The Ghost and the Dead Deb

He’s choking on misery. Pump him for information while he’s off-kilter.

“But—”

Do it, Penelope. Now!

“Are there . . . are there any suspects, Eddie?”

His big brown eyes blinked, then his face grew more grim. “I shouldn’t say anything . . . I mean, it isn’t public knowledge. Besides—”

“What, Eddie?”

“I know you’re close to Bud Napp.”

“We’re all close to Bud. He’s our neighbor. Bud’s been part of the community since forever.”

“Just between you and me,” Eddie whispered. “Bud’s truck is parked back there, too—less than a hundred yards from the corpse. State Troopers have impounded the vehicle and are searching it now for the blunt instrument used on the victim. They found a bullet from a .38 in the cab, which is why they’re speculating the girl might have been pistol-whipped. No gun, though.”

“So they still think Johnny Napp is guilty?”

“The Staties are looking hard at Johnny’s story. Detective-Lieutenant Marsh is in charge of the investigation. He says the facts don’t add up and neither does Johnny’s alibi.”

I recalled my only meeting with Detective Marsh, and it was not a pleasant memory. An imposing giant with square chin, blond stubble, icy-gray eyes, Roger Marsh of the Crime Investigation Unit had also probed the murder of Timothy Brennan at my store last year. Detective Marsh pretty much ran roughshod over me, Aunt Sadie, and my staff. I suddenly felt sorry for poor Johnny. I would hate to be interrogated by Marsh again—especially if I were in custody. Though I was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, Marsh intimidated me so much I was ready to confess to just about anything!

“I heard Marsh tell Ciders that he was thinking of contacting the FBI’s Behavioral Psychology Unit—”

“What?!”

Officer Franzetti waved an oncoming car down the road, gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah. They’re talking like Johnny’s a real, live, serial killer . . .”

IN LESS THAN an hour, we arrived in Newport and were cruising down Bellevue Avenue, past American castles built at the turn of the last century by the Vanderbilts, Astors, and other merchant prince types. Most of those great Gilded Age elephants were museums now, open to paying tourists and available for private party bookings—such as the magnificent beaux arts mansion that had hosted the New Year’s Eve ball where Bethany Banks had been murdered.

Not all of these grand houses, however, were open to the public. Throughout the town, even along the famous ocean-side Cliff Walk, some historic homes had been set up as bed and breakfasts while others, including Windswept, the McClure family manse, had been maintained or rebuilt as primary or secondary residences for both the old- and new-money families who owned them.

Windswept stood on a promontory overlooking the rocky shores of the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by acres of rolling grass and manicured trees. A grim gray edifice of weathered granite and dark wood, the mansion had been built by the McClure family patriarch well over a century ago, and she wore her age well.

As I rolled up to the gate, a uniformed security guard collected my invitation, then checked off my name on a clipboard. The ten-foot-tall iron bars of the crested gate swung open electronically. We drove for a moment and I soon spied heavy stone turrets and slate-shingled spires looming above tall oaks. A long red banner flapped in the wind from the tallest flagpole. Suddenly Jack whistled in my head.

Wow, babe. You never told me you used to live like the Queen of England.

“Impressed, Jack?” I asked silently. “Don’t be. I never lived here.”

Well, you married royalty by the looks of these digs.

“I always thought of Windswept as a modest dwelling. After all, it’s smaller than San Simeon and has fewer rooms than the Taj Mahal.”

Cute, doll, but bitter doesn’t play right when it comes out of you. Leave the world-weary cynicism to mugs like me.

The surroundings grew more festive as we approached the main building. Laughter and music floated on the fresh ocean breeze along with the smoky scent of mesquite barbecue. On the great lawn, tents were scattered about. Swarms of children ran and played, chaperoned by an army of party planners dressed as clowns, cowboys, and cowgirls.

A man with orange hair, a red nose, and a polkadot jumpsuit waved me into a parking area that was already crowded. He looked a bit surprised to see a battered Saturn with weeds stuck in the fenders rolling into an area crowded with mirror-shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, and Rolls-Royces, but I noticed he did offer me an extra-big smile.

On the seat next to me, Spencer plastered his face to the window.

Hmm, lots of fun—for the curls, bows, and knickers set. Where do the grown-ups romp and play?

“See that big yellow tent down by the tennis courts? That’s the bar—though I think my sister-in-law Ashley prefers to call it a ‘salon.’ ”

Yeah, I’ve noticed rich gin-suckers employ euphemisms.

“I will be avoiding that place like the proverbial plague. But speaking of employment, Ashley must have hired an army for this event. As usual, she’s outdone herself in the excess department.”

Can’t wait to meet this dame.

“With luck you won’t have to.”

I pulled into a nice shady spot in the shadow of two Cadillac SUVs nearly the size of Buy the Book’s floorspace. I grabbed my Italian leather bag (bought at outlet prices) and slung it over my shoulder. Spencer burst through the door and raced toward the great lawn.

“Whoa, hold it, mister. Let’s stick together.”

“Aw, Mom.”

“Come on, what do you want to do first?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Paintball.”

I frowned. “I’m still not sure you should be participating in that sort of thing. You’re too young, and it sounds dangerous.”

“Come on, Mom!”

Yeah, come on, Mom. Let the kid play cops and robbers. And for heaven’s sake, don’t coddle him like a China doll or he’ll turn into another overly sensitive, depressive snob, just like your ex.

Jack’s observation stalled me, and I realized that if my late father and brother Pete had been here with me, they probably would have said the exact same thing. “You know . . . you could be right.”

“What did you say, Mom?”

“I said you’re right, Spencer. Let’s go find that paintball stand and sign you up right now.”

Spencer’s smile would melt the ice caps. “It’s this way, Mom. I saw the tent as we were driving up.”

My son led me to a large khaki-colored tent crowded with kids. Inside, I approached a tall man in camouflage fatigues and black boots with a nametag on his combat suit that read Captain Bob. He offered me a polite grin, then addressed Spencer.

“Are you here for the junior competition, recruit?”

“Yes, sir!” Spencer barked, perfectly in character.

“And what’s your name, soldier?”

“Spencer, sir.”

“We’d better hurry, the junior event starts in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get Lieutenant Spencer here suited up.”

Ten minutes later, Spencer stood proudly before me. Paint gun in hand, he wore a clear face mask, coveralls, rubber galoshes, knee guards, and a helmet. My little trooper.

Captain Bob could see the look of trepidation on my face. “Don’t worry. These kids are firing the equivalent of water balloons filled with paint from a distance of fifty yards—the trees and grass are going to take the most