Hiss And Tell

5

“Oh, my god!” Sunny blurted out. That was as far as she got before one of the lights atop the rocky height suddenly shifted to pin them in a shaft of radiance sixty feet long.

“Stop that boat!” an amplified voice boomed across the water. Somebody up there must have a bullhorn.

“Damn! They caught us!” Even as he spoke, Ken kept feverishly taking pictures.

“They probably heard the engine,” Ike told him. “This isn’t exactly a stealth boat, you know.”

“We’re sending a launch out,” the amplified voice announced. “Prepare to be boarded.”

“They have no legal right to do that,” Ken burst out, his camera still to his eye, snapping away.

Ken may have a point, Sunny thought, but it could take months in court to establish the fact, our word against theirs. Here and now, we’re facing a bunch of Kingsbury security guys who won’t be pleased to find us photographing the scene. If they grab our cameras, what are we going to do?

She put her camera on the deck at her feet, digging out her cell phone. This wasn’t going to be easy. Sunny knelt, resting her elbows on the gunwale of the boat, creating the closest thing she could to a tripod. She engaged the camera in the phone, aiming for the scene on the rocks while using all the tricks she’d learned in her photography classes. The results of a nighttime distance shot from a rocking boat wouldn’t be crystal-clear—probably too fuzzy for publishing—but she could hope that it would be legible enough to show what was going on. She kept clicking as fast as she could focus while the people on the top of the rocky prominence hauled the body up from the rocks.

As she worked, another floodlight sent a dazzling beam onto Ike’s boat. Sunny blinked her eyes, finally locating flashes against the glare. They were pretty well spaced apart.

Caleb Kingsbury’s yacht, I bet, Sunny thought, while continuing to take more pictures.

Apparently the new lighting revealed what she and Ken were doing, because the voice on the loudspeaker became more urgent. “Put those cameras down! This is invasion of privacy!”

Ken put his camera down and turned to Ike. “Can we outrun them?”

Ike shook his head.

I was afraid of that. Sunny returned to her phone, quickly scrolling through the images she’d shot. She silently blessed Ike for having a marine signal booster with all his electronics, because she saw bars on her screen. Frantically choosing the best of the harshly lit pictures, she directed them to Ken’s e-mail. “Are your interns awake?”

Ken glanced from the oncoming powerboat to Sunny. “Sure. I wanted everything ready in case we had to go to press.”

“Then call them and tell them to download these pictures,” Sunny told him. “The security guys may get us, but they won’t get them.”

They had a couple of touchy minutes as a Kingsbury powerboat approached, a black-jacketed security guy with an assault rifle in the bow, and all the other guys on the boat keeping one hand on their holstered pistols. The cameras went into their bags and onto the security launch before Sunny and Ken did. Sunny felt a little better for that, actually, realizing how easily the bag could have plopped beneath the surface of the water, an unfortunate “accident.”

Both boats headed for a small wharf on the far side of Neal’s Neck. Sunny, Ken, and Ike were ushered off their boat and up a set of rickety steps, where an additional welcoming committee of Kingsbury security people waited, surrounding the guy with the bullhorn.

Sunny wondered if he’d even needed the bullhorn in the first place—his voice was almost as loud as its amplified version when he shouted at them, “What were you doing, interfering with our operation? Mr. Quimby here says I could have you arrested for trespassing!” He gestured to a gray-haired man wearing a perfectly crisp suit and tie, notwithstanding the hour, but with deep frown lines in his face. Quimby might as well have worn a neon sign saying, “Lawyer.”

“Trespassing? Are you and Vince Quimby claiming a twelve-mile limit around Neal’s Neck these days, Trehearne?” Ken inquired. Sunny noticed he’d eased his cell phone out of his pocket, and was fiddling with the controls.

Lee Trehearne, the head of security for the Kingsbury family, choked back what he wanted to say in answer to that. Despite currently looking as though he were on the verge of a stroke, he seemed like the capable, man-in-charge type: tall, and with a commanding presence. There was maybe a little flesh softening the line of his determined chin, but no way did Trehearne give the impression of being soft.

