Hiss And Tell

7

“Wha-wha-why?” Sunny asked, staring at the youngest member of the Kingsbury dynasty. “Why do you think I’m the only one who can help you?”

Now Priscilla looked embarrassed. “Sounds a little over the top, doesn’t it? But I’ve heard good things about you from Helena Martinson and other women in the 99 Elmet Ladies. And I have read your stuff.” She bit her lip. “All the other people writing and talking about Eliza make her sound so horrible. They slant things to make it seem as though she brought trouble on herself. Yours was the only story that didn’t pile a lot of innuendo on top of the facts.”

The girl still clung to Sunny’s hand as if she were afraid to let her go. “Eliza was a mess yesterday, and I tried to find out why, but she wouldn’t tell me. She’d always been on the fringes of our crowd, only here because she was Beau’s date. Frankly, I didn’t know her well enough.” Priscilla blinked away tears. “Maybe if I had gotten her to talk—”

She broke off, clamping her lips together for a moment. “I wasn’t a good friend. But I’m hoping you and Constable Price can get to the bottom of this, the way you did that time when everyone else was busy pretending that nothing had happened.”

Whoopee, Sunny thought, we’re a famous crime-fighting duo—sort of.

Priscilla was already rushing on. “I’m beginning to find out what that feels like—the everyone pretending everything is fine part. Mr. Trehearne is trying to keep the whole compound nailed down, and Uncle Cale thinks that’s because he’s afraid that one of the reinforcements he brought in for wedding security may have killed Eliza.”

The girl paused for a moment, looking at Sunny. “Uncle Cale says hello, by the way. He thought you were pretty smart.”

I guess the question is whether he stressed the pretty or the smart part. Sunny took advantage of the brief interruption in Priscilla’s flow of words to get her own thoughts in order. The girl might be petite, but she was like a force of nature once she got going. Sunny led Priscilla into the house. “As it happens, Will Price is visiting right now,” she told the girl. “Why don’t you come in, and we’ll all talk?”

Mike was surprised to see their visitor, but he immediately offered her a cup of coffee. Hospitality was part of the Kittery Harbor Way, the ethos that Sunny had grown up in. So had Will, although he kept a cop’s wariness behind his good manners as Priscilla accepted and joined them at the kitchen table. Even sitting down, she seemed to give off an aura of “full speed ahead.”

“I’m glad to catch you both,” she said to Will and Sunny. “You have to understand that our family is all over the country these days. My big brothers Lem and Tom are responsible for their states, and although I grew up with my grandparents after my folks died, they live mostly at their place on the Connecticut shore. The winters are usually milder there. I’m the one who stays here in Maine, working with Uncle Cale—or rather, for the Act Two Foundation. He travels thousands of miles a year, visiting our local offices and fund-raising. We help programs all over the country, from food insecurity to prisoner rehabilitation. I work closer to home, in Boston, Providence, and of course here in Elmet.”

Mike nodded. “Helena mentioned you helping out the food pantry.”

“Since I’m more local, I’m aware of your . . . reputation,” Priscilla said to Will.

He frowned, considering something. “I wonder if Trehearne is, too. Maybe that’s why he’s trying to keep me out of the compound. I’m supposed to be the local law enforcement liaison for your wedding,” he explained to Priscilla. “But your security guy only wants me outside directing traffic.”

“Mr. Trehearne doesn’t like any outsiders getting past his perimeter,” Priscilla said. “That even includes the state police.” She made a face. “I can understand his attitude a little better now. It feels like our place is under siege. The security people have caught photographers creeping around in the neighbors’ yards, trying to get pictures of us. I had to sneak out with the cleaning staff to come here.”

“That’s our problem, Ms. Kingsbury,” Will said. “Your home is pretty much sealed off. Makes it difficult to talk with witnesses and so on.”

“Oh, call me Cillie,” Priscilla told him. “That’s the nickname I grew up with, and the one my friends use.” She took a sip of the coffee Mike had handed her. “I think Uncle Cale and I may have a way around the locked-in problem. We’re going to suggest embedding a reporter in the wedding party get-together. A local reporter. You, Sunny.”

