, before you throw the whole game!”

The fresh-faced coach, with big Obama-sized ears, stood toe to toe with the angry dad and held his ground. “Mr. Weston, I don't tell you how to run your bait shop. You don't get to tell me how to coach my kids.”

The Little League game at the town ball field was already a nail biter. Tied score of four to four. Entering the ninth inning.

The other parents packed onto the shaky metal stands were all on edge, no matter which team they were there rooting for, because at this point it could go either way.

And one kid on the blue team was busy picking his nose and didn't see the ball roll right through his legs, allowing the red team to get two players on first and second base.

Tension was mounting.

The coach ordered the overzealous dad back to his seat.

The loud, brash father didn't budge.

It was basically a standoff.

The crowd exchanged disapproving looks.

His embarrassed wife scooted over to the dad and implored him to come with her and let the coach do his job.

Andy Hawkins recorded it all on his high-resolution camera.

“Aren't you here to record the game?” Hayley asked him as he snapped away, a big grin on his face.

“Yeah, that's what Sal's paying me for. But human drama like this is priceless. Besides, that's Ernie Weston. I ran into his wife at the Shop 'n Save last week and asked how she was doing and she hinted she might be leaving her husband, but needed proof of his boorish, unsportsmanlike behavior in case of a custody hearing.”

“So you're going to sell her photos of him verbally abusing his son's Little League coach?”

“A guy's got to eat,” Andy said, lowering his camera once Mrs. Weston finally managed to drag her still jeering husband back to the stands.

The game resumed.

One early developed, beefy kid who towered over his teammates furiously swung the bat, nearly cracking it, whacking the ball. It sailed high above the field and over the poor little guy in left field who desperately wanted to be left alone in peace to just pick his nose. By the time he managed to chase after it, scoop the ball up in his mitt, and throw it back to the third-base man, two boys in red had crossed home plate to the enthusiastic cheers of their parents.

The game was now six to four.

Angry dad blew his stack and stormed off to his car, much to the relief of his beleaguered wife, who glanced over at Andy to see how much of the tirade he'd gotten on camera.

Andy gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

She waved happily and then chased after her husband, knowing she didn't have to scold him for his abhorrent behavior because it was definitely going to bite him in the ass eventually, during their divorce proceedings.

Andy aimed his camera at the kids in red still jumping up and down around their own coach, a heavyset, ponytailed woman in a cap and gray shirt and jeans.

“So, are you here to ask me about Nacho?” he asked, snapping more photos.

“How did you know?”

“I know
you
, Hayley. And the moment I got word that Olivia Redmond had been murdered, I expected you to turn up and pepper me with questions about my sordid affair with her bisexual husband.”

“Am I that predictable?”

Andy lowered his camera again and smiled. “I would just say your reputation precedes you.”

“Have you told the police?”

“They never asked me. I don't think they know about it yet. Nobody's come around to question me. But believe me, if that hot police chief shows up on my doorstep, I don't plan on hiding anything. And I do mean
anything
.”

“So you don't consider your relationship with Nacho a secret?”

“I have no reason to keep it a secret,” Andy said.

A
thwack
interrupted their conversation. The kid on the red team had hit another home run and their parents were going wild with lots of slaps on the back and big bear hugs.

The parents of the blue team remained seated with miserable, resigned looks on their faces.

Andy snapped what he could of the moment but still managed to miss most of it. He didn't seem too upset about it. He just shrugged and turned back to Hayley again. “Olivia knew about the two of us.”

“Was she devastated when she found out?”

“Hell, no. She didn't care. Just as long as Nacho put on a good show for her high society friends and associates. She didn't like anyone knowing her business. But the truth was, Olivia and Nacho were more friends than lovers. They rarely had sex but they shared a much deeper bond. He really did adore her.”

“But if he was scamming her for a green card and rich lifestyle, couldn't his adoration have just been an act?”

“Not a chance. The way I caught him looking at her, just the way he talked about her, there was no faking it. I was the one who was jealous because I knew I was always going to just be the boy on the side. I begged him to run away with me, but he refused. It wasn't about the money. He genuinely loved her and was never going to risk doing anything to hurt her.”

