By Familiar Means

by Delia James

  “Back? She was here before?”

  “Looks that way. Now it turns out she works for a big hospitality chain, and I thought maybe she’d like to talk to the local paper about what her company’s future plans are in Portsmouth.”

  I could picture the flash in Frank’s blue eyes. “She just might, and I know the paper would love to talk to her.”

  21

  People will always tell a stranger more than you might think, and when that stranger is a journalist, they’ll make space in their schedules for the chance. So, it didn’t surprise me when Frank called back saying he’d gotten an appointment to talk with Shelly Kinsdale at five o’clock the next day.

  What did surprise me was when he told me where it was.

  “She’s staying at the Portsmouth Inn.”

  “She’s here? Right here? In town?”

  “Apparently.”

  “The police must need more information from her.”

  “Maybe,” said Frank. “But she was really interested in talking about Dreame Royale’s plans in Portsmouth and didn’t mention Jimmy once. Usually when you tell people you’re from the paper and they’ve had a murder in the family they kind of assume that’s what you want to talk about. She didn’t even mention it.”

  “Wow. That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “Cold?” said Frank. “Seems to run in the family. See you there.”

  * * *

  Once upon a time, the Portsmouth Inn had been a Victorian mansion. It was nowhere near as big or as grand as Harbor’s Rest, but it was a long way from the Quality 6 out by the highway.

  Shelly Kinsdale, aka Michele Upton, opened the door right away when Frank knocked. She was a striking woman with dark, waving hair and dark eyes set in a thin face with high cheekbones. Her shoulders were wide, her chin was sharp and her smile was open and brilliant.

  “Mr. Hawthone?” she held out her hand. “Shelly Kinsdale. Delighted to meet you. And you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Nancy Parker,” I said. Frank and I had agreed on a cover story on the way over, just in case she’d heard someone mention my name in connection with the Luces. We might not know for sure if the police had talked with her, but if she really did have something to do with Harbor’s Rest, the Hildes might have.

  “Won’t you come in?” Shelly stood back and we thanked her and did just that.

  The room had been freshly made up and all signs of personal belongings tidied away, except for a gleaming black laptop on the desk. Oh, and the fruit basket, which had two bottles standing beside it. The first was some high-end burgundy wine. The second had an apple tree and a cursive script label.

  My mind’s eye flashed on the bar at the Harbor’s Rest, and Kelly Pierce holding a bottle just like that and saying she was going to take it as a “sweetener.”

  I was really glad Frank was doing the talking right then.

  “Miss Parker’s doing a trial period at the paper,” Frank told Shelly as she gestured us to the sofa while she took the desk chair. “I hope you don’t mind I brought her along?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. But, as I told you on the phone, I’ve got another appointment in thirty minutes, so I’m afraid I can’t give you as much time as I’d like.”

  “I understand, Ms. Kinsdale.” Frank pulled out his digital recorder and his notebook. “I appreciate you making the time.”

  Frank started by asking some fairly innocuous questions about how long Shelly Kinsdale had worked for the Dreame Royale chain (five years); was the chain feeling the economic recovery (delighted to say that hotels are almost all filled to over eighty percent capacity, a tribute to the high standards of excellence found at all Dreame Royale properties). I sat beside him with a notebook and pen in my hands and occasionally checked the pocket recorder on the coffee table to make sure it was still running. But mostly, I watched the woman in front of me.

  She certainly didn’t act like someone whose brother had just gotten murdered. She was smooth, poised and elegant, clearly comfortable with herself and her surroundings. Upbeat corporate jargon flowed easily from her and her answers were heavily laced with projections and market shares and exciting opportunities for the future.

  “So, since you’re here, can we assume Dreame Royale is looking to expand in the Portsmouth area?” asked Frank.

  Ms. Kinsdale smiled. “Dreame Royale is always keeping an eye out for new opportunities to serve the community,” she said breezily. “We know that Portsmouth is a sought-after destination for recreational and business travelers, so we know that Dreame Royale has a place here.”

  “And does Dreame Royale have an eye on any property in particular?” I asked.

  Ms. Kinsdale waved this away. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss any deals that may or may not still be in negotiation.”

  “No, of course not,” said Frank. “It’s just that there’s a rumor floating around that someone is in talks with the owners of one of Portsmouth’s more established hotels.”

  “The Harbor’s Rest,” I added, for clarity’s sake.

  Shelly Kinsdale paused and frowned. “Can I ask where you heard this rumor?”

  “That would be a confidential source,” said Frank immediately.

  “Of course.” For the first time, I heard the tension under Shelly’s corporate happy-talk. “Well. I suppose I can say that we were at one time interested in the Harbor’s Rest, but unfortunately we were not able to come to an understanding with the whole family. It was a disappointment, of course, but unfortunately, not everyone was able to see the advantages of becoming part of the Dreame Royale suite of properties.”

  “But some could?” I prompted.

  “Some, yes.” She smiled in that way people do when they want to make it really clear they’re done talking now.

  Frank and I exchanged glances and I knew he was asking the same question I was. Which Hilde had wanted to sell out?

