The Ghost and the Dead Deb (28 page)

“Are you here for the junior competition, recruit?”

“Yes, sir!” Spencer barked, perfectly in character.

“And what’s your name, soldier?”

“Spencer, sir.”

“We’d better hurry, the junior event starts in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get
Lieutenant
Spencer here suited up.”

Ten minutes later, Spencer stood proudly before me. Paint gun in hand, he wore a clear face mask, coveralls, rubber galoshes, knee guards, and a helmet. My little trooper.

Captain Bob could see the look of trepidation on my face. “Don’t worry. These kids are firing the equivalent of water balloons filled with paint from a distance of fifty yards—the trees and grass are going to take the most punishment.”

“Can I watch?”

Spencer was horrified. “Mom!”

“Afraid not, Mrs. McClure. No one goes into those woods without protective gear. Anyway, there are more chaperones than soldiers out there. The officer here will be just fine.”

“What next?”

“Well, the lieutenant here joins the rest of the squad in the woods. You head back to the party. Meet your friends, have a drink, and get something to eat.” Captain Bob glanced at his watch. “We’ll be back to this tent in about two hours.”

I gave my son a final hug and a kiss before I sent him off to paint war. Then I left the tent and emerged in the brilliant sunshine, fumbling in my bag for my “Hollywood” sunglasses. I turned away from the glare to face the mansion—or rather, a small area beside it, which was the family’s private parking area. I recognized the McClure family’s Mercedes, and my sister-in-law’s white BMW. The car parked next to them was also familiar—a sleek black Jaguar with a white and blue decal on the trunk.

My heart stopped. “Jack, that’s the car! I’m sure of it. The car that almost ran over Angel Stark.”

“But Jack, shouldn’t I check it out?”

I looked around. There were plenty of people nearby, but everyone seemed to be going about their own business.

Just waltz over to the car,
Jack said.
Walk like you own the place and nobody will look twice. Trust me.

I got all the way to Ashley’s BMW without anyone noticing, walked right past it to the black Jag. Up close, I realized the odd decal was a parking tag for a Newport country club, the splash of blue a leaping marlin.

I peered through the windshield—hopefully without appearing to do just that. Leather seats, sporty, wood-grained interior, stick shift, GPS, combination radio and CD player, cell phone in the dashboard, all the bells and whistles. No guns, bludgeons, whips, or chains in sight.

Luckily, the door was unlocked.

I reached out and grabbed the handle on the passenger side. I closed my eyes and lifted the latch, waiting for a car alarm to blare, for everyone to look in my direction, for a security team to surround me and escort me off the premises where the Newport Police would take me into custody.

Miracle of miracles, the door opened soundlessly. I climbed inside, sank deep into the leather bucket seat.

“What now, Jack?”

Case it good. Toss the glove compartment, check under the seat, behind the cushions
—

“Will do.”

I found nothing on the dash or under the seats. Inside the glove compartment, however, I discovered a leather case containing the Jag’s registration and insurance information, and a batch of business cards. All bore the same name. I fingered one of the cream-white linen paper, gilt scripted cards that read
Mr. Donald Morgan Easterbrook, Jr.

I pocketed one card, stuffed the rest back into their pouch, then shoved the case into the glove compartment. I was about to peer under the dashboard when a silhouette abruptly blotted out the bright sun.

“Breaking and entering and grand theft auto. Have you fallen on hard times, Penelope?”

I looked up. Kiki McClure-Langdon stood beside the car. Behind her stood the owner of the Jaguar, her fiancé Donald Easterbrook, Jr. His photograph in Angel’s book didn’t do him justice. From the top of his perfectly coifed head to the broad span of his muscular shoulders, the prince of the Newport jet set was more than just John Kennedy, Jr. handsome, there was a sizzle of hot Latino blood, courtesy of Easterbrook’s wealthy Brazilian mother, that rendered him breathtaking.

I turned away, flushed red with embarrassment. Just as I was certain the situation could not possibly get worse, it did. Coming toward us was La Princessa herself: my sister-in-law, Ashley McClure-Sutherland.

