“He has faith in me. When we got stuck together in the same room as freshmen in college, I figured ‘here’s the rich kid who’ll expect me to do his homework.’ As it turned out, he tutored me in French. And yeah, I built him a computer. It didn’t hurt that we both had Old Dutch names. There aren’t many New Yorkers like that anymore. But it’s more about the future than the past. I’ll spare you the nerd-speak, but with de Kruk backing, my company is poised to do big things.”
It sounded like the American Dream, twenty-first century style. But Sunny wondered how Peter felt being included in such an intimate party. Was it a sign of Carson’s friendship? Or was it a business decision, a mark of de Kruk favor for someone they hoped would be a moneymaking asset?
The problem is, once you start thinking that way, the whole Kingsbury-de Kruk affair starts looking more like a business merger. Sunny frowned at the thought, glancing over toward Carson and Priscilla. They seemed happy enough together, but not the stuff of a heart-flopper romance. Had they naturally gravitated to one another in the rarefied social orbits they occupied, or were they making the best of a deal between their families?
Maybe I’ll get a better idea when I meet the rest of the family at dinner, she thought, but it was not to be. Dinner was an excruciating meal, like dining at the grown-ups’ table times ten. Instead of lowered guards, Sunny got a lot of not-in-front-of-the-servants civility from Priscilla’s older brothers. Meeting the Senator was another kind of trip. It wasn’t just that the man acted as if she should kiss his ring. He conducted himself as if he were always on camera, as if every word and action were being recorded. Sunny had covered enough political races to know that nowadays candidates labored to come across as just plain folks. Not Thomas Neal Kingsbury. He was of another generation, giving off a feeling of noblesse oblige and rose-garden campaigning.
No wonder he never made president, Sunny thought.
As for the de Kruks, Carson’s parents had yet to arrive. Some sort of business hitch was keeping Augustus in New York.
The meal itself was a lavish buffet arranged on sideboards—no staff visible—in the dining room of the main house. After serving themselves, the diners then sat at a table that could accommodate all the guests plus another half dozen or so.
Caleb Kingsbury arrived late, still drying his hands on a paper towel. He gave Sunny a conspiratorial wink, then got a lot more formal as he approached. “I apologize, sir,” he said to the Senator, who of course had taken a seat at the head of the table. “I was getting my hands dirty aboard the Merlin. By way of apology, I’d like to invite anyone who wishes to join me for an after-dinner sail.” He grinned at the group. “A shakedown cruise, to make sure the new fittings work as they ought.”
“I like the sound of that.” Priscilla took Carson’s hand.
“Anything that’s a little different,” Beau Bellingham agreed, still looking half-asleep. At least he’d combed his hair for dinner.
“You’re sure it will be safe?” The Senator’s wife didn’t sound like a grande dame, more like the anxious mother she was.
“Everyone will wear life vests, and we’ll be back before nightfall, mother,” Cale soothed. At the table, Sunny found herself seated between Deborah Kingsbury, Governor Lem’s wife, and Fiona Ormond, the wedding planner. The cool blonde asked a couple of questions to determine just how big a media deal Sunny was, but after hearing that Sunny would just be blogging for a local paper with zero help for her husband Lem’s political aspirations, Deborah pretty much left her alone. Fiona, on the other hand, had lots of questions about local businesses.
“Currently, my big interest is transportation,” she said, displaying perfect manners and taking small bites. “The people coming to this event will have certain expectations. After arriving in a private plane, they won’t want to be ferried here by the Podunk car service.” Fiona asked about several livery car companies, but Sunny had to admit complete ignorance. Kittery Harbor was a pretty blue-collar town. Except for weddings and funerals, there wasn’t much call for limousines.
Fiona frowned. “I don’t want to go completely out of the area and have to source things in Portsmouth or Kennebunkport.”
“You may want to look in Saxon, that’s a pretty up-market town,” Sunny suggested. “Otherwise, I’ll check my local sources.”
