The Ghost and the Dead Deb (30 page)

“It wasn’t me,” said Donald. “I liked Vicky. After Bethany was gone, the Banks family wanted me to stay in touch—to help them get over their loss. I did. Vicky and I got to be friendly . . . When Hal wasn’t around, we talked.”

“How close did you get?” I asked.

“Close,” said Donald, glancing nervously at Kiki.

“Close enough to tell Vicky Banks that Angel was the one who killed her sister?”

“Maybe . . .”

“No wonder that poor girl was gunning for Angel. It wasn’t Angel’s book at all—it was your telling Vicky that Angel got away with killing her sister that drove her over the edge.”

“I didn’t kill Vicky,” Donald replied. “I have dozens of witnesses that will tell you I never left this house since Friday night when I drove through Quindicott and spotted Angel.”

“No, you didn’t kill Vicky with a
rope
,” I said, “but you told her things you never should have, just to ease your own guilty conscience. Things that sent a young and impressionable girl over the edge. Keep that physical evidence safe, because you’re going to need it to prove your story.”

I stood and faced Ashley, whose expression was nothing short of shock—whether it was from the startling truths she’d just heard or the fact that I’d stood my ground and shook those truths loose, I couldn’t say.

“Thank you for your gracious invitation,” I told my sister-in-law. “Now I’ll collect my son and we’ll be leaving.”

I arrived at paintball headquarters in time to witness the junior team being rewarded for their efforts. Every little solder got a plastic medal, complete with a red, white, and blue ribbon. Spencer’s eyes were bright when he rejoined me a few moments later.

“It was so cool, Mom. Captain Bob led us on a commando raid and we ‘achieved our objective.’ ”

“I’m proud of you, honey,” I said sincerely. “Mommy achieved her objective, too.”

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated into their money or their vast carelessness . . . and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . .

—F. Scott Fitzgerald,
The Great Gatsby
, 1925

Planning is for the poor.

—Robert Evans

 

 

 

AFTER TAKING SPENCER out for ice cream, then stopping by the bookstore to make sure Sadie and Mina had things in hand, I drove my Saturn over to the Finch Inn, but not up the tree-lined drive. Instead, I parked on the side of the street and cut the engine.

I pulled out Victoria’s cell phone and dialed the Inn’s number. Fiona answered on the first ring. We exchanged pleasantries, then I got to the point of my call. “Is the security camera you installed over the front entrance still working?”

“You bet,” Fiona replied. “I haven’t had a lithograph, framed portrait, or antique lamp disappear since, either.”

“Do you still have the surveillance video from the night Angel disappeared?”

“Sorry, Pen. The State Police confiscated it the next day. I never even had a chance to review it before they swept it up in their investigation.”

“But if there was something to see, would the camera pick it up?”

“Sure,” said Fiona. “The camera moves back and forth, from side to side—covers the entire porch and the front door. If there’s something to see, the State Troopers will see it.”

“But only if they know what to look for . . .”

“Something’s up, isn’t it, Pen?” Fiona’s voice was palpable with excitement.

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” I quickly ended the call before prosecutor Fiona could begin her cross-exam.

Though it was nearly six o’clock, the late summer sun was still above the horizon and a few hours of daylight remained. I would need it to prepare for what Jack had suggested on the way back from the McClure’s. I climbed out of the car and walked up the Inn’s tree-lined drive. Instead of going up the steps to the Inn’s main house, I followed the wooded path along the pond, which led to Fiona’s still-under-construction restaurant. The scent of salty sea was heavy as a damp, warm breeze whipped across the inlet.

Even down by the water, the day was still sticky and uncomfortably warm, yet I suppressed a shiver. The body of Angel Stark had been dragged from this very spot, and I doubted I would ever banish the sight of her murdered corpse—or Victoria Banks’s, for that matter—from my mind.

Living with the dead,
said Jack.
That’s the world you’re in now, baby. Get used to it.