With his strong face, his athlete’s build, and the Gary
Cooper manner, [he] projected what psychologists call
the halo effect. People with the halo effect seem to
know exactly what they’re doing and, moreover, make
you want to admire them for it. They make you see the
halos over their heads.

—Tom Wolfe,
Hooking Up
, 2001

 

 

 

“GOOD GOD, JACK, what do I do?” I silently asked, trying not to lose it.

Guess,
he answered in my head.

Swallowing a lump of sheer terror, I attempted to feign cool Jack Shepard control, then stepped out of the Jaguar, shut the car door, and faced Kiki. Meeting her stare, I flashed a (thoroughly fake) confident smile and levelly told her, “Sarcasm doesn’t suit a woman who tried to run down Angel Stark on the very night she was murdered.”

Kiki winced, then looked at her fiancé—worry and confusion suddenly invading the typically superior expression of her ice-blue gaze.

“Oh, you were quick,” I said, “but not quick enough. There were witnesses to that incident on Cranberry Street. And I think the police will find it a neat coincidence, your staying at the same inn on the same night as Angel Stark—who just happened to turn up dead on that very property the next day.”

A sudden gust stirred long blonde strands of Kiki’s hair and the gauzy blue fabric of her sundress. Her already pale features turned snow white. Her pink painted lips moved, but no sound emerged.

Florid-faced, Ashley McClure-Sutherland pushed past her cousin and stepped between us. “This is ridiculous,” she cried. “How dare you invade my home and intimidate members of my own family. My God, Penelope, you’re nothing but trouble. My family’s curse.”

It was a vicious remark, but I refused to be baited by my sister-in-law. I bored in on Kiki instead.

“Did you know Victoria Banks has also been murdered?” I asked. “It happened within hours of Angel’s demise, and she was strangled in the same manner—just like her sister Bethany.”

Kiki literally fell against her fiancé. Ashley appeared to be struck dumb, for perhaps the first time in her life.

Pour it on thick, doll. They’re on the ropes,
Jack coaxed.

Finally, Donald Easterbrook spoke. “Where did this happen?” His rich baritone seemed unruffled by my revelations.

“Victoria’s corpse was discovered in a wooded area outside the motel in Quindicott this morning.”

I locked eyes with Kiki again. “I watched the State Police haul her dead body to the morgue on my way to Newport.” I paused to let the words sink in. “Don’t you find it odd that Victoria’s murder occurred so close to Quindicott, where
Kiki
chose to stay the night?”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that our confrontation was beginning to attract attention. Kiki shifted her gaze from her fiancé to Ashley, then back to me.

Reaching a hand into the pocket of my capri pants, I grasped that old buffalo nickel. “Jack? I have to get them to talk to me. What more can I say?”

“So let’s call the police,” I said with a raised voice. “Because if you don’t talk to me
now
, you can talk to the police when they arrive.”

Donald Easterbrook’s dark eyes flashed, but he quickly masked his annoyance with a smile. His strong, tanned hand closed on my arm.

“If you want to talk, let’s do it inside,” he said smoothly.

He released me before I could yank my arm free. With Ashley flanking me, I followed Donald and his fiancée through a side door into the mansion.

Ashley caught up with Donald, spun to face him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glared at me. “Not at all.”

“This won’t take long, Mrs. Sutherland. We’ll go to the library,” said Donald.

I half expected Ashley to butt out, but she angrily followed the rest of us into Windswept’s bookroom. The large two-story space was lined with polished oak shelves. Aging, gilt-edged books filled those shelves, and high-backed, green velvet upholstered chairs, ornate book stands, and Tiffany lamps were scattered about the waxed and polished hardwood floor. One corner of the room was dominated by a large Victorian standing globe with brass fittings. Sun streamed through high windows, warming the room, which smelled faintly of dust.

“Sit down, Mrs. McClure, won’t you?” Donald said with a chivalry that surprised me, considering the circumstances.

Ask for a drink,
advised Jack.

“But I’m not thirsty,” I silently told him.

Baby, wise up. Alcohol loosens tongues, remember? Ask for some yourself. Pretend to sip yours. Chances are, Prince Donald will join you
—
and do more than pretend to sip.

