The Ghost and the Dead Deb

“Ah-ha!” cried Seymour “So anyone at that party could have grabbed your belt?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Johnny.

Seymour began to pace, “After you found the corpse, what did you do?”

Johnny sighed. “I panicked. I had drugs on me, and in my car, too, so I didn’t want to have anything to do with the police that night. I went to my boss, the catering manager, and I told him there was a girl in really bad shape in the utility room and he should call an ambulance. Then I was going to just motor out of there, but he grabbed me and made me take him to the room. He called a security guard over on the way to come with us and I was stuck after that. They wouldn’t let me leave till the local police got there. Man, I was freaking.”

“Because of the drugs?” Seymour asked.

“Yeah, and the Bankses and Easterbrooks. They’re really connected—judges and lawyers and bankers and stuff. The kind of folks who’d cleaned up their kids’ messes by making a few phone calls. And now it looked like I had messed with them. I was sure the fix would be in, that the police would try to blame me for the murder . . . and that’s exactly what they did.”

Fiona folded her arms and tapped her chin. “Why do you think Angel brought up all this with you last night?”

“She said she found the evidence that would incriminate me,” said Johnny. “Bethany’s missing gloves.”

“Ah, yes, the gloves,” said Fiona. “Please elaborate.”

“Well . . . Bethany was wearing these long white gloves that matched her white dress the night of the New Year’s Eve party. You can see her wearing them in the party photos. But the gloves were gone from her body after she was . . . you know . . . murdered. The local cops never found them. That’s why they were so eager to find them that night in my locker or car. They had my belt, but they could see the lockers weren’t locked—”

“Which meant anyone could have grabbed it,” Seymour reminded the jury.

“Right,” said Johnny. “And they figured her gloves would have my DNA on them, so they were sure if they found them, that would slam-dunk my conviction, you know, totally link me to the murder. But they didn’t find them. They never found them. Now Angel claimed she had recovered the gloves and that my DNA was on them—”

“Did you believe her?” asked Fiona.

Johnny shifted. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what happened to those gloves . . . nobody did. But . . . Bethany did touch me with them that night at the party . . . while she was inviting me to meet her in the utility room at midnight.”

“Touched you how?”

“She brushed my bangs back . . . she was being flirty, you know . . . and I’d been running back and forth with a lot of heavy trays all night . . . so some of my sweat could have ended up on her gloves . . . And now Angel was saying she was going to take them to the police, unless I did her a favor.”

“What kind of a favor?” asked Fiona.

“She wanted me to kill someone,” said Johnny.

The room gasped.

“Forget your soaps, Joyce,” said Milner. “Now it sounds like one of my noir crime novels.”

Joyce waved her hand. “Sorry, Mr. Logan. You obviously haven’t been watching daytime television lately.”

“And just who was it that you killed for Angel Stark?” Fiona cried, ignoring the peanut gallery.

This time Seymour pounced. “I object. The prosecution is making baseless accusations and is openly hostile to the witness—”

“I’m supposed to be hostile,” said Fiona, hand on her hip. “That’s my job.”

“Enough already. I want to pursue a new line of questioning, just so I can get a word in edgewise,” said Seymour.

Fiona stomped her foot. “I object!”

“Overruled,” said Brainert. “I think it’s time we heard from the defense.”

“Johnny, tell us: Who was it that Angel wanted you to harm?”

“I didn’t stick around to find out, because I told Angel flat out I wasn’t going to do it, no matter what she claimed about having Bethany’s gloves.”

Seymour whirled on Johnny so suddenly he flinched. “Did you believe Angel was serious about wanting someone killed?”

“Word,” replied Johnny.

“What?” asked Sadie.

Huh? said Jack.

“He meant yes,” interrupted Joyce, “as in, you can take his word for it.”

Brainert turned to Johnny. “The witness will refrain from using hip-hop slang.”

Johnny shrugged.

“What did you do next, Johnny?” asked Seymour.

“I refused to take care of her problem. Then I told Angel that she could go to the cops if she really wanted to because I wasn’t some hit man. I’d take my chances with the authorities because I wanted to set my life straight.”

“Then what happened?”

“Angel freaked. Started calling me names. Started screaming about everyone in Newport conspiring against her. Then she opened that handbag of hers and yanked out a handgun, a .38-caliber police special. I thought she was gonna shoot me, so I ran off, back to the parking lot.”

“Hmm,” said Fiona, pacing, “That’s rather interesting . . .”

“What?”

Fiona spun around and pointed her finger. “You knew what caliber of gun she was holding? How?”

Again, Johnny shrugged. “I knew because my drug supplier had a gun just like it.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you have one, too—and you were the one who pulled the gun, not Angel?”

“No! No way! It’s like I said, I swear!”

“I object!” cried Seymour. “Fiona is a pest!”

Brainert raised an eyebrow. “You mean she’s pestering your witness?”

“That too.”

“All right,” said Brainert. “Sustained. Fiona, get on with your next question.”

“Fine,” said Fiona. “Now where was I? Oh, yes . . .” She began pacing again. “You say you ran away. Did Ms. Stark follow you?”

Johnny nodded. “Angel caught up with me at my uncle’s truck while I fumbled with the lock. I got behind the wheel, but she grabbed the door, tried to shove the gun into my hand. I threw it on the pavement and the next thing I know I got a face full of bullets—”

“What?” Bud leaped to his feet. “She shot at you!”

“No, no, Uncle Bud, chill,” said Johnny. “Angel had bullets for the gun—I guess it wasn’t loaded. When I tried to leave she threw them in my face. I just brushed them off the seat, the dashboard, and slammed the door. I was bug-gin’ and I accidentally flooded the engine. The pickup stalled, so I had to wait a few minutes, but I tried again and it finally started. Then I drove off, and that’s the last time I saw her, I swear.”

“So where were you for the last twenty-four hours?”

“I got scared. Figured Angel was going to the police,” Johnny said. “I was almost at the Canadian border when I came to my senses and decided to come back, face the music—tell the authorities my side of things. But when I got close to Quindicott, I heard about Angel’s murder on the radio and I panicked. I ditched my uncle Bud’s pickup and hoofed it back to town through the woods. I tried to get home, but I saw cops staked out at my uncle’s house and the hardware store so I came here and hid.”

“Where did you ditch the truck?” Bud asked. “I should go get it.”

“If you do that, the police will know you’ve seen Johnny,” I said. “The truck was reported missing with him, remember?”

“Yeah, I forgot,” said Bud. “I hope it’s safe.”

“Don’t worry, Bud,” said Johnny. “I drove it up the old service road near the highway.”