The Ghost and the Dead Deb

things in hand, I drove my Saturn over to the Finch Inn, but not up the tree-lined drive. Instead, I parked on the side of the street and cut the engine.

I pulled out Victoria’s cell phone and dialed the Inn’s number. Fiona answered on the first ring. We exchanged pleasantries, then I got to the point of my call. “Is the security camera you installed over the front entrance still working?”

“You bet,” Fiona replied. “I haven’t had a lithograph, framed portrait, or antique lamp disappear since, either.”

“Do you still have the surveillance video from the night Angel disappeared?”

“Sorry, Pen. The State Police confiscated it the next day. I never even had a chance to review it before they swept it up in their investigation.”

“But if there was something to see, would the camera pick it up?”

“Sure,” said Fiona. “The camera moves back and forth, from side to side—covers the entire porch and the front door. If there’s something to see, the State Troopers will see it.”

“But only if they know what to look for . . .”

“Something’s up, isn’t it, Pen?” Fiona’s voice was palpable with excitement.

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” I quickly ended the call before prosecutor Fiona could begin her cross- exam.

Though it was nearly six o’clock, the late summer sun was still above the horizon and a few hours of daylight remained. I would need it to prepare for what Jack had suggested on the way back from the McClure’s. I climbed out of the car and walked up the Inn’s tree-lined drive. Instead of going up the steps to the Inn’s main house, I followed the wooded path along the pond, which led to Fiona’s still-under-construction restaurant. The scent of salty sea was heavy as a damp, warm breeze whipped across the inlet.

Even down by the water, the day was still sticky and uncomfortably warm, yet I suppressed a shiver. The body of Angel Stark had been dragged from this very spot, and I doubted I would ever banish the sight of her murdered corpse—or Victoria Banks’s, for that matter—from my mind.

Living with the dead, said Jack. That’s the world you’re in now, baby. Get used to it.

“Jack, do you believe Kiki and Donald’s story? That Angel killed Bethany in some kind of jealous rage?”

Yeah, doll. It all fits. I’d already suspected Angel of being envious of Bethany from that little bit of self-serving prose she read in your store. What convinced me that Priss Kiki and Prince Donald were on the level about Angel doing the dirty deed was their claim of evidence. Angel’s silk jacket—

“Right, like a certain presidential intern’s blue dress . . .”

Blue dress? Want to drive that by me again, sister?

“Never mind.”

Anyway, physical evidence like that will back to the hilt what they’re claiming, so you better count on it existing if this next step fails.

I nodded, understanding and agreeing. Angel had been more than a careless, eccentric author. Obviously, a sick, jealous, unbalanced monster had been lurking behind the bohemian-style designer clothes and false-revelatory prose.

So you’ve got Johnny down to two counts of murder, Jack said. You still have to prove who killed Angel—

“And Victoria. I know.”

Donald has a solid alibi for that night. But Kiki doesn’t.

“No. But there’s something else she doesn’t have.”

I could almost hear Jack smiling when he said, That’s right, doll. You tell me.

“Defense wounds.” In the warm car, I had already removed my long-sleeved summer-weight sweater and threw it over my scratched-up shoulders. “If Kiki had needed to hide scratches or other defense wounds,” I told Jack, “she would have worn something with long sleeves to the party, just like I had. But that slight gauzy sundress of hers revealed nothing but perfect skin. Not one bruise, not one scratch.”

Right, baby. You’re on a streak. Don’t stop now . . .

I approached the construction site. The restaurant was still a fleshless skeleton, stark in the waning afternoon. The brick foundation rose chest-high. Wood-frame walls and supporting steel beams were still exposed. Work had stopped here since the grisly discovery, and close to the water, ribbons of yellow plastic crime scene tape fluttered on the warm breeze.

“We’re here, Jack. What do you think?”

Piles of wood were stacked about, most under canvas. I wove my way around support beams and unfinished walls that would soon be dining areas and a kitchen.

It’ll work. But you need something even higher than these walls.

I spied a tall pole, planted just beyond the perimeter of the structure, and probably used by the builders for surveying. “Found it!” Glancing around the area, I also discovered a tall ladder propped near a parked yellow forklift and backhoe.

“I think it’ll work, Jack.”

Then roll the dice before your subject skips town. Make that call.

I flipped open Victoria’s cell phone. On the display screen, I highlighted the phone number of her last incoming voicemail message—just as I had yesterday. The party answered on the third ring. I recognized Hal’s voice.

“Still have Victoria’s cell phone, I see,” he said, the touch of weariness in his voice making him sound older than his years.

“Yes,” I replied. “And I’m about to turn it over to the police so they can match the calls stored in its memory against your own phone records.”

The silence was deafening.

“Hal, I know you lied to me. About Victoria’s father being in town, and about where you were the night Victoria vanished. It’s time we talked again.” I paused. “Nine o’clock tonight. At the construction site near the Finch Inn. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t know where that is.”

I hung up before he could reply. With a sigh, I consulted my ghost. “Jack? Do you think he bought it?”

You have to assume he did. Now you’ve got to work fast to get it all ready.

“I know. Lots to do. And no time like the present.”

Jack grunted. So to speak.

A FEW HOURS later, I was pacing the Finch Inn construction site, watching the sun drop below the horizon and a black velvet shroud slowly smother the summer blue sky then pierce it with starlight as sharp as daggers.

Behind me, that tall wooden pole I’d spied earlier stood firm as the wind increased, blowing through the trees with an ominous intensity. The inlet’s sea water continued its lazy incessant lapping against the dark bank.

“We’re all set,” I murmured to Jack as I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

Maybe not.

Seeing as how I had a potential murderer on his way to meet me, I tried not to react with total alarm when I asked Jack, “What the heck do you mean, maybe not?!”

I’ve been mulling everything over, and it seems to me there’s still a piece missing in this puzzle. The piece. Angel’s gun. The one she tried to give to Johnny. Remember why Johnny raced to the border in the first place? Angel was trying to blackmail him into killing someone for her—now who do you think that someone was?

“Donald Easterbrook?” I guessed, “for almost running her over? Or Kiki, for stealing Donald away? Or . . . Victoria Banks?”

Victoria had threatened Angel very publicly at your bookstore—

“And, according to Vicky’s roommates, she’d sent Angel threatening e-mails, too. You know what e-mails, are, right, Jack?”

What do you think? I’ve been watching you tap away on that typewriter box for a year now.