“Jack, do you believe Kiki and Donald’s story? That Angel killed Bethany in some kind of jealous rage?”

Yeah, doll. It all fits. I’d already suspected Angel of being envious of Bethany from that little bit of self-serving prose she read in your store. What convinced me that Priss Kiki and Prince Donald were on the level about Angel doing the dirty deed was their claim of evidence. Angel’s silk jacket
—

“Right, like a certain presidential intern’s blue dress . . .”

“Never mind.”

I nodded, understanding and agreeing. Angel had been more than a careless, eccentric author. Obviously, a sick, jealous, unbalanced monster had been lurking behind the bohemian-style designer clothes and false-revelatory prose.

So you’ve got Johnny down to two counts of murder,
Jack said.
You still have to prove who killed Angel
—

“And Victoria. I know.”

“No. But there’s something else she doesn’t have.”

I could almost hear Jack smiling when he said,
That’s right, doll. You tell me.

“Defense wounds.” In the warm car, I had already removed my long-sleeved summer-weight sweater and threw it over my scratched-up shoulders. “If Kiki had needed to hide scratches or other defense wounds,” I told Jack, “she would have worn something with long sleeves to the party, just like I had. But that slight gauzy sundress of hers revealed nothing but perfect skin. Not one bruise, not one scratch.”

I approached the construction site. The restaurant was still a fleshless skeleton, stark in the waning afternoon. The brick foundation rose chest-high. Wood-frame walls and supporting steel beams were still exposed. Work had stopped here since the grisly discovery, and close to the water, ribbons of yellow plastic crime scene tape fluttered on the warm breeze.

“We’re here, Jack. What do you think?”

Piles of wood were stacked about, most under canvas. I wove my way around support beams and unfinished walls that would soon be dining areas and a kitchen.

I spied a tall pole, planted just beyond the perimeter of the structure, and probably used by the builders for surveying. “Found it!” Glancing around the area, I also discovered a tall ladder propped near a parked yellow forklift and backhoe.

“I think it’ll work, Jack.”

I flipped open Victoria’s cell phone. On the display screen, I highlighted the phone number of her last incoming voicemail message—just as I had yesterday. The party answered on the third ring. I recognized Hal’s voice.

“Still have Victoria’s cell phone, I see,” he said, the touch of weariness in his voice making him sound older than his years.

“Yes,” I replied. “And I’m about to turn it over to the police so they can match the calls stored in its memory against your own phone records.”

The silence was deafening.

“Hal, I know you lied to me. About Victoria’s father being in town, and about where you were the night Victoria vanished. It’s time we talked again.” I paused. “Nine o’clock tonight. At the construction site near the Finch Inn. And don’t even
try
to tell me you don’t know where that is.”

I hung up before he could reply. With a sigh, I consulted my ghost. “Jack? Do you think he bought it?”

“I know. Lots to do. And no time like the present.”

Jack grunted.
So to speak.

 

 

A FEW HOURS later, I was pacing the Finch Inn construction site, watching the sun drop below the horizon and a black velvet shroud slowly smother the summer blue sky then pierce it with starlight as sharp as daggers.

Behind me, that tall wooden pole I’d spied earlier stood firm as the wind increased, blowing through the trees with an ominous intensity. The inlet’s sea water continued its lazy incessant lapping against the dark bank.

“We’re all set,” I murmured to Jack as I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

Seeing as how I had a potential murderer on his way to meet me, I tried not to react with total alarm when I asked Jack, “What the heck do you mean, maybe not?!”

I’ve been mulling everything over, and it seems to me there’s still a piece missing in this puzzle. The piece. Angel’s gun. The one she tried to give to Johnny. Remember why Johnny raced to the border in the first place? Angel was trying to blackmail him into killing someone for her
—
now who do you think that someone was?

“Donald Easterbrook?” I guessed, “for almost running her over? Or Kiki, for stealing Donald away? Or . . . Victoria Banks?”