AKA, ask Mrs. Martinson, she silently admitted. Who else could she turn to when it was a question of class? The food was delicious, but dealing with Fiona was a chore. Oh, she was polite, but determinedly on target. Maybe I’m just not used to dealing with that New York vibe anymore, Sunny thought. If this was how I acted, no wonder I had a hard time when I first came back home.
When the meal finally ended, only the young people took up Cale’s offer of a sail. Yachts weren’t on Fiona’s transport list. The governors were just as happy to rest after their grueling day of tennis, and the Senator and his wife were disinclined.
Beau pleaded fatigue, in spite of his daytime hibernation, and headed off to bed. Peter begged off, too. “I’m not a good sailor,” he said, putting a hand over his stomach.
“Are you a sailor, Sunny?” Priscilla asked.
“Of course she is,” Cale answered before Sunny could. “She mentioned she’d seen me sailing in while she was out on the water the other day.”
Sunny nodded. At least he didn’t mention the boat I was on the other night.
They left the house, cut across the lawn, and went down the old set of steps to the wharf jutting out from Neal’s Neck. This must have been where the fabled rumrunners would’ve made their deliveries. The modern-day picture was a lot quieter. A humble rowboat bobbed in the water at the end of the pier. Along the side, though, a glitzy motor launch—the same one that had launched the pre-emptive strike on Ike Elkins’s boat, and what they’d use as transport over to the yacht—was tied up to the pilings. A couple of security men stood by with a supply of life vests.
Sunny was a little surprised to see Lee Trehearne there, and apparently Cale was, too.
“Everything all right?” Cale asked as he stepped past to check the launch.
“Yes, sir,” the security chief replied. Then he turned to Sunny. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay, Ms. Coolidge.” If his voice got any colder, icebergs would be appearing on the horizon. “It’s a very busy and difficult time for the family, we want everything to go as well as possible.”
Translation, Sunny thought, don’t go making things worse.
Aloud she said, “Everyone has been very kind.” She slipped her arms into a vest, clipped and buckled herself in, and stepped into the launch. At least she had enough experience on boats, mostly courtesy of her dad’s fishing buddies, that she didn’t end up sprawling. As soon as everyone was aboard, the security guys undid the lines. Cale started the engine, and they headed out for the Merlin. The double-masted boat seemed to grow ever larger as they got closer.
The transfer from the launch to the low-slung deck of the schooner was a bit trickier, but Sunny managed it. Priscilla stepped aboard easily, but Carson made a misstep that required a quick grab from Tommy.
Sunny drank in the quiet elegance of the Merlin’s fittings, all polished wood and brass hardware, not a scrap of fiberglass that she could spot. She’d been on larger vessels before, but nothing like this. “This is quite the boat,” she told Cale, who gave her an almost boyish grin.
“Shame it can’t keep a straight course,” Tommy Neal whispered to his wife in a voice loud enough for Sunny to hear. “It always falls off to port.”
Cale gave no sign of having overheard. But a few minutes later, he said casually, “You’re a sailor, aren’t you, Tommy? Maybe you can give the old man a hand, getting the sails up.”
Somehow, Sunny noticed, that meant Tommy taking on all the dog labor. A short while later, he was drenched in sweat and staring daggers, as Cale sat behind the wheel in the stern of the schooner. The ride itse
lf was amazing, scudding along with the wind, the red, white, and blue sails billowing against a glorious sunset. Sunny had been on sailboats before, but this was the closest she’d ever come to flying.
Cale obviously caught her enjoyment. He patted the deck beside his chair, and Sunny joined him.
“Did you understand what that jackass said about my boat?” he asked.
“That it has a tendency to head off to the left from the wind,” Sunny replied.
Cale nodded. “A miserable thing to say. Even if it’s true.”
“I think you’ve made him regret it.” Tommy sat on the narrow deck, arm wrapped around a mast, his free hand mopping his face.
“Maybe a little more.” Cale raised his voice. “Hard a-starboard.”