Sunny stared at Priscilla, speechless. But her inside reporter was jubilant . . . and a little impressed. Quite the bold move, there. I guess Uncle Cale is more than just a pretty face. “You do realize that I’m not a full-time reporter,” she finally said. “I do have a day job. And I’ll have to talk to the publisher of the Courier.” Although she suspected that Ken Howell would jump at the opportunity.

“Well, we haven’t sprung our idea on the rest of the family yet,” Cillie told her. “But if you could get things ready on your side, I think we can push this through on ours.”

Family politics, Sunny thought. And this is a political family.

The bride-to-be sipped her coffee. “I thought we should postpone the marriage,” she said abruptly. “Even though the wedding is a couple of months away, it still seems too soon, you know? I didn’t feel right talking about wedding plans while people were discussing when to release Eliza’s body.” She had trouble saying the last word. “I called her family to ask about memorial services, and they asked us—no, told us—not to come. They want to keep things private, and they figure we’ll draw reporters like you-know-what draws flies. We’d turn it into a circus, and they d-don’t want that.” Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked furiously to get them under control.

“How can I go ahead as though nothing happened?” Priscilla took a deep breath. “But it’s like politics. I got outvoted. Carson’s dad, Mr. de Kruk, was insistent about staying the course.” Her voice sounded a little empty now. “Something to do with his schedule. He’d cleared the week around the wedding date and didn’t want to rearrange things.”

Sunny didn’t think that sounded like a good beginning for a marriage, but she didn’t reply. What, really, could she say?

Cillie changed the subject slightly, showing a little more spirit. “We’ve had enough trouble with the Emperor Augustus. At first he wanted the wedding to be some sort of reality TV spectacular, broadcast from the top of one of his construction projects with a congregation of thousands, the New York Philharmonic playing the wedding march, and Cirque de Soleil doing aerial acts while we came down the aisle.”

Sunny had to laugh. “Who would he get to officiate? The Pope?”

Priscilla laughed, too. “Probably someone more fundamentalist, with his own TV church and lots of audience appeal.” Then she got serious again. “But Carson put his foot down, thank goodness. He said it was bad enough being an extra when his dad did the TV thing. And he ought to know—he’d done it since he was a kid.” She sighed. “It was a struggle, but Carson got Augustus to go along with a small wedding, with our local pastor, just the family, and a few close friends.”

She went silent, but Sunny could finish it up. And now one of those friends is dead.

Priscilla tried to change the tone again, this time going cynical. “So we don’t think Old Augustus will mind you covering things, except he’ll probably crab that you’re too local. But he’s already gotten enough mileage—and footage—out of the preliminaries. The engagement bash he threw was quite a show. Plenty of friends and acquaintances got lots of free champagne, and of course all the celebrity reporters were there.”

Sunny looked over at Will, trying to get a cue from him. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “We’ve been talking over the . . . circumstances of Ms. Stoughton’s death. I’ve got certain reasons to be interested in how the case is handled.”

“Because of the primary campaign against Sheriff Nesbit,” Priscilla said promptly. When Will looked surprised, she reminded him, “I was at your last campaign stop with the 99 Ladies.”

Will nodded, then turned to Sunny. “What do you think of this proposition?”

“I’ll have to clear things at work,” she said. But there was nothing crucial going on in the next week. Besides, Ollie wanted Will to win the primary—and he wouldn’t be averse to hearing a little insider gossip, either. “And get Ken Howell on board.” Though that shouldn’t be too difficult either.

“Then we’ve got a plan,” Cillie Kingsbury said briskly. “Here’s a number where you can get in touch with me. It’s a no-name cell phone.”

A burner phone, Sunny thought as she jotted the number down. I suppose you need one—or maybe a dozen—if you’re in the public eye.

Cillie’s manners were as good as Mike’s. She thanked him for the coffee, then said, “I’ve got to go. There are a couple of other errands I need to take care of while I’m out of jail.”

They saw her to the door. That’s when Sunny noticed the car and driver pulled up in the driveway behind Will’s pickup. It wasn’t a local cab. Cillie must have some friends in the vicinity willing to help out. Patient friends, to sit and wait while she had coffee. Sunny squinted and made out a head of blond hair . . . and a set of fingers restlessly tapping at the wheel. It was Fiona Ormond, Priscilla’s wedding planner.

