“It looks like a supply of pills,” Sunny said. “Of course, some people say that’s almost a required accessory for med students.”
“And they might be right,” Beau shuffled his feet, kicking at the gravel in the path. “It’s pretty hard to stay sharp when you’re averaging about four hours’ sleep a day. I got some . . . chemical help. Something to pep me up. Thought I could keep a handle on it, but I couldn’t. It sounds about as stupid as I feel, but . . . I got hooked.”
Sunny stared at him, thinking of Beau’s constant drowsiness. “If those pills are supposed to pep you up, I don’t think they’re working.”
“You don’t understand,” Beau said. “Those pills aren’t uppers. They’re supposed to help me get off the uppers. I knew I was getting messed up. This time off would be my only chance to stop using. If I took this stuff, it would help me detox with minimal withdrawal symptoms.”
He gave Sunny a rueful, mirthless smile. “Unfortunately, there’s a side effect that affects a very small percentage of users, so I didn’t worry about it. But some people taking this stuff suffer lethargy and extreme tiredness.”
Sunny nodded. “And you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“It’s like I’m making up for all the sleep I lost in the last year.” Beau looked embarrassed. “I even dozed off in the barber’s chair.”
“So I presume that explains all the white pills,” Sunny said. “What about the pink ones?”
Beau’s expression suddenly became guarded, but Sunny pressed. “Are they an emergency supply of uppers in case your do-it-yourself detox didn’t work?”
“Look—please.” His voice was strained.
“You’ve come clean this far,” Sunny told him. “Why not go all the way?”
Beau’s big shoulders slumped. “It’s true. You know my secret now . . . but so does someone else. I was blackmailed.”
Sunny struggled to keep her expression neutral, while internally she thought, Hot damn—looks like Randall might be right!
Beau’s face became relaxed as he unburdened himself. “When I got the demand, there wasn’t much I could do. Residents with drug dependency issues usually don’t become doctors. And it was supposed to be a one-time payment—a hefty one, but I managed to scrape it together and wire it off.”
A one-time payment, Sunny thought. That fits.
“Why would you trust that there’d only be one payment?” she asked.
“It’s not like I had a choice.” Beau shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Besides, Carson and some of our other friends knew other people who’d gotten similar demands. I heard them talking. Bits and pieces, rumors and gossip. But the payment seemed to work. There were no more demands for money.”
His voice ran down, but Sunny knew there was more. “The problem was, you still owed a favor.”
Beau jumped as if he’d been stung. “How do you know?”
“I’ve heard bits and pieces, too,” she told him. “So the pink pills are the favor you owe?”
The big guy didn’t so much nod as drop his head. “Rohypnol.”
Sunny stared. “The date-rape drug?”
“I was told to get a supply, something untraceable, from out of the country,” Beau said miserably, still hanging his head. “Nowadays the legit stuff has an additive that turns drinks green if you drop the pills in them.”
“What—?” Sunny began, but Beau quickly cut her off.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what was going on.” The words almost tumbled out of him. “All I was supposed to do was pass them on to Eliza Stoughton. Whatever was going down with her, I have no idea. Guess we weren’t close enough to share our really big secrets.”
“She was being blackmailed, too, I hear.”
“I figured as much, the way she started going off on everybody.” Beau let off a long breath. “I was supposed to lie low until she contacted me. The thing is, even though she was always screaming at me, she never asked for the pills. And then she wound up dead.” He shuddered. “I really wanted to keep my head down after that.” Beau looked at Sunny pleadingly. “How do you think that Wainwright guy would react if I told him the same story I just told you?”
“Better than you might think,” Sunny said, keeping her reporter alter ego’s harsher opinion to herself. Or he may just stamp “case closed” on the file and ignore all the loose ends.
“And how about you? You’re a reporter,” Beau said, remembering that a little belatedly. “What are you going to do?”
“For now, I’ve got to think about it,” Sunny replied. “You have to know this may be connected with the deaths.”
