The Ghost and the Dead Deb

“She didn’t name anybody,” Fiona replied. “But a close reading reveals some tantalizing clues.”

Brainert huffed. “If you say so. I yield to your true crime expertise.”

We faced Fiona. Some of us were hopeful. Others—like me—were dubious.

“Well, it says on page two nineteen that Donald Easterbrook, Bethany’s fiance, disappeared from the party about an hour before Bethany’s body was found. Angel also writes that Bethany cheated on Donald many times. That’s certainly a good motive for him to murder her in a fit of rage.”

“I don’t know,” said Brainert. “Maybe Donald Easterbrook didn’t care.”

“He cared,” said Milner. “What man wouldn’t?”

This time I spoke up. “Okay, maybe Donald had a motive for killing Bethany, but that doesn’t explain Angel’s murder or Victoria Banks’s disappearance.”

“Okay,” said Fiona. “What about Hal McConnell? Unreasoning rage caused by unrequited love . . . Maybe he followed her to the utility room, tried to force his affections on her, she had choice words for him and he kills her?”

Joyce nodded with enthusiasm. “Sounds like it could happen.”

“Only on one of your soaps,” said Seymour.

“It did,” said Joyce. “Last month on Destiny.”

“Destiny?” asked Linda. “I don’t know that soap.”

“Korean channel. Out of Boston,” said Joyce. “Chin loved Bo-bae with all his heart, but she was cruel to him and one day when he declared himself, she humiliated him, and in a fit of rage, he smothered her with a silk pillow.”

The Quibblers stared at Joyce.

Linda Cooper-Logan leaned forward, wide-eyed. “What channel?”

“Seventy-two.”

I cleared my throat. “Getting back to Johnny’s case . . . Hal McConnell might have killed Bethany, true, and he might have even killed Angel. But he never would have hurt Victoria, because, in my opinion, he’s transferred all the affection he felt for Bethany to her younger sister.”

“Hey!” Seymour cried. “Then maybe Victoria isn’t dead or kidnapped. Nobody’s found a corpse or a ransom note. Maybe Angel killed Bethany then Victoria and Hal killed Angel and then ran off.”

“Sounds good, except I spoke to Hal today,” I informed him. “He hasn’t run off. And he said he was on the West Coast interviewing at a grad school. He took the red eye last night and just got in this morning.”

Seymour’s face dropped. “Oh.”

“You just read too many of those damn pulp novels,” said Fiona. “That, or you’re an incurable romantic.”

Seymour snorted. “Forty-five years of bachelorhood has cured me of any residual romanticism, I assure you.”

“Anyway,” said Brainert, “according to Angel’s book, Bethany slept with dozens of men. Any one of them could have been the killer.”

“Yeah,” said Milner, nodding. “I couldn’t tell you the number of crime stories I’ve read that had the victim dying during rough or kinky sex. And Angel wasn’t exactly pure as the driven snow. Maybe she ran afoul of the same pervert.”

Mr. Koh groaned again.

“Take it easy, Dad,” said his daughter. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard on Court TV.” But Joyce’s words did not reassure her father. Once again, he said something in Korean, and she came back at him in the same language. Then they continued arguing back and forth.

“Well, the meeting has finally degenerated, so I move we call it a night,” Brainert declared.

“I second the motion,” said Linda. “Mil and I have to get up early and start baking.”

Brainert slammed the hammer down. “This meeting is adjourned . . . and I’m getting me a real gavel for the next get-together. The damn thing is quite useful.”

“Good God,” I groaned. “I’ve created a monster.”

After everyone left and my aunt climbed the stairs to bed, I turned off the coffeemaker and the lights in the community room. Then I headed to the storage room to fetch the note Johnny left for Mina. I wanted to make sure she found it as soon as she got to work on Sunday, as I wouldn’t be here to give it to her. Tomorrow I was scheduled to take Spencer to the McClure family reunion at Windswept, an outing I would have gladly traded for a more pleasant experience—like a root canal sans novocain.

I found the note in the center of the old desk—a letter, really, sealed in an envelope culled from boxes of stationery, Mina’s name in ink, printed in neat script on the front.

As I picked it up to take it into the store, I spied Johnny’s denim work shirt draped over the back of the metal chair he’d been sitting on. He’d shed the garment earlier in the evening and had apparently forgotten it when he left. I picked up the shirt, and a bundle of keys dropped out of the breast pocket with a loud clatter. The keys to Bud’s store, his home—and the Napp’s Hardware truck concealed in the woods near the highway.

“Jack, are you there?”

Lay it on me, doll.

“Johnny forgot his keys . . . do you think there’s something inside that truck that might back up his story and help to clear him?”

Or incriminate him. Sure. Or there could be nothing but fresh air . . . We’ll find out when we get there.

“What?”

Come on, doll, humor me. Except for this afternoon I’ve been penned in this den since 1949. Let’s broaden my horizon.

IT WAS MIDNIGHT before we got on the road. I’d checked on the sleeping Spencer and told Aunt Sadie I was ducking out to the all-night convenience store for a few things. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask any questions.

The heat of the day had given way to a breezy night. With my car windows rolled down, the pungent scent of Quindicott’s saltwater inlet permeated the air. The cloudless sky was jammed with stars, and the roads were virtually deserted as I moved through town and out into the countryside. I didn’t see another pair of headlights until we approached the main highway. Along a wooded stretch without streetlights, I slowed the car.

“The lovers’ lane is along this stretch of road somewhere, if I remember correctly.”

And you know this how?

“Jack, even I was young once . . .”

Hmm. Makes me wonder, babe . . . Just how many smooching parties did you attend?

“None. I was a wallflower. My husband was my first and only real boyfriend. But my late brother Pete was a heart-breaker. He used to talk about this place to his friends, and I eavesdropped.”

I see, baby . . . practicing your surveillance techniques even then.

“Funny, Jack.”

I swerved off the highway, onto the shoulder, then slowly edged my car onto a narrow, unpaved service road consisting of two worn wheel paths with vegetation growing in the middle. As we bumped along, I could hear the tall grasses scraping along the bottom of my car. After rolling along for about a hundred yards, the road was blocked by two concrete posts with a steel cable strung between them.

End of the line, doll.

“Not according to Joyce Koh.”

I stopped the car, threw it into neutral, and popped the door. The interior alarm beeped, informing me I’d left the keys in the ignition. The door only opened about halfway before it hit a wall of scrub weeds and gnarled trees. I had to squeeze my way around it.

Over the purring engine I could hear night sounds—crickets, the buzz of cicadas, and the roar of traffic on the highway, still almost a mile away. In the glare of the headlights, I examined the barrier. Despite Joyce’s assurances, it didn’t seem possible to detach the steel cable and proceed, except on foot. Then I noticed that the