  “So,” Frank was saying. “There’s nothing we can tell our readers about Dreame Royale’s plans for the seacoast?” Frank had an amazing ability to sound gently disappointed.

  “We-e-e-elllll . . .” Ms. Kinsdale clasped her hands around her knee and leaned in. “How about this? You can say we are actively pursuing an exciting new opportunity, partnering with local entrepreneurs. This will be a unique, luxury boutique hotel, with all the same standards of excellence our guests expect from the Dreame Royale brand.” She beamed, but she also glanced at the clock. “I’m afraid I have a dinner meeting, so we’ll have to wrap this up fairly soon. Were there any other questions?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just one.”

  Shelly raised her immaculately plucked eyebrows at me. Frank cleared his throat; he also nudged my foot. I ignored him. There was no way to tell if or when we’d get another chance to talk to this woman. The time for subtly was over.

  “Why’d you spend two weeks working for Jake and Miranda Luce?”

  Whatever reaction I’d expected from Shelly, I don’t think it was a small squirm indicating mild embarrassment. Not that this was her only reaction. She also reached out and snapped the Off button on the recorder.

  “So,” she said. “You found out about that?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We found out about that.”

  “Well, I knew it would go public sooner or later.” She sighed. “I was just hoping later.”

  “That was kind of wishful thinking, considering they’ve been implicated in your brother’s murder.”

  The word “murder” dropped heavily between us, but Shelly didn’t even blink. “Jimmy’s death has nothing at all to do with my coming to Portsmouth.”

  Frank reached for the recorder.

  “Turn that back on and I’m not saying another word,” snapped Shelly. Frank lifted his hand away and held it up, fingers splayed, showing her it was completely empty.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m a
ssuming that’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? To talk about Jimmy?”

  “It’s on the list,” I said. “So, why the Luces?”

  “I needed some cover while I came to Portsmouth to assess the market. If people get word that a major developer is coming in, suddenly everything is spruced up and the red carpet is rolled out, and all kinds of cracks are painted over. It’s very hard to get an accurate picture of the local situation.”

  “But your deciding to come to Portsmouth had nothing to do with your brother being in town?” An online search for Jimmy’s name had turned up the article the Seacoast Times had run on Jimmy and his prospects as a star chef. I know because I checked.

  Shelly’s jaw shifted back and forth a couple of times. “Now you’re thinking, wow, she’s cold, aren’t you, Miss . . . whoever you are? Well, how’s this for cold? My brother ran out on his family. My father had to go on disability when I was sixteen, and his insurance covered exactly squat. I worked all the way through high school just to help cover the rent. But what does Jimmy do, right when he’s getting old enough to really help out? He decides to hit the road and leave me and Dad to sink or swim. Ten years, and the only time we hear from him is when he’s trying to weasel some money out of us or, I should say, out of Dad, because he knew I was on to him.”

  If I hadn’t liked Ms. Upton before, I most definitely did not like her now. “So, you took advantage of a couple of nice people so you could scope the place out and maybe find a way to put one over on your brother?”

  She shrugged. “Nobody got hurt. They even got two weeks’ worth of free labor. I figured it was a fair trade.”

  “Nobody got hurt? They might be accused of murder!”

  “I’ve told the police what I know. If they have their reasons for suspecting the coffee hippies, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  I sat back. My stomach was churning. I could not believe Shelly could sit there talking about her brother’s death so calmly, especially to a reporter and, well, me.

  “And what was the money for?” asked Frank. “Jimmy had five thousand dollars on him when he died.”

  That actually made her blink. “Oh? Did he? I had no idea.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Very sure. I had no idea Jimmy even had that kind of money. He never did before. My brother got fired from every job he ever had. He couldn’t stand anybody being the boss of him. He’d last two months, maybe three, and then he’d start picking stupid, petty fights, and when he got fired, he’d blame everybody else for it.”

  I remembered the story about the Boston chef. I remembered all those restaurants he’d named for Frank, all of which were conveniently closed down so there was no way to follow up on how he’d come to work there and, more important, how he’d left.

  “Ms. Upton . . .” began Frank.

  “Kinsdale.” She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers, making the gold and diamond band sparkle in the gray light filtering through the arched windows.

  “Ms. Kinsdale,” Frank corrected himself. “Did you meet with your brother before he died?”

  “Yes. I met with him on that very sofa!” She gestured dramatically. “I listened to him whine for as long as I could stand it. Jimmy had found out I was back in town to discuss a deal on a new luxury hotel, one specifically designed for the twenty-first century, and so he came around begging me to leave Portsmouth and the Harbor’s Rest alone. He told a lovely story all about this nice little old lady who runs it with her kids and how that’s all they have. Please, pretty please, sis, don’t do it.” She batted her eyelashes and for a minute I saw a flash of the family charm.

  But it did not last. The flinty attitude was back before anyone could finish another breath. “So, you see, I had no reason to kill him. I was going to ruin him.” She spread her hands. “Perfectly legal, and a whole lot more satisfying.”