Beau stared miserably at his feet. “I had nothing to do with either of them.”
“If I can keep you out of it, I will.” Even as she made it, Sunny wondered if that was a smart promise.
The minute Will hears about this, he’ll want to turn it all over to Wainwright, and to hell with Beau, she thought. Is that the right thing to do? Beau’s getting clean. And I believe him when he says he’s not involved.
Sometimes, she had to admit, her reporter’s truth radar could be fooled. But Beau had been forthcoming about his drug use and the blackmail. And as for not knowing what Eliza Stoughton was up to, that rang true to Sunny as well.
On the other hand, if I’m wrong, I’ve just warned a killer that I’m onto him, she thought as a chill ran through her. Sunny hated to admit it, but the blackmail angle actually made things look worse for Beau. If Eliza was supposed to contact him, that meant they both knew that the other was being extorted. Sunny had a further uncomfortable thought. What if Sheriff Nesbit, armed with Randall’s blackmailer theory, had raised the subject in a quiet meeting with the prime suspect—Beau? I could end up like Eliza, or Nesbit. As part of his surgical training, Beau would know his way around a knife.
Pushing that thought from her mind, Sunny asked, “How did the blackmailer contact you?”
“Text messages that disappeared from my phone,” Beau replied. “Pretty freaky.”
Sunny decided she needed a bit of time to try to digest this new information. She sent Beau off to his friends at the pool and set off on a walk around the Neal’s Neck compound. Not the most reassuring of considerations after getting old Beau to open up. It certainly piled more into the boxes for motive and means. Opportunity, though . . .
Lee Trehearne’s cameras still placed Beau inside the guesthouse when the murders occurred, a definite alibi. Unless he’d managed to climb up to the roof and grow wings to commit his crimes, Beau had been, if not asleep, then at least in the house. Possibly he could have figured out how to avoid the cameras, but how would he have even known about them? This was his first visit to Neal’s Neck.
Rather than avoiding the cameras, it might be possible to fool them, Sunny thought. You’d just need the technical skills.
That suggested Peter Van Twissel, the computer genius with the strong-looking hands. His alibi depended on the cameras, too. And then there were the disappearing text messages—another bit of techno-magic. Could Peter be the mysterious Taxman? A poor boy lifting money and favors off the rich?
Not to mention an unpleasant drunk. Sunny scowled. Was he the sort of criminal who’d screwed up his own plans? Everybody seemed to be drinking when I passed the pool party the day of the press conference. Did Eliza somehow tumble to the fact that Peter was the Taxman, and he eliminated her? And then did the same to Nesbit? For that matter, would he have been able to see straight enough to go after the sheriff?
She continued to walk aimlessly. Peter could have been playing drunk—or drunker—to give himself an alibi. But Sunny had problems putting him in the middle of the Taxman’s web. Randall said the extortion scheme had been going on for at least a decade, which would have made Peter a young teenager when it began. Where would a high school kid have gotten the kind of information required?
Or may
be, where would a good hacker get the information?
Sunny found herself passing the tennis court, and Priscilla’s brothers’ never-ending marathon of games. How about one of them? Could one of the Senator’s grandsons be supplementing his governor’s salary and influencing people through blackmail? Both were a bit older than Sunny—certainly more used to technology than any of the older generation. Neither had shown himself as a computer whiz, but maybe that was on purpose.
The knife that killed Frank Nesbit did come from Lem Junior’s bedroom, Sunny couldn’t help thinking. And the Kingsburys are surely more familiar with their own security systems than any of the visitors. In fact, aside from the whole technology aspect, Senator Kingsbury would fit quite nicely in the role of the spider running the Taxman’s web, she thought. He probably knows where a lot of bodies are buried, metaphorically or literally. And since he got dumped by his old associates, he’d have motive to make them pay.
The problem was, she was certain that he didn’t have the computer smarts to pull off something as fancy as vanishing text messages and untraceable payments. Of course, he could have hired out the work, but that would’ve meant a partner who could reveal all. And what would any of the Kingsburys want with Rohypnol?
