punishment.”
“Can I watch?”
Spencer was horrified. “Mom!”
“Afraid not, Mrs. McClure. No one goes into those woods without protective gear. Anyway, there are more chaperones than soldiers out there. The officer here will be just fine.”
“What next?”
“Well, the lieutenant here joins the rest of the squad in the woods. You head back to the party. Meet your friends, have a drink, and get something to eat.” Captain Bob glanced at his watch. “We’ll be back to this tent in about two hours.”
I gave my son a final hug and a kiss before I sent him off to paint war. Then I left the tent and emerged in the brilliant sunshine, fumbling in my bag for my “Hollywood” sunglasses. I turned away from the glare to face the mansion—or rather, a small area beside it, which was the family’s private parking area. I recognized the McClure family’s Mercedes, and my sister-in-law’s white BMW. The car parked next to them was also familiar—a sleek black Jaguar with a white and blue decal on the trunk.
My heart stopped. “Jack, that’s the car! I’m sure of it. The car that almost ran over Angel Stark.”
“But Jack, shouldn’t I check it out?”
I looked around. There were plenty of people nearby, but everyone seemed to be going about their own business.
I got all the way to Ashley’s BMW without anyone noticing, walked right past it to the black Jag. Up close, I realized the odd decal was a parking tag for a Newport country club, the splash of blue a leaping marlin.
I peered through the windshield—hopefully without appearing to do just that. Leather seats, sporty, wood- grained interior, stick shift, GPS, combination radio and CD player, cell phone in the dashboard, all the bells and whistles. No guns, bludgeons, whips, or chains in sight.
Luckily, the door was unlocked.
I reached out and grabbed the handle on the passenger side. I closed my eyes and lifted the latch, waiting for a car alarm to blare, for everyone to look in my direction, for a security team to surround me and escort me off the premises where the Newport Police would take me into custody.
Miracle of miracles, the door opened soundlessly. I climbed inside, sank deep into the leather bucket seat.
“What now, Jack?”
“Will do.”
I found nothing on the dash or under the seats. Inside the glove compartment, however, I discovered a leather case containing the Jag’s registration and insurance information, and a batch of business cards. All bore the same name. I fingered one of the cream-white linen paper, gilt scripted cards that read
I pocketed one card, stuffed the rest back into their pouch, then shoved the case into the glove compartment. I was about to peer under the dashboard when a silhouette abruptly blotted out the bright sun.
“Breaking and entering and grand theft auto. Have you fallen on hard times, Penelope?”
I looked up. Kiki McClure-Langdon stood beside the car. Behind her stood the owner of the Jaguar, her fiance Donald Easterbrook, Jr. His photograph in Angel’s book didn’t do him justice. From the top of his perfectly coifed head to the broad span of his muscular shoulders, the prince of the Newport jet set was more than just John Kennedy, Jr. handsome, there was a sizzle of hot Latino blood, courtesy of Easterbrook’s wealthy Brazilian mother, that rendered him breathtaking.
I turned away, flushed red with embarrassment. Just as I was certain the situation could not possibly get worse, it did. Coming toward us was La Princessa herself: my sister-in-law, Ashley McClure-Sutherland.
CHAPTER 23
With his strong face, his athlete’s build, and the Gary
Cooper manner, [he] projected what psychologists call
the halo effect. People with the halo effect seem to
know exactly what they’re doing and, moreover, make
you want to admire them for it. They make you see the
halos over their heads.
“GOOD GOD, JACK, what do I do?” I silently asked, trying not to lose it.
Swallowing a lump of sheer terror, I attempted to feign cool Jack Shepard control, then stepped out of the Jaguar, shut the car door, and faced Kiki. Meeting her stare, I flashed a (thoroughly fake) confident smile and levelly told her, “Sarcasm doesn’t suit a woman who tried to run down Angel Stark on the very night she was murdered.”
Kiki winced, then looked at her fiance—worry and confusion suddenly invading the typically superior expression of her ice-blue gaze.
“Oh, you were quick,” I said, “but not quick enough. There were witnesses to that incident on Cranberry Street. And I think the police will find it a neat coincidence, your staying at the same inn on the same night as Angel Stark—who just happened to turn up dead on that very property the next day.”
A sudden gust stirred long blonde strands of Kiki’s hair and the gauzy blue fabric of her sundress. Her already pale features turned snow white. Her pink painted lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Florid-faced, Ashley McClure-Sutherland pushed past her cousin and stepped between us. “This is ridiculous,” she cried. “How dare you invade my home and intimidate members of my own family. My God, Penelope, you’re nothing but trouble. My family’s curse.”
It was a vicious remark, but I refused to be baited by my sister-in-law. I bored in on Kiki instead.
“Did you know Victoria Banks has also been murdered?” I asked. “It happened within hours of Angel’s demise, and she was strangled in the same manner—just like her sister Bethany.”
Kiki literally fell against her fiance. Ashley appeared to be struck dumb, for perhaps the first time in her life.
Finally, Donald Easterbrook spoke. “Where did this happen?” His rich baritone seemed unruffled by my revelations.
“Victoria’s corpse was discovered in a wooded area outside the motel in Quindicott this morning.”