His eyes were like chips of flint as he glared at Ken. “Mr. Howell. What did you think you were doing, lurking off private property at this time of night?”

“I had a tip,” Ken replied. “Someone saw lights on the point and gave me a call. I came to see if it was news.” He paused for a second as the local paramedics came by, trundling a gurney with an ungainly shape strapped in place and covered by a black plastic zip-up bag.

A body bag, Sunny thought.

Ken lowered his head for a moment. “Looks like sad news, I’m sorry to say.”

That didn’t cut any ice with Trehearne. “I won’t have you turning a tragic incident into some sort of vulgar media circus.” He leaned toward Ken. “The Kingsburys won’t have it.”

He broke off as a couple of state troopers approached from the edge of the cliff. Sunny recognized both of them, she’d seen them on duty at the roadblock. She also recognized the man in the rumpled suit whom they accompanied. Lieutenant Wainwright was shorter than Trehearne, his hair was thinner, and he had actual jowls rather than a mere softening of the chin. But he had sharp eyes, and Sunny knew from experience that the investigator had a sharp mind.

Wainwright’s not a guy to come out for just anything, even if it happens on the Kingsbury estate, she thought, suddenly flashing on how Trehearne had used the word “incident” rather than “accident.”

“Well, folks, let’s see if we can clear this up.” Wainwright was obviously going for the “good cop” role in this little drama. His pleasant expression congealed a little when he recognized Sunny. “You,” he said. “Miss . . .” He drew out the title, trying to recall Sunny’s name. “Miss Coolidge. I certainly didn’t expect to run into you out here.”

“This is Ken Howell, who runs the Harbor Courier,” Sunny deflected. “Ken, this is Lieutenant Ellis Wainwright of the state police, criminal investigation division.”

Ken’s nose twitched. He might not have recognized the homicide investigator by face, but he’d certainly heard the name. “How do you do?” he said.

“Mr. Howell asked me to accompany him to follow a lead about curious activity here in this compound,” Sunny said to Wainwright. “Since he didn’t think our press credentials would get us in, Mr. Howell decided on a more indirect approach.”

Wainwright gave a sour nod, all trace of Mr. Good Cop gone. “And you couldn’t have come along at a worse moment. That poor girl deserves more dignity than you’re about to give her.”

“I think she deserves the truth.” Ken glanced over at Trehearne, who’d just been handed their camera bag by one of his flunkeys. “Instead of being swept under the rug in the name of public relations.”

Trehearne hefted the bag. “You have no proof.”

Wainwright tapped the binoculars that hung around his neck. “If you spent a little more time looking than shouting, Trehearne, you might have noticed that Miss Coolidge also used her cell phone.”

“And e-mailed the pictures on already,” Sunny added.

Ken held up his phone, too. “And I’ve been streaming everything going on here directly to my office.”

Trehearne looked like Dracula discovering he’d just taken a big bite from a loaf of garlic bread.

“So why don’t you return their property, Mr. Trehearne,” Wainwright said tiredly. “If they’re going to run a picture, it might as well be a decent one.”

Lawyer Quimby silently nodded, his frown lines even deeper.

With his jaw clenched, Lee Trehearne handed the camera bag over to Ken, who immediately slipped it over his shoulder. “So we’re free to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Wainwright responded. “I’m sure you’re eager to get back to Kittery Harbor as quickly as possible, so you’ll stay on land.” He turned to Ike. “You don’t mind sailing back alone, do you?”

“Fewer distractions,” Ike said.

A trooper escorted Sunny and Ken to the roadblock, where Sunny expected Ken would either call a cab or one of his local contacts. Instead . . .

“Will?” Sunny burst out in disbelief.

Will Price stood leaning against his black pickup, his Kittery Harbor Police Force badge prominently displayed from his jacket pocket. “You weren’t the only one Ken called tonight,” he said as he opened the door. “And since I could take the land route, I was here a while ago. As the local liaison officer, I was able to breeze right in, although when Trehearne finally saw me, he exiled me back here.”