Guess she’s got to be professionally patient, Sunny thought.

“Let me know if you can make things work on your end.” Cillie shook hands all around. “And thank you again.”

“Well, that was interesting,” Mike said after they closed the door.

“Kind of like having a whirlwind invade your life,” Will said. “I mean, she was pleasant and polite, but she seemed awfully damn confident that we’d just line up and go along with her plan.”

“The rich really are different,” Sunny said. “And despite the nicknames, not silly at all.”

She headed to the kitchen and called Ken, who nearly jumped through the phone in his eagerness to agree. “We can do a special section in our weekly edition, and you’ll write a daily blog on our website.” Ken’s laugh came out suspiciously close to the “MMMwahahaha!” of mad scientists in the movies. “Let the other outlets scavenge off us for a change.”

Having gotten Ken’s okay, Sunny dialed the number for Ollie’s room at the rehab center. It was getting late, and she knew they turned the phones off there in the evenings.

Ollie picked up on the second ring, sounding reasonably mellow. “What’s up, Sunny?” he asked after she said hello.

Sunny reported Priscilla’s visit, explaining the embedding idea and why they thought it was necessary to go along. “It’s beginning to look as though Will won’t win unless he can do something about this case,” she told him. “And that means we have to get someone into that compound. This seems the best way to accomplish both things.”

Ollie was silent for a moment. “If you think Nancy can handle things at the office, I’ll say okay. Just remember, you’ll have to wrap this up pretty quickly. You won’t have Nancy forever. Labor Day is coming, and she’ll be heading back to school.”

“I know.” Sunny sighed. “And thanks, Ollie.”

She hung up. “Well, that’s all set. He’s giving me the time.”

“The least he can do,” Mike harrumphed. “How long have you been working there without a vacation?”

“Some vacation this is,” Sunny scoffed. “Snooping among the rich and famous.” Then she got more serious. “I suppose I’ll have to do some homework on who’s who in the compound. The only ones I’ve met are Trehearne and Caleb.”

“And Cillie,” Will pointed out.

“But there are a whole lot of other people out there. The other Kingsburys, the de Kruks, not to mention the wedding party.” Sunny had seen them all on her tour, but not up close and personal.

“I know someone who might be able to help.” Will grinned as he reached for the phone. Half an hour later, they were drinking more coffee with Ben Semple and his girlfriend Robin Lory—the secret resource Will had thought of, a walking who’s who of local celebrities.

“Oh, wow,” Robin said when they told her that Sunny might actually be going out to Neal’s Neck. She happily offered up her full store of gossip to help Sunny prepare.

“So, there’s the Senator and his wife. They’re getting kinda old, but he’s definitely the head of the family, the whatchamacallit.”

“Patriarch?” Ben suggested.

“Right. That,” Robin agreed. “Then there’s his grandsons, Governor Lem and Governor Tom, and their wives. You don’t hear much about the ladies, and as for the guys, that’s all political stuff.” Obviously Robin found the “political stuff” less gripping than the news of who was sleeping with whom.

“Who else?” She thought for a moment and then answered herself. “Caleb Kingsbury, the Senator’s son, of course.”

“I met him,” Sunny said.

For the first time, Robin looked impressed with Sunny. “Really? Is he as nice as he looks on TV? He’s always joking with the reporters and the photographers. You know, he’s kinda old but he’s single—divorced since the scandal.”

“The scandal nearly crucified him,” Will pointed out. “I guess Caleb decided it was better to befriend the media than to fight them.”

Maybe that explains why he was nice to me, Sunny thought. “How about the wedding party?” she asked aloud.

“I don’t know for sure,” Robin replied. “But I read a whole thing in the National Inquisitor the other day about who’s supposed to be coming up. Beau Bellingham is the best man. He’s really good-looking, like a model, and he’s in med school. He was Carson’s best friend in college. Eliza Stoughton came along as Beau’s date—I don’t know if she was hoping to make it as a bridesmaid. She worked for an advertising agency in New York City.” Robin went on, “She’d been engaged to someone else but broke it off. Oh, and Priscilla’s matron of honor, Yardley Neal, who has been her best friend since they were kids. Her husband is Thomas Something Neal.”