Hayley was floored. But she had heard of such arrangements. Some of the most loving and long-lasting marriages she knew about never involved sex.

A roar from the crowd.

The red team had struck out and the blue team now had a chance to make up some runs to at least tie the game.

The nose picker in left field had miraculously caught the ball in his glove.

The rest of his team swarmed out to left field to raise him onto their shoulders and carry him back to the dugout.

The boy beamed with pride. So did his dad, nearly crying from relief that his son had managed to finally get some skin in the game.

And Andy had totally missed recording the kid's heroic catch for posterity.

“Listen, I'm going to leave you alone so you don't miss any more critical plays.”

Andy smiled. “Let's hope the blue team doesn't score any hits, because I have to get over to the Harborside Hotel and cover a press conference.”

“Press conference?”

“Yeah, your friend just flew into town.”

“
My
friend?”

“Rhonda Franklin, host of
The Chat
, which I never miss, by the way. Shopping tips, arts, cooking, crafts, and celebrity interviews. What more could a self-respecting gay ask for?”

“She's
here
?”

“Yeah, she's making some kind of statement about Olivia Redmond's murder.”

Rhonda Franklin adjusted her dark sunglasses as she spoke, even though the sky was gray with a patchy cloud cover. Still, the flashes from the cameras belonging to the smattering of local and national press outside the Harborside Hotel were somewhat blinding, so hiding her eyes behind those oversized Christian Dior shades wasn't all for dramatic effect.

She straightened the dark blue jacket of her smart pantsuit that Hillary Clinton would be proud to wear and then clasped her hands together in front of her as she continued addressing the crowd of reporters. “Olivia Redmond was not just a celebrity friend. I have plenty of those. Actors or politicians with whom I've been photographed or served on a charity board so people assume we're best buddies who gab on the phone every day, but in reality we hardly know each other. No, Olivia was a
real
friend. A
true
friend. And we did talk on the phone every day. We gossiped, we laughed, we offered support to each other, a helping hand when needed. And now . . .”

Rhonda Franklin fished a white handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her nose as she valiantly fought back the inevitable onslaught of tears. “Now . . . she's gone.... No longer with us . . . And I have yet to face the fact that we'll never chat on the phone ever again.”

“Chat” on the phone. She made sure to hit the word “chat.” Emphasizing it above all the others.

The word seemed planted in her speech. It was an obvious yet subtle nod to Rhonda Franklin's TV show.

Which suggested she wasn't speaking 100 percent from the heart.

There was a little public relations cleanup happening at Rhonda Franklin's somber press conference.

“I knew you had a reason for changing our walking route,” Mona said, rolling up the sleeves of her lobster red Bar Harbor sweatshirt and wiping the sweat off her brow. “You just wanted to see the circus.”

Mona was right. Hayley had purposely veered left toward the town pier instead of right, which would have taken them in the direction of the park for their twice weekly power walk, because she didn't want to miss Rhonda's grief-stricken public appearance. She was curious to know what the TV star would say about her dearly departed friend.

Rhonda was putting on quite a performance.

She very slowly, very deliberately removed her glasses to reveal puffy eyes and very little makeup so her face looked even more drawn and dismayed. “It is my vow, my promise, to get to the bottom of this vicious, unspeakable crime. I will use every resource available to me to find out who is responsible for taking Rhonda away from us. I will not rest until the killer is brought to justice.”

That would have been a powerful end to Rhonda's first public appearance since Olivia's death. Leave the reporters and go make good on her promise.

As if Rhonda was personally off to hunt down her best friend's murderer.

But Rhonda passed over the perfect exit.

She kept rambling.

“This has been the most difficult time of my life. Losing someone so dear to me. Who understands me. Whom I depended on. I will go on. I must go on. But my life's journey will be a bit lonelier now. . . .”

She did it.

Like most show biz personalities, with no publicity wrangler on the scene to stop her from talking, Rhonda had managed to make someone else's tragedy all about
her
.

Hayley had pushed her way far enough through the throng of reporters where she was able to slide in next to Andy Hawkins, who was snapping dozens of shots of the grieving superstar.

Rhonda was about to mercifully make her exit when she spotted Hayley in the crowd and waved at her. “Hayley! Hayley!”