“Did you see or hear anything?” Ken let Sunny in first and then climbed aboard with the camera bag cradled in his lap like a baby.

“Nothing I can say on the record,” Will replied, starting the truck’s engine. “So whatever I mention has to be strictly unofficial, with no attribution.” He shuddered briefly. “That’s all I’d need.”

“But with Wainwright here . . .” Ken shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”

“The girl who died,” Sunny suddenly asked Will. “Did you get a look at her?”

“Only from the top of that cliff,” Will said.

“Could you make out the color of her bathing suit? Was it black?”

Will shook his head. “Purple.”

“Ken, one of the girls we saw here earlier was wearing a purple bikini,” Sunny frowned. “She came out of that house by the roadblock and walked in ahead of us.”

Ken’s thin face creased as he worked his memory, then he nodded. “You think it’s the same one, Sunny?”

“I’m not sure, but I saw that girl again later, at the pool party,” Sunny said, “with a drink in her hand and dancing. She looked pretty . . . uninhibited. Could it be a case of having more to drink than she could handle and wandering a little too close to the edge?”

“That’s the story Trehearne was trying to sell from the moment I got there.” Will looked disgusted. “And he was pretty heavy-handed about it. But one of the troopers—Hank Riker, a buddy of mine, we were in the same troop—left the roadblock and went down on the rocks for a look. He said there were bruises on her throat, the kind left by human fingers. He’s the one who called Wainwright and made Trehearne’s guys leave things as they were down there until the lieutenant arrived.”

“Good man,” Ken said. “It can’t have been easy standing up to the Kingsburys on their home ground.”

“I’ll tell you, I didn’t see any actual Kingsburys while I was in the compound.” Will shook his head as he drove. “All I saw was Trehearne and that Quimby guy—the lawyer. Maybe they’re all lying low.”

“Possibly it’s crisis management,” Sunny suggested. “No one around to say anything stupid.”

“Maybe,” Ken said, “but it looks guilty.” He leaned across Sunny to talk to Will. “Have you got a name for this girl?”

“Eliza Stoughton,” Will replied. “She apparently came as the date of the best man, Beau Bellingham. A couple of the young people turned up when the body was first found, and I spoke to a few of them before Trehearne shooed them all away from me. For a group that was supposed to be bonding, they broke pretty quickly into bride’s faction and groom’s faction.”

He glanced over at Sunny. “Several of the groomsmen mentioned that Eliza had been drinking pretty heavily and had gotten ‘kinda nasty’ as one of them put it, though Beau Bellingham dismissed it as the mojitos talking. Frankly, I wondered if he’d been hitting the mojitos, too. He couldn’t seem to take in the fact that Eliza was dead—kept talking about her in the present tense. He let slip, though, that Eliza’d also gotten into it with Tommy—that’s Thomas Langford Neal, the matron of honor’s husband.”

“Interesting situation there,” Ken said. “At one point, the Kingsbury watchers actually thought that the Neal boy and Priscilla Kingsbury might get married.”

“Ew, aren’t the two of them cousins?” Sunny said.

“Second cousins, same great-grandparents.”

“Still seems a little too close for comfort.” Sunny frowned, looking out the windshield at dense forest around them. Except for Will’s high beams, it was almost as dark on the road as it had been out on the water.

“Was Carson de Kruk there?” she asked Will.

Will shook his head. “Neither he nor Priscilla turned up. I’m guessing somebody probably convinced them not to.”

“Somebody named Trehearne?” Ken said.

“Could be,” Will agreed. “When he saw me talking with the wedding party, Trehearne nearly killed himself getting them away from me and getting me off to the roadblock.”

“That guy definitely wanted to control the story,” Sunny said. “His people looked ready to shoot us when they came out to Ike’s boat. And then they grabbed our cameras.”

“And now you say he was maybe trying to hide witnesses,” Ken added.

