The Ghost and the Dead Deb (27 page)

My eyes met his, and I felt his hand move from my ear to the back of my neck. The light pressure was all it took for me to give in to his kiss, deep and warm and relaxing. I felt the buzz of the champagne and wrapped my hands around his neck. He pulled me hard against him.

“Baby,” he growled. “What you do to me . . .”

“Oh, Jack . . .”

“Listen . . .” He smiled. “This joint looks classy enough. Let me get us a room . . .”

“I can’t, Jack . . . I have a son . . . and I think . . . I think I’m still married—”

Jack’s kiss stopped my words. Then my alarm clock stopped Jack’s kiss. With its penetrating warmth still lingering, I opened my eyes to find the morning sun blasting through my open window and Jack’s tempting offer faded with the stars.

My head was still booming away and I tried to fix it up with a hot shower. That helped, but a mess of bacon and eggs helped even more.

—Detective Mike Hammer in
The Big Kill
by Mickey Spillane, 1951

 

 

 

I SAT BLEARY-EYED in church that morning—so tired I hardly noticed my son’s impatient restlessness, so tired my aunt had to poke me now and again to keep me awake during the pastor’s seemingly interminable sermon.

The nightmare discovery in the woods, followed by a night of Jack’s dreams, had me crawling out of bed that morning with a feeling of impending doom. After the service I said good-bye to Sadie, reminding her to pass Johnny’s letter to Mina when the girl arrived for work.

Stuffed with hot homemade doughnuts and strong coffee—and milk for Spencer—we left Cooper’s Bakery and climbed into our mud-spattered, weed-encrusted blue Saturn for the trip to Newport. The food helped immensely, and I felt the fortifying sugar rush as I got behind the wheel.

It was a radiant morning, a cloudless azure sky, fresh cool breezes off the ocean, sunlight gold and dazzling. I snatched my seldom-worn sunglasses from the underside of the driver’s-side visor to shield my bloodshot eyes from the glare.

“You wore those last year, too,” my son remarked, tapping the dash in time to one of those boy band groups on Radio Disney.

“Wore what?”

“Your Hollywood sunglasses.”

I smiled. “Maybe I was wearing my contact lenses last year, too.”

“Maybe you just want to look like all the other mommies there. They all act like movie stars.”

Out of the mouths of babes. “Maybe that, too.”

Besides the shades, I was also wearing new clothes specifically purchased for this annual event—white capri pants, a pastel sweater set, and Italian sandals with a matching bag. All were expensive designer quality, which would help me blend into the McClure ranks, but bought at outlet prices, which is all I could now afford. And, frankly, I was grateful to have the long sleeves of the summer-weight sweater. It was warm, but I had some pretty nasty scratches on my arms from running topless through the woods.

Traffic was light and we were making good time as we neared the ramp to the highway. But as we came around a bend, Spencer cried out. “Look, Mom! Cops. Lots of them.”

I braked, rolling up behind several other vehicles. Squad cars were parked along both shoulders of the road, bubble lights flashing. Several belonged to the Quindicott police force but the majority were sleek silver Ford Crown Victorias with Rhode Island State Police markings.

For a moment, traffic remained at a dead stop. Several drivers were rubbernecking at the state police in their gray uniforms and “Smoky the Bear” hats swarming through the wooded area behind the Comfy-Time Motel.

“Move along, move along,” called Officer Franzetti as he waved his arms at the traffic jam. The gawkers stepped on the gas and sped away. With no cars behind my own, I stopped next to Eddie and rolled down the window. I tried to offer the handsome police officer my most clueless smile. “What’s up, Eddie?”

He motioned my car to an empty spot along the shoulder of the road.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” asked Spencer beside me.

“I just want to ask Eddie for some directions, that’s all,” I lied. From my son’s expression, I could tell even he didn’t buy that, but I told him I’d be right back. Then I climbed out of the car and approached Eddie.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“The State Police got an anonymous tip last night. A woman caller, alerting them to the fact that a corpse was in the woods behind the Comfy-Time Motel.”

Eddie watched my reaction closely. I automatically grasped the buffalo nickel in my pocket for reassurance—the coin that apparently allowed me to bring part of Jack with me beyond the store.

Play it coy, kid,
Jack whispered.
Gracie Allen time.

“Who?”

I blinked at Eddie in mock surprise, cocked my head. “Really? Was it that girl you told me about yesterday?”

Eddie nodded. “Victoria Banks, age nineteen. She’s dead—probably murdered right after she disappeared.”

“Murdered?”

“Strangled. And beaten, too. Maybe pistol-whipped.”

I shuddered, recalling the horrific wounds I had seen the night before.

“Probably she was killed within an hour of leaving her motel room, but . . .” Eddie’s voice faltered. A shadow crossed his handsome face as he stared at the woods. “I was the one Chief Ciders sent up here to talk to her friends. I told the Chief I thought something bad had happened to the girl, but the Chief . . . well, he couldn’t issue an Amber Alert because the girl was over eighteen. And he insisted on waiting twenty-four hours before forwarding a missing persons report to the state police. We couldn’t even find her parents. The Newport and Manhattan addresses just had answering machines saying they were touring Europe for the summer.”

You get that?
asked Jack.

“Sure did,” I told him. “Hal lied.”

“Hal McConnell has something to hide.”

I could see the torment on Eddie’s face. He was blaming himself. I reached out, put my hand on his shoulder. “Look, Eddie. You said yourself that she was probably dead before her friends even reported her missing. You did what you could.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But if I’d gone into the woods for a look-see, she might not have been lying there all night.”

I closed my eyes a moment. I felt bad about it, too. “Oh, Jack,” I silently whispered. “I wish I could tell him about snagging Vicky’s cell phone, just to ease his mind.”

