The Ghost and the Dead Deb

impeccably tailored blue blazer, his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.

I took a closer look at Kiki then. Her gauzy blue sundress revealed ample amounts of toned, tanned flesh— from her throat, shoulders, and arms to her long, lean legs. Her skin appeared flawless. Not one scratch or bruise that I could see.

“What did Hal say to you?” I asked.

“Not much,” said Kiki. “I called him over, and he said he was just passing through and wanted a room but the place was full. Said he was going to try the motel by the highway, or just go home. But I knew it was crap.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sure he was looking for Angel, too,” insisted Kiki. “He kept eyeing her rental car in the lot, like he was waiting for her to show up.”

Donald spoke next. “Mrs. McClure. You did say that Victoria’s body was found at that motel, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Well there you are. Hal was at both murder scenes. And he attended the ball where Bethany was murdered as well. Surely Hal is the better suspect?”

“Except for one thing. Hal McConnell loved Bethany Banks. Angel Stark said it in her book, and Hal told me as much himself.”

“Unrequited love, Mrs. McClure,” said Donald. “Look around at all these books. I’m willing to bet a goodly number of them tell stories of unrequited love and the tragedy that can be caused by such frustrated emotions.”

“Oh, but Hal’s love was no longer unrequited,” I replied. “In the last few months he’d been seeing Victoria Banks. They shared an affection. Why would Hal murder a woman who returned his affections?” I shook my head. “Anyway, you’re both forgetting the black Jaguar parked outside. I doubt Hal was driving it. But someone was and that someone tried to kill Angel Stark.”

“You forget that the black Jaguar belongs to me,” said Donald, a cagey half-smile crossing his face.

“Are you telling me you were in Quindicott last night?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mrs. McClure. I drove here from Connecticut last night. I happened to breeze through Quindicott for gas. I saw Angel in the street, and we had words. So you see, Kiki had nothing to do with that encounter.”

“What kind of words did you have exactly?”

“I told her she made a big mistake publishing her book, that’s all.”

I studied Donald’s attractive, confident features, thinking there was more to this. Although Angel Stark had admitted no such thing in her book, Hal McConnell claimed Angel had been sleeping with Donald.

Remember what I showed you, baby, said Jack. A little information can take you a long way in an interrogation if you know how to use it. So use it— fast.

“I know you and Angel were sleeping together,” I said as casually as I could manage. “But when exactly did you stop?”

“Right before Bethany was murdered,” Donald blurted out.

Kiki’s jaw dropped. “Donny, shut up!”

Donald stared at me blankly.

Good work, baby. A deer in the headlights. You’ve got him admitting to something he didn’t want to. Keep him talking, he’s probably dying to spill . . .

“So you didn’t love Angel?” I asked. “Or did you?”

Suddenly, Kiki went from outraged to curious. She stared at him expectantly.

Donald’s eyes widened even more. “Of course I didn’t love her! Angel and I were hot and heavy for a few months. The sex was great. That’s all.”

“Did Bethany know?” I asked.

Donald shrugged, looked down at his cognac. “I think Bethany found out near the end, but she never threw it in my face if she did. I mean . . . we weren’t married yet . . . wild oats, you know . . .”

“Sure,” I replied. “And she decided to sow some oats, too,” I replied. “And get even with you in the process. Like having a fling with a member of the catering staff right under your nose—and the noses of all your buddies—a low-class stud she knew and you knew, too, because he supplied drugs to your crowd.”

Donald scowled. I’d hit a nerve. He shifted on the love seat, took yet another long hit of cognac. “That may be true,” he said, his eyes beginning to appear slightly glazed from the alcohol, “but the guy . . . he never had sex with Bethany . . . he never laid a finger on her.”

You’ve definitely got something here, said Jack. A point of pride. He’s still jealous that his girl wanted to sleep with Johnny-boy. So press that button. Hard.

I cleared my throat. “Is that what you think? That Johnny didn’t have sex with Bethany? Well, that’s wishful thinking, but that’s not what I heard from the police.”

“Hey, whatever you heard is wrong, okay,” said Donald, his voice finally betraying tension. He pointed his finger at me. “That guy, he was a patsy. I know. Because I know who set him up. The same person who killed Bethany Banks.”

“Oh my God!” Ashley lunged between us, wide-eyed. “Don’t say anything more,” she cried.

“Why not, Mrs. Sutherland?” Donald replied, the pointing finger turning into a dismissive wave. “What does it matter now anyway? Beth’s dead.”

“Sit down, Ashley,” I barked. To my amazement, she did.

“It was Angel who killed Bethany,” said Donald. “I know because I saw Angel leave the room right after the murder. Bethany went down there to have her fling with that waiter. I got wind of it and went down to stop it. But by the time I got there, I saw that Angel had already strangled Beth. She’d killed her before that Johnny person even arrived.”

“Why?” I asked, not yet ready to believe him.

“She was high that night,” said Donald. “And she was crazed because . . . well . . . she wanted me to dump Bethany and marry her instead. She made this declaration to me in private . . . but that was absurd. Angel Stark was a crazy slut and I told her so. She slept with every guy I know. She was just wild oats, a party girl, not someone you’d marry . . . not someone in my position, anyway. Angel lied about Beth in her book, you know? Bethy didn’t sleep around. Angel was describing herself . . . a convenient fuck.”

I looked at Kiki. Her legs were curled up under her like a gawky adolescent. She was biting her pink lips.

“You know all this, don’t you, Kiki?” I asked.

She gave a tense shrug. “Of course.”

My gaze swung back to Donald. “I gather Angel wasn’t happy with your decision.”

“That’s an understatement. Angel claimed she was going to tell the world about me cheating on Bethany, and I threatened Angel right back. I told Angel to keep her mouth shut or I’d turn her in for dealing drugs.”

My eyebrows rose at that. I knew Angel used drugs, she’d said so in her first book. But this was the first I’d heard about her dealing them. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because its true,” Kiki blurted out. “Angel’s been dealing drugs in our circles for years. Johnny Napoli was a Johnny-come-lately to that little business.”

“Where’s your proof . . . for any of this?” I asked.

“I was an eyewitness . . . I saw Angel leave that storage room,” Donald replied. “Her silk jacket was ripped, her face was flushed. When she was gone, I went inside and . . . I found Beth, lying there, not moving . . . I didn’t want to believe she was dead at first, you know? I tried to see if she was breathing, but she was dead all right . . .”

He stopped talking, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He sipped more cognac and I pressed. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you saw? Why didn’t you tell them everything?”

Donald sat back, shrugged. “Klaus von Bulow.”

“Excuse me?”

“O. J. Simpson . . . Michael Skakel . . . The media and private investigators crawl into every nook and cranny of people’s lives when there’s a high-profile murder trial. We didn’t want that. None of us. Bethany was already dead. Nothing could bring her back . . .”