An ugly scenario suggested itself to her mind: Tommy Neal was an up and coming Wall Street type, distant relation . . . and spurned suitor? Robin Lory and others had suggested that Priscilla and Tommy had been considered as matrimonial partners, but he’d ended up marrying Cillie’s best friend. What if he still wanted Priscilla—but wanted to make sure she wouldn’t remember it? A date-rape drug would take care of that.
Sunny shook her head. This is beginning to sound like one of those new nighttime soaps, she silently complained. It certainly didn’t help her to narrow down the circle of suspects.
She suddenly felt very alone.
I’d give a lot to have a friendly face around.
*
Shadow trailed after Sunny, not even sure why he was doing it. First she’d chased him and then ignored him, and then she’d sat watching for the big He to come along. Shadow could smell that He even from the underbrush where he’d hidden. There were made smells on him now, some of them pretty interesting. But underneath that was the same strong male scent that Shadow had detected in the room where Sunny had gone.
Whatever else, though, this one was not Smells Good.
Shadow gave a little quiver of annoyance. I thought Sunny was happy enough with the Old One, her He . . . and me, he thought. Why has she started fooling around with all these other two-leggity males?
He wasn’t sure whether he’d find out, but he kept on her trail, even when she absentmindedly walked past the Black Ones who were searching for him. Sometimes he had to detour to stay out of their way. But he always came back to Sunny.
Shadow could tell she was troubled. He might not be able to climb into her lap and comfort her, but he could make sure he’d be nearby.
18
By the time Sunny had mentally worked her way through all the possible suspects, a glance at her watch told her she was about due to head back and get ready for dinner. She strolled along to the guesthouse just in time to see Priscilla emerging from one of the ever-present town cars. Cillie looked very serious indeed in a sage green suit. She waved good-bye to the car—Sunny realized that Cale Kingsbury was in the backseat, also wearing a suit—and waited until the vehicle had gone around a bend in the path. Then Priscilla raised her arms and did a little shimmy.
“My happy dance,” she explained to Sunny. “I’ve been working for months on a project to create food pantries statewide using the 99 Elmet Ladies’ effort as a test program. It took two meetings in one day, but we finally signed the papers and organized the funding. It’s a go! The biggest thing I’ve tried to get off the ground, and now it’s set to happen. I was so afraid something would gum things up when the wedding plans went into high gear, or for the honeymoon.” She heaved a deep sigh and gave Sunny a big grin. “Okay. Now I’m ready to get married.”
“I think you still have a couple of months,” Sunny told her, but she joined in the smile. But then the idea of fouling things up before the wedding tangled with the Rohypnol she’d discovered. Almost before she knew what she was saying, Sunny asked, “Does anyone have a reason to create a scandal around your wedding?”
Priscilla’s cheerful expression faltered. “You mean a scandal besides two people getting murdered on Neal’s Neck?”
Sunny took a moment to search for the right words. None came—at least, none that didn’t involve mentioning the date-rape drug. “I mean something more like a sex scandal.”
Cillie got very formal, almost prim. “That’s not something people usually connect with us Kingsburys.”
“Except, I guess, for people who know about the copse,” Sunny suggested.
Warm color rose in Priscilla’s face, but her eyes grew icy. “That’s kind of personal.”
“You’re right—I was out of line,” Sunny apologized. But her interior reporter’s antennae were quivering. There was something here, but she wasn’t sure what it might be. She took a moment or two to switch the conversation to other subjects and smooth Priscilla’s ruffled hackles, much as she sometimes did with Shadow’s fur. When Cillie was smiling again, Sunny went into the guesthouse and headed upstairs. She only had one unused outfit left in the closet, her coral party number. After a quick shower, she let her hair dry and put on a little makeup before stepping into the dress and heading over for dinner. Then she came out into the hallway, where Cillie stood waiting.
“Wow! Very impressive,” Priscilla said as she took in the outfit. “You make me feel dowdy in this suit.”