“Langford.” Will supplied the name.

“Right. For a while people thought the Neal guy and Priscilla were going to get married. They’ve known each other forever, and they’re some kind of cousins. Ick.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too.” Sunny made a face. “He couldn’t have Priscilla, so he married her best friend? Something icky about that, too.”

“He works on Wall Street, his dad is a big shot there.” Robin frowned. “I’m trying to remember. Something happened with the father. Did he get sick?”

“No, he got scared,” Mike piped up. “Retired abruptly after there was some talk about investigating insider trading. He was a name partner in the firm, though, so the kid will probably wind up as one, too. Just a matter of time.”

He stopped when he realized everyone else in the room was staring at him. “Hey, I’m retired. I like to read the paper every day. Even the business pages. It’s not like I have some big-shot stock portfolio, but I like to keep an eye on things.”

Sunny brought them back to the topic at hand. “So that’s the best man and matron of honor. Who else? There was another guy there,” Sunny said, remembering the group by the pool.

Robin nodded. “Right, he’s got a funny name. Van Tweezers?”

“No, Van Twissel,” Will said. “Peter Van Twissel.”

“I think his family and the de Kruks go way back.” Robin shrugged. “Otherwise, I don’t know much about him.”

Sunny thought that over. So, either he doesn’t do anything to interest the gossip community, or maybe he doesn’t do anything, period. “He’s a rich kid,” she said. “Does he really need a job?”

Ben looked as if the concept of not needing a job was completely foreign to him. “Nowadays, they usually do something.”

“Even if it’s only counting the family money,” Mike added.

“Is that what Carson de Kruk does?” Sunny asked.

“More or less. He works as a junior executive in his dad’s company,” Robin answered. “That’s what they call it—junior executive. And I heard that Augustus de Kruk has him on a short leash, financially. Carson racked up a ton of credit card bills in college, and his dad’s been making him pay them off from his salary. But when he gets married, Carson is supposed to get a big raise so he can afford to start a family.”

So there’s money involved if the wedding goes through, Sunny thought. In fact, the whole Kingsbury-de Kruk union seemed like some massive financial merger. Eliza Stoughton had been seen arguing with Carson, and she was also being blackmailed, at least according to Randall MacDermott. Did that tie in? Was that even real?

All this seemed more than she could hold in her head.

Maybe you won’t have to, an unworthy thought wormed its way up. Maybe the Kingsburys won’t even allow you into their precious compound. Priscilla had seemed pretty confident that she could swing the job of getting Sunny onto Neal’s Neck, essentially as an undercover agent. But she and Uncle Cale didn’t strike Sunny as the power brokers in the Kingsbury family.

Will glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better get back up there. The damned newspeople are going to start showing up at the roadblock again—live feeds on the scene for the late newscasts.”

“I’ll lend a hand,” Ben volunteered. “Let me just take Robin home and get into my uniform.”

They said their good-byes and headed to their respective vehicles. Sunny waved good-bye, then headed to the kitchen, the piece of paper with Priscilla’s number clutched in her hand. She hadn’t wanted to make the call with everyone watching. A lot rode on this, and Sunny didn’t want the extra pressure.

Mike seemed to understand. He went into the living room and clicked on the TV.

Shadow turned up, as he often did after company had left. He seemed to pick up on Sunny’s nervous mood, rubbing against her legs as she walked down the hallway to the rear of the house.

With a half smile, she dropped to one knee and scratched him behind the ears. He kept pushing his head into her hand.

“Thanks, guy, but I can’t keep putting this off.” She went to the kitchen, got the phone and dialed.

Priscilla Kingsbury answered after the first ring. Had she been sitting with her cell phone in hand, waiting for this call?

“Hi, it’s Sunny. I got the okay from my boss.”

“Great!” Cillie broke in. “Everything’s set on this end. We can put you up in one of the guesthouses if you need to stay.” She paused for a second. “You should probably bring a couple of changes of clothing and a bathing suit. Do you think you could be here tomorrow morning by eleven?”

Now it was Sunny’s turn to pause. “Um. I guess so.”