He turned the wheel, and the Merlin went into a right turn, the wind puffing out the sails, the boom on the mainsail swinging so that Tommy Neal had to duck. So did Sunny, but she was farther away from the mast and had more time. “You’re bad,” she told Cale.
“I prefer to consider it fun-loving, and I suspect you’ve got a streak of that yourself, surprising a newspaper person,” Cale responded with that bad-boy grin. “Maybe that’s how the Kennedys managed to make friends with so many press people. Kindred spirits.”
“So you’re giving it a try?” Sunny asked. “Are you considering another crack at politics?”
Caleb Kingsbury made a face and shook his head. “That’s way behind me. You ever heard of John Profumo?”
“Give me a minute.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Sunny had to search her memory. Sounded Italian. Something gangster related? She shook her head. No. Bad stereotype. Something political? Bribery? No. Something foreign. Well, Italian politics had lots of scandals. Wait, that was it. Scandal. But not in Italy . . .
“A British scandal?” Sunny said out loud. “Maybe fifty years ago?”
“Close enough,” Cale told her. “He was a bigwig in the British Ministry of Defense fooling around with a call girl who was also sleeping with a Soviet agent. By the time it all shook out, it brought down the Conservative government. That’s all anybody remembers.”
Sunny nodded. That was all she remembered, too.
“What impressed me, though, was what Profumo did afterward. He went to work cleaning toilets for a charitable foundation and in the end wound up running it, even receiving royal honors before he died. I’d call that a hell of a second act for his life.”
Cale was silent for a moment concentrating on his steering. “That’s why I set up the Act Two Foundation.”
“The one Priscilla works for,” Sunny said.
Cale nodded. “I may not be a politician anymore, but I’ve got the gift of gab. That, plus the family name, helped open a few wallets. And I think we do some real good, helping people get through changes in their lives.” He grinned. “One of my favorites is a program we run teaching computer skills to folks who lost manufacturing jobs . . . where the instructors are people just out of prison for hacking. Two rehabilitations for the price of one.” He grinned again.
“Sounds as though you’re accomplishing some good with your second act,” Sunny said.
Cale’s face softened a little. “I think even the Senator has gotten behind it now. He deeded this place over to the foundation.” His expansive gesture took in all of Neal’s Neck.
“And the Senator probably also beats out the estate tax on the land.” Sunny’s voice sharpened as she slowly realized the implications. “And since the compound belongs to a nonprofit, does that mean there are no property taxes to pay for all the state and local cops involved in the wedding and the Stoughton case?”
“There are certain considerations when a family has more than two nickels to rub together.” Cale’s hands grew white on the ship’s wheel. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations’?”
“Ancient WASP wisdom,” Sunny replied.
“I’ve collected proverbs like that from all over the world,” Cale told her. “The Japanese say rice paddy to rice paddy. In Italian, it’s ‘Dalle stalle alle stelle alle stalle’—from the stable to the stars to the stable. The Scots put it another way: ‘The father buys, the son builds, the grandchild sells, and his son begs.’”
It’s the nagging worry of all the haves, Sunny thought. That somehow they or their descendants will end up as have-nots. She said nothing, but she suspected that her disapproval leaked out somehow.
Cale’s face looked grim as his eyes scanned the horizon. “My grandfather was the first Kingsbury to make any money, by getting involved with the Neals. Before then, we were mainly country preachers. Sometimes I think the family only went into politics for a bigger congregation. The thing is, my grandfather didn’t make all that much, and my father has spent a lot of it. I’m not going to be the one who blows what little family fortune we’ve got left.”
Says the man with the fifty-foot yacht and a private peninsula, Sunny thought. She sighed, and decided she’d better change the subject. “So tell me more about the work your foundation does?” she asked, and predictably he puffed with pride, launching into a long spiel of success stories.
Sunny nodded and smiled at the right places, massaging Cale’s ego. Just getting onto Neal’s Neck had left her dangling in a strange position. She couldn’t afford to lose a potential ally before she even began investigating.
