The Ghost and the Dead Deb hb-2

by Alice Kimberly

  I blinked in astonishment. The two of them would make a formidable couple, I concluded.

  “There’s still something you aren’t telling me,” I said. “When exactly did you two start your romantic relationship?”

  Donald and Kiki exchanged glances. It was Donald who spoke. “By New Year’s Eve I was through with Angel, and I was getting tired of Bethany’s endless demands and tantrums. Kiki and I became close over the holidays and hooked up.”

  “Kiki said she saw Angel from an upstairs bedroom,” I noted. “But those Cliff Walk mansions are essentially museums. The upstairs rooms are supposed to be off limits, even during private parties. So I’m guessing Donald was with you up there, Kiki? And that accounts for the ‘mysterious’ hour Angel claimed in her book that Donald was missing from the party?”

  “Yes, he was with me,” she admitted. “The whole idea that the rooms were off limits is what made it so”—she shrugged—“interesting. Donny and I hooked up in one of those museum bedrooms, then Donny went back to the party first. I waited fifteen minutes before coming down to the ground floor again. You know, so people wouldn’t see us coming down together.”

  “So, if this is all true, then who murdered Victoria Banks?”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Judgment Day

  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 . . .”

  Blue dress? Want to drive that by me again, sister?

  “Never mind.”

  Anyway, physical evidence like that will back to the hilt what they’re claiming, so you better count on it existing if this next step fails.

  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.”

  Donald has a solid alibi for that night. But Kiki doesn’t.

  “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.”

  Right, baby. You’re on a streak. Don’t stop now . . .

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

  It’ll work. But you need something even higher than these walls.

  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.”

  Then roll the dice before your subject skips town. Make that call.

  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?”

  You have to assume he did. Now you’ve got to work fast to get it all ready.

  “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.

  Maybe not.

  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.

  Good, honey. You surprised him with the camera. He didn’t know about it.

  “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.

  Keep going, baby.

  “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.”

  “You must be furious with Donald then. He slept with both of the women you loved.”

  Hal laughed at that, a broken, brittle sound. “You think I loved Bethany? Once maybe. But by the time she was murdered I hated her so much I probably could have killed her myself.”

  “But not Victoria.”

  “No. Not her. But then there was always more to her than Bethany. She quickly regretted getting involved with Donald. She . . . she was starting to love me, I think.”

  Okay, baby, you got him where you want him. Spring your theory. Only make it sound like you already know for sure, like he’s not telling you anything you don’t know. Lie, baby. Lie good.

  I swallowed
my nerves. “And then, of course, Angel killed Victoria. I know that, too, Hal. I found the evidence.”

  His expression darkened. “I heard the whole thing over the cell phone. We were talking, Vicky and I. Suddenly Vicky said something like ‘what are you doing here,’ and then I heard another voice. Angel’s. She said something like ‘you want to threaten me now?’ That’s when the connection broke.”

  “You were in Newport when this happened?”

  Hal shook his head. “I was already in my car, on my way to that fleabag motel on the highway. After the connection broke, I floored it. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Angel getting into a parked car. I thought Vicky might have been in that car, too, and I followed it.”

  “So you came here to confront Angel.”

  “I got here right as she pulled up. Of course, Vicky wasn’t in the car. Not in the backseat, not on the floor, not in the trunk. By that time, Vicky was already dead in the woods. But I didn’t know it at the time. I demanded Angel tell me where Vicky was, what had happened.”

  “And did she?”

  “Angel was high, I think. She laughed and ran down this path. She thought it was a big game. She had some yellow rope draped around her neck, told me how she’d grabbed a few pieces of it off the back of that kid Johnny’s pickup, just so she could frame him a second time.”

  I closed my eyes a moment. “Jack, did you hear that?”

  Yeah, baby. Remember the kid’s testimony in the bookstore —he’d said he’d been so upset trying to get away from Angel he’d flooded the engine in the parking lot. It wouldn’t start for a few minutes.

  I could hardly believe it was that simple. “That must have been the moment Angel grabbed the lengths of rope,” I silently agreed. “But Johnny had been so focused on the truck’s stalling, he never saw her do it.”

  “Angel’s hands were still bloody when I confronted her,” Hal continued. “She was still holding the gun she’d used to beat Vicky unconscious. She pretended to tighten the piece of rope around her neck so she could show me exactly how she’d killed Vicky. It was a big game, a big taunt to torture me. That was Angel’s kick, you know? Making people squirm. She’d gone to the motel, called Vicky from one of the motel’s pay phones to lure her outside, then forced her at gunpoint into the woods. There were no bullets in her gun, she told me she’d thrown them in Johnny Napp’s face when he’d refused to help her. So she beat Vicky unconscious with the butt and strangled the life out of her with one of the pieces of rope she’d taken.”