The Ghost and the Dead Deb

I locked eyes with Kiki again. “I watched the State Police haul her dead body to the morgue on my way to Newport.” I paused to let the words sink in. “Don’t you find it odd that Victoria’s murder occurred so close to Quindicott, where Kiki chose to stay the night?”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that our confrontation was beginning to attract attention. Kiki shifted her gaze from her fiance to Ashley, then back to me.

Reaching a hand into the pocket of my capri pants, I grasped that old buffalo nickel. “Jack? I have to get them to talk to me. What more can I say?”

Threaten them with the cops, baby. Do it loudly.

“So let’s call the police,” I said with a raised voice. “Because if you don’t talk to me now, you can talk to the police when they arrive.”

Donald Easterbrook’s dark eyes flashed, but he quickly masked his annoyance with a smile. His strong, tanned hand closed on my arm.

“If you want to talk, let’s do it inside,” he said smoothly.

He released me before I could yank my arm free. With Ashley flanking me, I followed Donald and his fiancee through a side door into the mansion.

Ashley caught up with Donald, spun to face him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glared at me. “Not at all.”

“This won’t take long, Mrs. Sutherland. We’ll go to the library,” said Donald.

I half expected Ashley to butt out, but she angrily followed the rest of us into Windswept’s bookroom. The large two-story space was lined with polished oak shelves. Aging, gilt-edged books filled those shelves, and high- backed, green velvet upholstered chairs, ornate book stands, and Tiffany lamps were scattered about the waxed and polished hardwood floor. One corner of the room was dominated by a large Victorian standing globe with brass fittings. Sun streamed through high windows, warming the room, which smelled faintly of dust.

“Sit down, Mrs. McClure, won’t you?” Donald said with a chivalry that surprised me, considering the circumstances.

Ask for a drink, advised Jack.

“But I’m not thirsty,” I silently told him.

Baby, wise up. Alcohol loosens tongues, remember? Ask for some yourself. Pretend to sip yours. Chances are, Prince Donald will join you—and do more than pretend to sip.

Jack was right. I boldly asked for a cognac and got one. Donald went to a small bar in the corner and fixed a round, including Kiki, Ashley, and himself.

I sat rigidly in one of the high-backed green velvet chairs. Ashen-faced Kiki sat in an antique love seat opposite me. Ashley chose to pace the hand-woven Aubusson area rug. Finally, Donald Easterbrook sat down on the love seat next to his fiancee. He leaned forward, dark eyes studying me. For a moment we faced one another in silence.

Despite the malice radiating from my sister-in-law, and the rage in Kiki’s eyes, I felt no such hostility from Donald. I read somewhere once that anger and animosity often spring from a lack of confidence. Donald Easterbrook had no such deficit. Poised, polite, and self-assured, he seemed in control of the situation. Though half the age of my sister-in-law, Donald had handled Ashley better than I ever could. And by dragging us into the mansion, I realized he’d handled me well too.

It was Donald who broke the silence. After a long sip of his cognac, he asked, “Why do you think Kiki killed Angel Stark?”

“It goes back to Bethany’s murder,” I replied. “Someone in your circle murdered Bethany Banks. Angel said as much in her book, and I believe her.”

“Someone else was arrested for that crime,” said Donald.

“And he was acquitted,” I pointed out.

“Released because of legal technicalities,” he corrected.

“He was an innocent patsy and you and I both know it, Mr. Easterbrook. You have more of a motive for murdering Bethany than Johnny Napoli. She was your fiancee and was cheating on you when she rendezvoused with Johnny that night.”

“So why do you suspect Kiki?” Donald pressed.

“Three reasons. The first is that she had a better motive than anyone else. After Bethany’s murder, Kiki became engaged to you.”

“We’ll let that go for a moment. Tell me the second reason.”

“Angel’s book made a lot of people angry. Some of them were mad enough to confront her. Her publicity manager told me a doctor she identified as a pill pusher to your set nearly assaulted Angel in a Manhattan bookstore. Victoria Banks almost attacked Angel in my own store the other night. And someone driving the black Jaguar outside tried to run down Angel Stark an hour later.”

“Your point?” Donald asked.

I shifted my gaze to Kiki. “You were in my store the night Angel gave her reading. You were staying in the same bed and breakfast as Angel, when you could just as easily have been staying here at Windswept.”

“Kiki had car trouble,” Ashley cried. “She got stuck in Quindicott!”

“Nice story, but I don’t buy it,” I replied, my eyes never wavering from Kiki’s. “I think Kiki confronted Angel in her own time—after the book signing, back at the Finch Inn. And I think that’s when Kiki murdered her. She was the only person in your circle besides Victoria Banks who was anywhere near Quindicott that night. And I think Vicky Banks is now off everyone’s suspect list.”

“But you’re wrong!” Kiki cried. “I saw Hal there, too. Hal McConnell.”

I blinked in surprise. “Hal McConnell was at Angel’s reading? I think I would have remembered that.”

Kiki shook her blonde mane. “Not at the store. I saw Hal at the Inn, later that night.”

I leaned forward. “When?”

Kiki shrugged, bit her lower lip. “I don’t know, maybe one in the morning. Certainly after midnight.”

“How can you be sure?”

Kiki took a breath. “Because you’re correct about one thing. I was there to confront Angel. I wanted her to stop harassing us, to leave us out of her life, her books. I was there to stop her lies.”

“What lies, specifically?”

Dead silence descended. Kiki’s lips became tight, Donald put his arm around her shoulder. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked louder than Big Ben.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Kiki, tell me more about your encounter with Hal that night.”

Kiki swept her hair back, took a fortifying sip of cognac. “I went to Angel’s room at eleven o’clock. I knocked, but she wasn’t back yet. I tried again at midnight, but she still hadn’t returned. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Maybe a half an hour later, I heard a car park, and voices, too. I got dressed and waited for Angel to come up the stairs. After a long time I went down to the front entrance. No one was in the lobby and I went outside, onto the porch. That’s when I saw Hal in the parking lot and I called out to him.”

“Are you sure it was Hal?” I asked.

Kiki nodded, “I’m positive, because he came up to the porch steps and I spoke to him. It was Hal all right. Polo shirt and all.” She rolled her eyes. Donald gave a slight amused grunt.

“What am I missing?”

Donald shrugged. “It’s just . . . well, since he was, like, twelve years old Hal has bought like twenty Polo shirts every summer, and that’s what he wears all season. It’s become kind of a joke among us. Hal and his ubiquitous Polo shirts.”

“You’re sure he was wearing a Polo shirt the night you saw him at the Finch Inn, the night Angel was killed?”

“Sure,” said Kiki. “I saw it under his open windbreaker, so wrinkled and ratty it looked like he’d pulled it out of his trunk. Hal used to be a neat freak, but I hadn’t seen much of him since Bethany died. I guess things like that can affect you in a lot of ways.”

I thought of Hal’s change of hairstyle—brushing the longish hair forward rakishly around his face instead of neatly back off his face as I’d seen it styled in all of his photos. I remembered the way he’d dressed when he’d come to the bookstore the morning after Angel’s and Victoria’s murders—well-dressed for a summer Saturday in an