9
As soon as the Old One returned home and opened the door after Sunny left, Shadow had darted between his legs to run outside. He’d crisscrossed the lawn and the driveway, frantically casting about for a scent and fighting back the mournful howl that threatened to erupt and tear out his insides.
Sunny was gone, gone, gone. She’d thrown him away and left, maybe forever. Shadow’s nose couldn’t even find a trace of her. This was very bad indeed. He wanted to cut loose with his loudest battle-yowl and claw everything to ribbons–houses, grass, people, he didn’t care. At the same time, he wanted to lay down and be sick. He didn’t seem to have any strength at all.
Shadow leaned against a tire, panting after his race around the front of the house. At least here he was in the shade, out of the sunshine. The heat would have been stifling–
Wait a minute, Shadow thought.
He took a couple of steps along the big pile of metal that blocked out the sun. Then he reared up, stretching his forepaws against the door, bringing his nose to the seam in the metal, breathing in deeply. Yes, that was a trace of Sunny’s scent. This was her go-fast thing.
Shadow felt a little quiver of hope. The two-legs loved their go-fast things. At least, all the humans he’d seen seemed to. When they went away, they usually hollered, climbed into these big, wheeled things, and roared off. Shadow had never seen a human just leave a go-fast thing behind.
He dropped back onto four feet, thinking hard. Maybe Sunny wasn’t gone forever—at least, not yet, he thought. What should I do?
It was difficult to decide, because he was being distracted. The Old One had appeared in the doorway of the house, clunking a spoon against a can of food. Shadow sniffed the air. The good kind of fish.
He abandoned the go-fast thing, heading quickly across the grass and up the steps. He had a plan now.
First, he would eat the good fish.
Then he would keep an eye out for Sunny. She wasn’t going to leave him behind that easily.
*
Sunny finished her first day on Neal’s Neck with mixed feelings. She felt that at least she was fitting in, or at least moving to the background where she could observe people without having them stare at her. On the other hand, doing that meant keeping quiet, so she hadn’t really gotten her investigation off the ground.
She sent Ken her first blog post (she’d written about the sunset boat ride, which made for some good copy . . . better than how charitable foundations could be used for tax avoidanc
e, the subject she’d initially been tempted to write about), and she figured that should help nail down her cover as a frothy celebrity reporter. She worried about the image she’d used—leaving the land and all its troubles behind—might seem a little callous, considering that one of those troubles was a dead girl. But the feeling of freedom, having the wind at your back, that was pretty good. So were the details about the amount of effort a sailboat required. Tommy Neal’s work and sweat was properly recorded.
The folks in the guesthouses kept pretty early hours. Maybe that was because the only TV was an ancient portable—no flat screen taking up half a wall. The couples started disappearing first, and no one stayed up to watch the news, either by habit or because they were sick of the media by now. Sunny was alone by the weather report and turned off the tube. She went up to her room to call her dad and wish him good night. She’d just hung up with him when her cell phone rang again.
“Just thought you should know the website has lit up like a Christmas tree in the hours since you posted,” Ken Howell reported happily. “People from everywhere are reading and leaving comments. Boston, New York, even some guy in Hawaii. Hawaii. I’m happy if we get someone from Portsmouth or Augusta!”
“Well, it should certainly get the Courier’s name around,” Sunny said.
“Yup,” Ken hesitated. “I guess I should thank you and the interns again for setting up the online site.”
“Nancy suggested it after working on the MAX site for a while,” Sunny told him. “You should thank her. I just gave advice.” She hoped Nancy wouldn’t regret her bright idea. Ollie had insisted on them putting a link from the Courier site to MAX. Nancy might now find herself dealing with a deluge of accommodation requests from would-be celebrity gawkers.
Maybe I should temper people’s expectations, Sunny thought. That would make a good topic for tomorrow’s blog, how totally secure and inaccessible Neal’s Neck really is.
She suggested as much to Ken, who immediately gave his assent. “Let ’em follow all the excitement on our site via your blog.”
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