The Ghost and the Dead Deb

“Vicky and I were friends. I tried to help her through the worst of it.” He sat up straighter, met my eyes. “We both took her death very hard. After the funeral, we began to talk. E-mails, phone calls at first. Soon we became closer.”

“But you were never lovers?”

Hal’s eyes narrowed. “Whether or not we were lovers is not your business, and I refuse to discuss the issue. Especially since Victoria is missing and, as you obviously presume, foul play was involved.”

“You sound as though you know something you’re not telling me.”

“I know nothing. You’re the one informing me. I just know that Vicky hasn’t been ‘all right’ since her sister’s murder—and things became much worse after the publication of Angel Stark’s book, which dragged the whole tawdry affair into the limelight once again. I knew it was possible that Vicky would confront Angel. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to prevent it. But at least . . .”

Hal paused. I waited for that wall to come up again. But, once again, the sad boy seemed to overwhelm the cautious man. He leaned forward in his chair. So did I.

“Look, a few weeks ago, around the time Angel’s book was first being hyped, Vicky called me from her parents’ home in Newport. I was surprised to hear she was back at the family’s place because she had been excited about immersing herself in a special film studies program she’d signed up for during the university’s summer session. Then she told me she’d come home for only one reason—to steal a gun from her father’s trophy room. She claimed she’d read excerpts from All My Pretty Friends and was going to get even with Angel at one of her book signings.”

“What did she mean by ‘get even’? Did she want to kill her?”

“Vicky wanted to kill Angel; we all did. But I think she just wanted to scare Angel witless by pointing the weapon at her. I told Vicky she was crazy, of course. I tried to make light of her plan, and I also offered to conspire with her to make a better one. She told me to come over, and I went.”

Hal tightened his already tight tie, looked around.

“It was pathetic, really. She’d hauled down some antique from World War One, probably didn’t even have the proper ammunition—as if either of us would know. Vicky begged me to help get even with Angel. After hours of letting her cry on my shoulder, I returned the Mauser to its display case.” Hal shook his head. “The next morning, I drove her back to Providence. I left for California not long after that. I hadn’t spoken with Vicky for over a week, hadn’t even heard from her until last night . . . and that’s really all I know, all right?”

Hal McConnell rose. “Now, Ms. McClure, you have to excuse me. I have to get back to Newport.”

I stood. “What’s the hurry? Don’t you want to stick around? Maybe talk to the local police? Aren’t you worried about Victoria Banks?”

“Of course I’m concerned,” he snapped. “That’s why I’m leaving. You said yourself that the local police aren’t taking the missing persons report all that seriously yet. That situation will change once Cambridge Upton Banks enters the picture.”

“Victoria’s father?”

“Of course. Mr. Cambridge Banks is a punctual man. He should be finishing his afternoon golf game right about now. If I hurry, I might just catch him at the country club.”

Then Hal McConnell’s eyes hardened. “I certainly wouldn’t want old man Banks to hear such disturbing news from anyone else but me. So I thank you for your concern, Ms. McClure, but I can assure you that this matter will be well taken care of and you can drop your ‘unofficial’ interest from this moment on.”

With that, Hal McConnell turned his back on me and strode to the front door. The bell tinkled as he went through it, into the sun-splashed afternoon. I hurried to the window, watched him climb into a silver BMW.

Needless to say, I was disappointed it was not the black Jaguar with the blue and white bumper sticker on the trunk that had nearly run Angel down the night before. Things might have gotten simpler.

It’s okay, kid, said Jack. You got some good info.

“I’ll say,” I whispered in reply. “Angel lied in her book. She herself was cheating on Donald Easterbrook while he was engaged to Bethany. And, according to Hal, it sure does sound like Victoria was planning to kill Angel herself—as we’ve suspected all along.

One more thing, sweetie. According to Stephanie Usher, Victoria’s parents are on the grand tour of Europe. So who was lying to you? Hal or Stephanie?

I sighed in frustration. And confusion. “This thing is getting complicated. We need some help to sort it out.”

The coppers?

“No, the Quibblers.”

Oh, my God, not that yammering band of cracker-barrel philosophers and coffee-klatsch raconteurs you call a business association?

“The very same,” I replied. “A half dozen heads—”

You mean head cases.

“—are better than one, so I’m taking this case to the Quindicott Business Owners Association.”

Doll, please. Spare me an evening with those fruitcakes.

“No.”

CHAPTER 17

Kangaroo Court

You got a tender spot in your heart for the palooka but it’s not going to do him any good.

—Frederick Nebel, “Take It and Like It,” Black Mask magazine, 1934

AFTER CLOSING THE bookstore at seven, I set up the folding chairs in the Community Events room, placed a table against the wall, and prepped the coffee urn. Then I locked up and went upstairs to the somewhat rundown yet cozy three bedroom apartment above the store to have dinner with my son. My aunt had stepped out already to have quahog cakes with Bud at the Seafood Shack. (And before you ask, quahogs—which comes from the Narragansett Indian name “poquauhock”—are usually referred to as “hard-shell clams” outside of Rhode Island.)

By nine, I was pulling the plug on Spencer’s Shield of Justice marathon, which was playing on the Intrigue Channel.

“But Mom!”

“No buts, Spencer. I agreed to let you watch TV until nine. Now it’s time for bed.”

“But I’m gonna miss the next episode. My favorite one’s the next one . . . The one where Jack Shields goes undercover at a racetrack and at the end he has to chase the bad guy down on the back of a horse!”

A soft male chuckle rolled through my head.

I silently asked Jack if that particular episode was based on his case files.

Only the racetrack part, baby. Those horseback antics are pure Hollywood.

I smiled. “You won’t miss a thing,” I promised my son. “I’ve got a tape in the machine. You can watch it in the morning.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

While I was less than thrilled that my nine-year-old was enamored of crime melodramas, I was relieved he’d taken an interest in anything after the suicide of his father. Sometimes I still worried that moving him away from the life he’d known in New York City, away from the private school and luxurious Manhattan apartment, might have been a mistake. But one look at the smiling face of my seemingly normal and healthy boy told me I did the right thing.

After tucking Spencer into his narrow bed with a recent children’s Edgar winner, one of the many young adult mystery books we carried, I was ready to implement my plan, beginning with presenting the facts in the case of Johnny Napp to the rest of the Quibblers. I headed back downstairs to turn on the lights and start the coffeemaker.