“Fine. I’ll send a car for you. Parking’s kind of limited out here on the neck.”

And I guess my old Wrangler isn’t the kind of car that would get compound room, Sunny silently finished. Still, she’d already agreed to this. Too late to back out now. She chatted for a moment more with Priscilla, said good-bye, and hung up.

She sighed. Now all I have to do is find a couple of outfits that will look casual but elegant beside a pack of super-rich kids.

She started for the stairs, then stopped.

And a bathing suit.

The next morning, Sunny had breakfast with her father and tried not to trip over her cat, who was keeping himself underfoot. Shadow had not responded well to the travel bag she’d placed in the front hall. He’d sniffed it, butted it with his head until it fell over, and then trotted over to Sunny, his expression demanding, What do you think you’re doing?

“You’ll do fine,” Mike assured her over his bowl of cereal. “The reporting you can do standing on your head. As for the other part—well, you’ve shown you can handle that, too.”

“I’m so glad you’re pleased.” But then Sunny apologized for her sarcasm. “Sorry, Dad. I feel like I’m going away to camp—and I’m afraid the other kids won’t like me.”

“Want me to stick around until you go?”

She shook her head. “No, you should probably get your exercise in before it starts to get too hot.”

They washed the dishes, and then Mike surprised Sunny by giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Those other kids will love you. I do. Good luck, and have a good time.”

When Mike left to go on his daily three-mile walk, Shadow accompanied him to the door, apparently hoping he’d take the offending suitcase away.

When Dad didn’t, Shadow turned to Sunny with a dark look.

*

Shadow did not like this at all. This was definitely not a good thing. When two-legs brought out those square-things, it meant they were going away for a long time—or maybe forever.

He didn’t understand it. There hadn’t been any noise, any shouting at all. In fact, the Old One had been especially nice to Sunny, bringing her food. They’d sat down as if this were the beginning of any other day.

Except it wasn’t. That thing was by the door.

Finally, the Old One got up and started down the hall. Shadow followed him, hoping he would pick up the bag. Oh, he’d miss the Old One a little. In spite of their differences, they’d managed to get along all right. But Shadow could live without him.

The Old One did not pick it up.

Shadow turned to Sunny. This was very, very bad.

*

Sunny was getting annoyed. In the time between Mike’s departure and the Kingsbury car’s arrival, Shadow had turned into the Incredible Clinging Cat. If he got any more claws into her new top, she’d have to tell people it was eyelet lace.

She had thought she’d feel pretty bad about saying good-bye, even if it was only for a week or so, but Shadow had gotten almost frantic, pushing himself into her petting hands, trying to hook onto her again.

Maybe I’d better wait for the car outside, Sunny decided.

She headed down the hall—and into the Battle of the Bag. Shadow had knocked it down and draped himself over it. Trying to get his not-inconsiderable weight off it wasn’t easy, especially when he dug his claws into the fabric, refusing to let go. Every time she got one paw loose, he’d hook in the other.

In the end, she was hot and sweaty, holding him out in one hand at arm’s length by the scruff of his neck, the bag held in her other.

The toot of a horn came from outside.

“This is not the good-bye I had in mind,” Sunny told the cat, puffing a little. “But I guess it’s the best I can manage.”

She hefted Shadow down the hall in the direction of the kitchen, opened the front door, and quickly slammed it behind her. Even through the solid door, she could hear his howling wail from inside.

Sunny hurried toward the black town car that had pulled into her driveway. A thickset man in a dark Windbreaker and a baseball cap sat behind the wheel. Probably one of Lee Trehearne’s security guys.

He stared at her for a moment, then averted his eyes. Yeah, I know I look like I just ran the hundred-yard dash to get out here, but he’s not supposed to notice things like that with a client. She shook her head, straightened her clothes, and continued toward the car.

The driver got out to open the door and take her bag. He was staring again, but this time behind her.

Sunny turned. They’d recently installed a new front door. This one had a decorative mail slot. Now the brass flap that covered the slot was pushed out, and a gray-furred paw lashed frantically around in the opening to the accompaniment of horrible, mournful noises.

Sunny shrugged at the driver as she took her seat, not sure whether to laugh or cry.