The reporters all stared at Hayley, slack jawed that she had just commanded the attention of a major TV personality.

She gave Rhonda a quick wave back.

“Come inside and have a drink with me at the bar! Don't worry! Those jackals aren't allowed past the front door. We can have some privacy!”

Rhonda spun around on her heel and disappeared inside the hotel lobby.

Hayley turned to Mona. “You want to come?”

“No frigging way,” Mona scoffed. “You go on without me. I'm underdressed and a sweaty mess.”

“And I'm not? Come on. There's safety in numbers,” Hayley said, grabbing a fistful of Mona's sweatshirt and dragging her through the group of reporters who parted and allowed them through where a bellhop had the door open for them.

“Welcome to the Harborside,” he said with a tip of the hat.

Hayley and Mona found Rhonda already seated at the bar and downing a vodka martini with extra olives.

Hayley hugged Rhonda before sitting on the high back chair next to her. “I'm so sorry about Olivia.”

“I'm still in a state of shock. I can't believe she's gone,” Rhonda said, finishing her martini and pushing the glass toward the bartender, signaling him to bring her another round.

She swiveled her chair around to face Hayley and finally noticed Mona.

Her puffy red eyes instantly began to dance and flicker at the sight of the brawny woman in the stained red sweatshirt. “Who's your friend?”

“This is Mona. We were out power walking when we just by coincidence happened upon your press conference,” Hayley fibbed.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” Rhonda said flirtatiously, reaching out to shake Mona's hand.

Mona grunted an incoherent reply before noticing Rhonda was waiting to take her hand. She grabbed it and pumped it a couple of times before letting it go.

Rhonda practically had to catch herself from falling off her bar chair because she was swooning.

“Your hands are so rough,” Rhonda said, which was followed by a short giggle.

“That's because I haul lobster traps for a living,” Mona said.

“Mona's being overly modest,” Hayley said. “She owns her own business and supplies seafood to most of the restaurants on the island. She's very successful.”

“I'm impressed,” Rhonda said, eyeing Mona as if she were a rich, chocolatey dessert. “Can I buy you girls something to drink?”

“Beer's fine,” Mona said with a shrug. “Nothing light or fussy. I want a dark ale.”

The bartender nodded and turned to Hayley.

“I'll have what Ms. Franklin's having,” Hayley said.

“It's Rhonda, please. We're friends now. There's no need to be formal.”

“Okay, Rhonda.”

“I'm only in town for a couple of days. I want to help Nacho with anything I can. How about I take you both out to dinner tonight? Are you free?”

“Sorry, I have a column due and I haven't even started writing it yet. I'm going to stay at home and be a hermit until I get it done,” Hayley said.

Rhonda hardly blinked. Without missing a beat, she turned and stared at Mona. “What about you, honey? Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“You mean just the two of us? I don't even know you. God knows I don't watch your show. What would we talk about?”

“Oh, I'm sure we'll find some common ground if we give it the old college try.”

“I didn't go to college.”

“It was just a figure of speech, Mona,” Hayley said, smiling.

“Guess I'd be a fool to turn down a free meal. You did say you are paying, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. You're the rich TV star!”

Rhonda erupted in a fit of giggles, so charmed by Mona's gruffness she could barely contain herself.

“My husband is home with the kids tonight, so I would love an excuse to stay out late for once,” Mona said, suddenly wrapping her mind around this impromptu dinner date and starting to really warm to the idea.

“I'll do my best to keep you out as late as you want,” Rhonda cooed. “As long as your husband doesn't mind.”

“Who cares what he thinks? I deserve a night out! I call him ‘the Slug' because he barely moves. You married, Rhonda?”

“No. I'm just a carefree single girl open to all possibilities.”

“Smart choice! I hate men. All they know how to do is burp and fart and complain about everything. World would be a better place if it was just us girls, am I right?”

“You are so right, Mona!” Rhonda said. “Hayley, where have you been hiding this one?”

Hayley suppressed a smile. “Oh, there's no hiding Mona.”

“So what fancy pants place are you taking me to tonight, Ron? You mind me calling you Ron?”

Rhonda Franklin shook her head vigorously. “You can call me whatever you want.”