“So what do you think?” Sunny asked. “Is he just being fanatical about not letting the Kingsburys get any dirt on their shoes, or something else? The way you’re saying he tried to downplay the whole situation reminds me of how Sheriff Nesbit—”

She broke off with a gasp, turning to Will. “You said you were in a no-win situation. If everything went okay, Nesbit would come out smelling like a rose. But if anything went wrong, you’d get blamed. And now something has really gone wrong.”

Will sighed. “It’s not as if either of us could have predicted this. But yeah, I’m sure that after Nesbit and his cronies get done with it, the story will sound a lot worse. ‘How could a seasoned police officer let something so terrible happen at the pre-wedding meet and greet?’”

“So, after spending years pretending that Elmet County has never had a crime problem, now all of a sudden Nesbit will think it’s a big deal.” Sunny looked over at Will, who was busy keeping his eyes on the road. “You know what I think?”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m beginning to think that politics really stinks.”

That got a chuckle from Ken Howell. “I’ve been following politics for more than fifty years now, and it seems the field never gets much cleaner—or the participants any smarter.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather deal with Frank Nesbit than the problem Lee Trehearne and Ellis Wainwright have on their hands.”

“You mean the publicity?” Ken asked.

Will shook his head. “They’ve got an apparent murder on a peninsula cut off from the mainland by a checkpoint and guards. It’s the equivalent of a very large locked room.”

“That’s right,” Sunny said. “Trehearne won’t be able to claim that some hobo or transient did it.”

“Not unless the guy turns out to be a former Navy SEAL,” Will laughed, and then went quiet. “So the suspects come down to staff, security, guests, or the family.”

“Who just happen to be super-influential. You’re right,” Ken admitted. “It’s going to be a real mess.”

“Well, if anybody can straighten it out, I’d bet on Wainwright,” Will said. “The guy is a pro. And who knows? In the end, the story may turn out to be sadly simple—people drinking too much, an argument that goes too far, and then it’s too late.”

“Real open-and-shut stuff.” Ken’s voice sounded sour. “Until the expensive lawyers get involved.”

*

Will wanted to drop Sunny off at her house, but she insisted on going in to the Courier office with Ken. This was a real news scoop, the kind that required a special edition, and Ken would be killing himself to get one out. The least she could do was help.

They arrived at the old warehouse to find the interns already at work . . . in a poisonous atmosphere. It seemed that someone among the summer helpers had leaked one of Sunny’s cell phone pictures. They’d called Ken with the news while he was still in the car, but the horse was already out of the barn by then. The picture by itself was too indistinct for anyone to run, but the phones in the Courier office were ringing off their hooks as various news organizations called for confirmation of the story. Ken let his troops admit that there had been a death on Neal’s Neck—so long as the Courier got the credit. That probably means a whole caravan of media people will be converging on Neal’s Neck to get more of the story, Sunny thought. The job facing Wainwright and Trehearne wouldn’t be getting any easier, nor would they be grateful to her or Ken for precipitating that.

She pushed the thought away to concentrate on the job at hand, working with Ken on a front-page story while the interns manned the photos. Sunny wasn’t happy that their reportage depended so heavily on unnamed sources; sources whom Trehearne and Wainwright, not to mention the Kingsburys, would easily identify as Will Price. The sensational aspects—a party in an exclusive compound, a victim who’d been drinking—didn’t put Eliza Stoughton in the best light, either. Sunny couldn’t forget the state police lieutenant’s comment: “That poor girl deserves more dignity than you’re about to give her.”

At least they’d found a photo to run that didn’t make Sunny feel as though they were working on one of those awful old-time tabloids that had featured pictures of dead babies found in garbage cans. It showed one of the Kingsbury security guys with his back to the camera, holding Eliza Stoughton in his arms as his colleagues prepared to haul her body up the cliff. His broad back with SECURITY in large letters blocked the view of Eliza’s face and torso, leaving only her legs and one arm showing.