Victoria had threatened Angel very publicly at your bookstore
—

“And, according to Vicky’s roommates, she’d sent Angel threatening e-mails, too. You know what e-mails, are, right, Jack?”

What do you think? I’ve been watching you tap away on that typewriter box for a year now. Anyway, that means there’s even more evidence to show Victoria Banks had an intent to harm Angel Stark
—
which would have given Angel a motive to go after Victoria. Seems to me, Angel was worried how far Victoria would go with her threats . . . and that night, when the girl actually threatened her in public, Angel decided to rid herself of the little Banks pest before she got around to getting rid of Angel.

“So what about the gun then?”

We know from Kiki’s claim that Hal was here late last night looking for Angel
—
and he lied about it to you, so he’s trying to cover up his tracks. If he killed Angel, like you and I both think he did, he might have taken that gun from her. And he could be packing right now.

“Gee-zus, Jack, what a time to share this with me!”

I quickly used Vicky’s cell to call Eddie Franzetti. He was the only person on the Quindicott Police force whom I trusted with this information. He’d been through this with me before, when he helped me capture Timothy Brennan’s killer.

“Sorry, Mrs. McClure,” said the desk sergeant. “Eddie went up to Providence with Johnny and Bud Napp. Tomorrow Johnny’s going to be arraigned for murder, and the Staties wanted him close for a perp walk in the morning. I guess Bud wanted to go along to support his nephew.”

“Dammit!” (I couldn’t help myself.)

“Is anything wrong? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No thanks, Sergeant.”

Call it off, doll,
Jack said when I hung up.
If he’s armed, you may be setting up another crime scene here.

A stone rattled on the path. I turned at the sound. Hal McConnell was approaching me, a frown creasing his handsome features.

“Sorry, Jack,” I silently told the ghost. “It’s too late. We’ll just have to make do with the resources at hand.”

I surveyed the suspect. He wore khaki pants that flapped in the summer wind. A yellow polo shirt, buttoned to the top, peeked out of his buttoned blue blazer. Once again, he wore an outfit too heavy for the warm, sticky weather. Hal stopped a few yards away, eyes level with mine. The warm breeze blew his forward-swept hair back, and for the first time I saw the angry bruise, confirming what I’d suspected. He’d suddenly changed his hairstyle for one reason—to cover a defensive wound.

“Well?” Hal asked, sliding his hands into his pants pockets.

“I spoke to Kiki Langdon earlier today,” I began. “She told me she saw you the night Angel was killed, in front of this inn.”

Hal’s half-smile turned sour. “I see now that Newport’s code of silence is selectively applied . . .”

I shook my head. “Hal, listen to me. The security camera above the Inn’s front door would have photographed your whole encounter with Kiki. The State Police have that evidence now—and they’ll care about it once I tell them what to look for and why.”

Hal swallowed. His hands came out of his pockets. He rubbed the back of his neck, like he was thinking fast.

“So I talked to Kiki that night? So what?” he finally replied. “It’s not illegal to stop by an inn . . . I’ll just deny having anything to do with Angel’s murder.”

“There are things the police don’t know yet, Hal. Like the fact that Angel was the one who murdered Bethany, and Bethany’s little sister, Victoria, discovered that fact.”

Hal blinked. I’d caught him off guard again.

“Yes,” he slowly admitted. “It’s true. Vicky knew. Donald told her . . .”

“Easterbrook?”

Hal nodded, sighed, folded his arms tightly across his chest. “It wasn’t enough to have Bethany. He started on Victoria, too . . . Before Bethany’s body was even in the ground.” A bitter expression crossed his features. “Donald has a hobby, Mrs. McClure, getting girls into bed . . . not that it’s a crime. With him it’s more of a compulsion . . . maybe it’s in his blood, part of that Brazilian meal-ticket his father married, or maybe he’s just phenomenally more successful at it than the rest of us so it comes off as out of control, but . . . there it is.”