Just then, a Quindicott Volunteer Fire Department ambulance emerged from the edge of the woods. The red vehicle bumped along the service road at a funereal pace, swaying in the deep wheel ruts I’d followed less than ten hours before. I could tell by the expressions on the State Troopers’ faces that the vehicle bore the corpse of Victoria Banks, heiress, and now officially murder victim. Eddie Franzetti went pale as a—well, a ghost.

My heart went out to him.

Jack’s didn’t.

“But—”

“Are there . . . are there any suspects, Eddie?”

His big brown eyes blinked, then his face grew more grim. “I shouldn’t say anything . . . I mean, it isn’t public knowledge. Besides—”

“What, Eddie?”

“I know you’re close to Bud Napp.”

“We’re all close to Bud. He’s our neighbor. Bud’s been part of the community since forever.”

“Just between you and me,” Eddie whispered. “Bud’s truck is parked back there, too—less than a hundred yards from the corpse. State Troopers have impounded the vehicle and are searching it now for the blunt instrument used on the victim. They found a bullet from a .38 in the cab, which is why they’re speculating the girl might have been pistol-whipped. No gun, though.”

“So they still think Johnny Napp is guilty?”

“The Staties are looking hard at Johnny’s story. Detective-Lieutenant Marsh is in charge of the investigation. He says the facts don’t add up and neither does Johnny’s alibi.”

I recalled my only meeting with Detective Marsh, and it was not a pleasant memory. An imposing giant with square chin, blond stubble, icy-gray eyes, Roger Marsh of the Crime Investigation Unit had also probed the murder of Timothy Brennan at my store last year. Detective Marsh pretty much ran roughshod over me, Aunt Sadie, and my staff. I suddenly felt sorry for poor Johnny. I would hate to be interrogated by Marsh again—especially if I were in custody. Though I was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, Marsh intimidated me so much I was ready to confess to just about anything!

“I heard Marsh tell Ciders that he was thinking of contacting the FBI’s Behavioral Psychology Unit—”

“What?!”

Officer Franzetti waved an oncoming car down the road, gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah. They’re talking like Johnny’s a real, live, serial killer . . .”

 

 

IN LESS THAN an hour, we arrived in Newport and were cruising down Bellevue Avenue, past American castles built at the turn of the last century by the Vanderbilts, Astors, and other merchant prince types. Most of those great Gilded Age elephants were museums now, open to paying tourists and available for private party bookings—such as the magnificent beaux arts mansion that had hosted the New Year’s Eve ball where Bethany Banks had been murdered.

Not all of these grand houses, however, were open to the public. Throughout the town, even along the famous ocean-side Cliff Walk, some historic homes had been set up as bed and breakfasts while others, including Windswept, the McClure family manse, had been maintained or rebuilt as primary or secondary residences for both the old- and new-money families who owned them.

Windswept stood on a promontory overlooking the rocky shores of the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by acres of rolling grass and manicured trees. A grim gray edifice of weathered granite and dark wood, the mansion had been built by the McClure family patriarch well over a century ago, and she wore her age well.

As I rolled up to the gate, a uniformed security guard collected my invitation, then checked off my name on a clipboard. The ten-foot-tall iron bars of the crested gate swung open electronically. We drove for a moment and I soon spied heavy stone turrets and slate-shingled spires looming above tall oaks. A long red banner flapped in the wind from the tallest flagpole. Suddenly Jack whistled in my head.

“Impressed, Jack?” I asked silently. “Don’t be. I never lived here.”

“I always thought of Windswept as a modest dwelling. After all, it’s smaller than San Simeon and has fewer rooms than the Taj Mahal.”

The surroundings grew more festive as we approached the main building. Laughter and music floated on the fresh ocean breeze along with the smoky scent of mesquite barbecue. On the great lawn, tents were scattered about. Swarms of children ran and played, chaperoned by an army of party planners dressed as clowns, cowboys, and cowgirls.

A man with orange hair, a red nose, and a polkadot jumpsuit waved me into a parking area that was already crowded. He looked a bit surprised to see a battered Saturn with weeds stuck in the fenders rolling into an area crowded with mirror-shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, and Rolls-Royces, but I noticed he did offer me an extra-big smile.

On the seat next to me, Spencer plastered his face to the window.

Hmm, lots of fun
—
for the curls, bows, and knickers set. Where do the grown-ups romp and play?

“See that big yellow tent down by the tennis courts? That’s the bar—though I think my sister-in-law Ashley prefers to call it a ‘salon.’ ”

“I will be avoiding that place like the proverbial plague. But speaking of employment, Ashley must have hired an army for this event. As usual, she’s outdone herself in the excess department.”

“With luck you won’t have to.”

I pulled into a nice shady spot in the shadow of two Cadillac SUVs nearly the size of Buy the Book’s floorspace. I grabbed my Italian leather bag (bought at outlet prices) and slung it over my shoulder. Spencer burst through the door and raced toward the great lawn.

“Whoa, hold it, mister. Let’s stick together.”

“Aw, Mom.”

“Come on, what do you want to do first?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Paintball.”

I frowned. “I’m still not sure you should be participating in that sort of thing. You’re too young, and it sounds dangerous.”

“Come on, Mom!”

Jack’s observation stalled me, and I realized that if my late father and brother Pete had been here with me, they probably would have said the exact same thing. “You know . . . you could be right.”

“What did you say, Mom?”

“I said you’re right, Spencer. Let’s go find that paintball stand and sign you up right now.”

Spencer’s smile would melt the ice caps. “It’s this way, Mom. I saw the tent as we were driving up.”

My son led me to a large khaki-colored tent crowded with kids. Inside, I approached a tall man in camouflage fatigues and black boots with a nametag on his combat suit that read
Captain Bob.
He offered me a polite grin, then addressed Spencer.