It was a shot Sunny had gotten, and Ken insisted on giving her a photo credit. By that time, sunlight was beginning to filter through the windows, and Sunny was too tired to argue. They put the paper to bed, and Sunny sat numbly at a desk, not even noticing the noise of the press in action. She finally roused herself and called home so Dad wouldn’t worry. “And don’t forget to feed Shadow,” she finished.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Mike repeated for about the tenth time. “I was up early and heard stuff on the radio.”

Sunny assured her father that she and Ken were perfectly fine, that Will had taken care of them, and that Mike would be able to read the whole story in the Courier. By then it was late enough in the morning that Sunny staggered over to the MAX office just in time to open up.

Nancy came dashing in moments later and stared at Sunny. “You look like you slept in those clothes,” was the first thing that popped out of her mouth.

Sunny looked down at the sweatshirt and jeans she’d worn for the journey to Neal’s Neck. Probably not the most professional-looking office wear.

“No, I definitely did not get any sleep in these clothes,” Sunny replied.

Nancy goggled at her. “You were at Neal’s Neck again, weren’t you? They said on the news that a local paper had broken the story.”

As she spoke, one of Ken’s interns, looking bright and energetic, came into the MAX office with a pile of special edition copies, which he placed on Sunny’s desk.

He must be on something to be so cheerful after the night we had, Sunny silently groused, and then had the unworthy wish that the guy would share whatever it was.

Nancy pounced on the paper. She’d read a paragraph, stop to stare at Sunny, read another one, stare again, and kept it up until Sunny finally said, “If it sounds exciting, well, then we did our jobs. But really, it wasn’t. A lot of it was boring, sitting in the dark wondering if we were there yet. Then there were a couple of minutes of craziness, spiced with a bit of terror. At one point I was afraid we were going to get shot as trespassers—”

Sunny broke off when she realized Nancy was just eating this up.

“Anyway, what I need now is coffee.” Her stomach protested at the thought. “Maybe coffee and a muffin,” Sunny amended. “And eggs. Maybe tea instead of coffee. I don’t want to burn a hole in my stomach.” She fished in her pocket and found a couple of bucks, which she held out to Nancy. “Would you mind going over to Judson’s Market and seeing what you could get in the way of breakfast? I’d go, but . . .” After sinking into her desk chair, Sunny wasn’t sure she had the energy to get out again.

Nancy took the money and came back a few minutes later with a scrambled egg on a roll and a large cup of tea. Sunny dug in gratefully, but forced herself to ration her bites. She didn’t want to scarf the whole thing down while Nancy was still giving her the hero-worship stare.

They settled back into work—at least Nancy did. She even got the coffeemaker going. The phone rang, and Sunny picked it up to hear Ollie Barnstable’s voice. “Well, the local news shows are all talking about your midnight ride,” he said.

“It was more like two a.m.” Sunny broke off to yawn.

“Was Will Price there, too? It seems a dead body can’t turn up in this neck of the woods without the two of you being in on it up to your necks.”

Sunny sighed. “Yes, Will was there. And he’s sure that Nesbit’s people will try to make the most of it.”

“Well, I’m sure your dad and his cronies will work on damage control.” Ollie paused for a second. “Speaking of damage control, do me a favor, Sunny. Stay away from the office equipment. Judging by the way you sound, you’re liable to break something.”

Sunny took his advice, sitting at her desk and confining herself to simple tasks done slowly. She left answering the phones to Nancy, who spent a lot of the time saying brightly, “I’m sorry, she’s not here.”

That was how Sunny knew some other newspaper person or TV reporter was trying to find her to ask idiotic questions.

Nancy lies pretty well, she thought, listening to the girl deal with another member of the slavering press pack. Maybe she could have a future in journalism—or PR.

Still, round about the point of lunchtime, Sunny had pretty much stopped working at all, afraid she might make Ollie’s prediction come true.

She was fighting to keep her eyes open, debating whether she could safely drive home, when the office door opened and Randall MacDermott walked in.

“I need your help,” he said.