Jack was right. I boldly asked for a cognac and got one. Donald went to a small bar in the corner and fixed a round, including Kiki, Ashley, and himself.

I sat rigidly in one of the high-backed green velvet chairs. Ashen-faced Kiki sat in an antique love seat opposite me. Ashley chose to pace the hand-woven Aubusson area rug. Finally, Donald Easterbrook sat down on the love seat next to his fiancée. He leaned forward, dark eyes studying me. For a moment we faced one another in silence.

Despite the malice radiating from my sister-in-law, and the rage in Kiki’s eyes, I felt no such hostility from Donald. I read somewhere once that anger and animosity often spring from a lack of confidence. Donald Easterbrook had no such deficit. Poised, polite, and self-assured, he seemed in control of the situation. Though half the age of my sister-in-law, Donald had handled Ashley better than I ever could. And by dragging us into the mansion, I realized he’d handled me well too.

It was Donald who broke the silence. After a long sip of his cognac, he asked, “Why do you think Kiki killed Angel Stark?”

“It goes back to Bethany’s murder,” I replied. “Someone in your circle murdered Bethany Banks. Angel said as much in her book, and I believe her.”

“Someone
else
was arrested for that crime,” said Donald.

“And he was acquitted,” I pointed out.

“
Released
because of legal technicalities,” he corrected.

“He was an innocent patsy and you and I both know it, Mr. Easterbrook. You have more of a motive for murdering Bethany than Johnny Napoli. She was your fiancée and was cheating on you when she rendezvoused with Johnny that night.”

“So why do you suspect Kiki?” Donald pressed.

“Three reasons. The first is that she had a better motive than anyone else. After Bethany’s murder, Kiki became engaged to you.”

“We’ll let that go for a moment. Tell me the second reason.”

“Angel’s book made a lot of people angry. Some of them were mad enough to confront her. Her publicity manager told me a doctor she identified as a pill pusher to your set nearly assaulted Angel in a Manhattan bookstore. Victoria Banks almost attacked Angel in my own store the other night. And someone driving the black Jaguar outside tried to run down Angel Stark an hour later.”

“Your point?” Donald asked.

I shifted my gaze to Kiki. “You were in my store the night Angel gave her reading. You were staying in the same bed and breakfast as Angel, when you could just as easily have been staying here at Windswept.”

“Kiki had car trouble,” Ashley cried. “She got stuck in Quindicott!”

“Nice story, but I don’t buy it,” I replied, my eyes never wavering from Kiki’s. “I think Kiki confronted Angel in her own time—after the book signing, back at the Finch Inn. And I think that’s when Kiki murdered her. She was the only person in your circle besides Victoria Banks who was anywhere near Quindicott that night. And I think Vicky Banks is now off everyone’s suspect list.”

“But you’re wrong!” Kiki cried. “I saw Hal there, too. Hal McConnell.”

I blinked in surprise. “Hal McConnell was at Angel’s reading? I think I would have remembered that.”

Kiki shook her blonde mane. “Not at the store. I saw Hal at the Inn, later that night.”

I leaned forward. “When?”

Kiki shrugged, bit her lower lip. “I don’t know, maybe one in the morning. Certainly after midnight.”

“How can you be sure?”

Kiki took a breath. “Because you’re correct about one thing. I was there to confront Angel. I wanted her to stop harassing us, to leave us out of her life, her books. I was there to stop her lies.”

“What lies, specifically?”

Dead silence descended. Kiki’s lips became tight, Donald put his arm around her shoulder. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked louder than Big Ben.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Kiki, tell me more about your encounter with Hal that night.”

Kiki swept her hair back, took a fortifying sip of cognac. “I went to Angel’s room at eleven o’clock. I knocked, but she wasn’t back yet. I tried again at midnight, but she still hadn’t returned. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Maybe a half an hour later, I heard a car park, and voices, too. I got dressed and waited for Angel to come up the stairs. After a long time I went down to the front entrance. No one was in the lobby and I went outside, onto the porch. That’s when I saw Hal in the parking lot and I called out to him.”