  I thought about Chuck, risking his neck because he was trying to find a way to provide for his baby. I thought about the difference between making a lousy choice for a lousy reason and doing it for revenge.

  I thought about what I would have felt like if one of my siblings had run out when Mom got her cancer. Even Hope had come home and done the best she could.

  I suddenly wanted to call up every member of my family just to tell them how very, very much I loved them.

  Shelly looked at her watch again. “Now, I have a real appointment, so we are done with this conversation. However, here’s one last thought for you both.” She raised her index finger. “What if Jimmy had that money in his pocket because he was planning to skip town? It was much more his style than trying to help out his employers.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, that was definitely something to think about. In fact, I’d already started.

  Shelly stood, and we stood.

  “Thank you, Ms. Kinsdale,” said Frank. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I’m so glad, Mr. Hawthorne. Dreame Royale is always glad to speak with the media.” She actually shook his hand. Her smile did not once waver. “If, however, you try to print anything that jeopardizes my employment or could be considered detrimental to my employers, not only will I deny it, but I will slap your little tiny paper with the biggest libel suit in New England history. Are we clear?”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Frank. “Very clear.”

  We all said good-bye very pleasantly, and Frank and I took ourselves out onto the inn’s beautiful wraparound porch.

  “Well,” said Frank.

  “Well,” I agreed. “Do you believe she really didn’t know Jimmy had that money on him?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope. Ms. Upton Kinsdale is definitely shading the truth there.”

  “And maybe elsewhere,” I said. “Did you see the moonshine she had? I saw Kelly Pierce at the Harbor’s Rest take a bottle of that brand. She said she was going to use it as a sweetener for a conference planner.”

  “Really?” Frank pulled out his notebook and scribbled something down. “Now, that’s very interesting.”

  “Frank? Do you know if the cops still think Jimmy died in some kind of drug deal?”

  “I know they do,” he said as he snapped his book shut.

  “Why? I mean with all that stuff she told us about development deals and everything. That’d be a lot to ignore.”

  “Yeah.” Frank sighed. “That makes for two possibilities. Either Blanchard has decided to ignore the entire business angle. Or Shelly Upton Kinsdale, who is already shading the truth, has told the police something different than she told us.”

  22

  “Anna, you are not concentrating.” Julia punctuated this pronouncement with a thump of her walking stick.

  Four of us, plus dachshunds, had gathered in the cottage’s deeply shadowed attic. Julia had seen no reason why our ghost hunting this week should cancel out my regularly scheduled magic lesson.

  “At the drugstore, you observed, Anna. You did not practice,” she said firmly. “And considering how eventful things are becoming, we cannot waste this chance. You need your training.”

  I really hadn’t been able to work up any kind of good argument against that.

  My attic room (mine for now, anyway) was right under the cottage gables, which meant the roof beams sloped overhead, and it had a low nook in each of the four directions. Each nook had a multipaned window to let in the sun during the day and the moon after dark.

  When this attic had been Dorothy’s, it had been mostly bare wood. I was starting to experiment with colors. According to Julia, and the reading I’d been doing about ritual magic, certain colors represented specific aspects of the elemental and spiritual energies. East is air, so in that nook I had propped up some abstract canvases done in swirls of white and yellow. South is fire, and its colors were orange and crimson. West is associated with water, so the colors there were blues and turquoises and
silver. North is earth and blacks and browns, streaked and studded with gold.

  I had kept the rest of the space lightly furnished, except for the bookcase. That was filled to overflowing with the Books of Shadow, magical journals I’d inherited from Dorothy Hawthorne. The entire combination made for a place that was lush and mysterious and comfortable all at the same time. It was, quite literally, where the magic happened. At least, sometimes.

  “I am concentrating, Julia,” I protested. Julia declared that after everything that had happened, we could all use a little spiritual housekeeping, so the plan had been to conduct a cleansing ritual. I was to practice raising and holding positive energies so they could fill the space and “gently redirect” any negative energies that had crept into my spirit and my space.

  I wondered if Lieutenant Blanchard counted as a negative energy. I wondered the same thing about Shelly Kinsdale, with all her anger toward her murdered brother.

  “Of course you’re concentrating, dear,” said Grandma B.B. from her place on the attic’s north side.

  For the ritual, Julia, Val, Grandma B.B. and the dachshunds marked out a protective circle around my altar. As a concession to her pregnancy and aching feet, we’d moved a chair to the east side of the attic so Val could sit during the ceremony. The circle would provide a shield against any malign influences that might be attracted by our magic. It also—and Julia was very firm as she reminded me about it tonight—would prevent any harmful or just plain misguided reactions from my working from getting loose.

  Like Val and Grandma, Julia and I wore our ceremonial robes. Julia’s was deep blue spangled with white stars. Mine was a simple green, a sign of my apprentice status. Grandma B.B. didn’t have any of her own ceremonial clothing anymore, but Valerie had brought along an extra black and silver robe. So now my grandmother looked sweet and smiling and witchy all at once.

  “You have to clear your mind of extraneous concerns, Anna,” Julia was telling me. “You cannot hold the energies if your thoughts are scattered.”