“Spoken like a true politician,” Sunny told her.
“Politician’s daughter,” Cillie corrected as they headed downstairs to join Yardley, who actually did look a bit dowdy in her usual beige. The guys didn’t say much when Sunny and the other girls joined them outside, but they each gave her some pretty complimentary looks. And when they reached the big house, Cale Kingsbury greeted Sunny with a big grin.
“You should have led with this dress, Sunny,” he told her after a slow survey. “You know how first impressions are the most important.”
She waved off the flattery. “At the beginning of the summer, my skin burns to exactly this shade,” she told him.
“Oho,” he said, “the nude look.”
Rolling her eyes but grinning, Sunny headed for the dining room. The experiment with alfresco dining was definitely over, although as usual, the meal was buffet style. Both sets of French doors leading to the terrace were closed, and the food was arranged on the sideboard in closed dishes.
Sunny had to hide a grin. Full security in case of a commando cat attack, her inner smart mouth quipped.
The meal was quiet, but Sunny got a lot of sidelong looks from the males in the room, including a couple from the Emperor Augustus. She began to regret having worn such a striking color. By the time dinner ended, she was glad for the opportunity to make an escape.
As Sunny was leaving the mansion, Priscilla appeared at her side. “I was thinking about what you mentioned earlier,” she said quietly. “About scandals. The Neals were more likely than the Kingsburys to get involved in, um, adventures. But somebody else had to deal with a lot of gossip—Eliza.”
Sunny stopped and stared. “What kind of gossip?”
“Look, she’s—she was a friend, and now she’s dead.” Cillie bit her lip. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“Let me help,” Sunny said. “Is it something she could’ve been blackmailed over?”
Priscilla’s eyes went wide. “Maybe. She wasn’t specific with me, but she was pretty frantic about a year ago, right when she broke off her engagement. There were rumors about a sex tape that her fiancé had talked her into—and then managed to lose.”
T
hat could put the kibosh on Eliza’s wedding plans, Sunny thought, although she said nothing. And in the right hands—like the Taxman’s—it could also be a dandy setup for blackmail.
“But I don’t see how an indiscretion like that could’ve led to her getting killed.” Priscilla’s voice was so soft, Sunny could barely hear it.
“I don’t know either, but it may tie in,” Sunny said. “I’m still casting my nets as widely as possible. Then I’ll try to see what facts fit together.”
Priscilla nodded somberly, and they moved together in silence for a little while. But when Cillie made the turn to head for the guesthouse, Sunny shook her head. “I’m going to walk a little more. Try and sort out my thoughts.”
She took a wide loop around the compound, along the paths nearest to the water. Blackmail. Scandal. Sex tapes. Rohypnol, which almost was synonymous with date rape. It seemed like a consistent thread, but how did it tie together?
She was almost to the tip of Neal’s Neck, the headland that jutted out into the water like the prow of a vessel, when she spotted the copse, the only halfway-wild stand of trees amid the otherwise immaculately tended gardens and lawns. That has to be it, Sunny thought, spotting the ruins of an old shingled roof among the foliage. On impulse, she walked over. There was the barest suggestion of a path, overgrown with twigs that tugged at the hem of her dress. She zigzagged deeper into the shadows and found the gazebo. Although the roof was pretty much gone, the base of the structure and the supporting posts had managed to survive. A few token flecks of white remained on the more sheltered sections, vestiges of an ancient paint job. But most of the bare wood had weathered to a silvery color.
Left to their own growth, the surrounding trees had spread up and out to create a green roof where the shingled one had been torn away. In the summertime I guess that’s pretty romantic, Sunny thought. What had Cillie called it? A bower?
As a lover’s rendezvous, however, it looked pretty Spartan. Blankets would definitely be necessary. And maybe some moonlight, too. Right now, the lighting was all wrong. The evening sun had turned the western sky a glaring red, as if a huge fire were blazing just beyond the horizon. That was quite pretty when viewed from the open. But it gave an infernal atmosphere to the shadows in here.
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