Hiss And Tell

11

Sunny lugged the soft-sided suitcase down to the front hall. It was a bit unwieldy on the stairway, a little heavier than she’d expected. She hadn’t packed all that much, really—she’d just chosen the large case because she didn’t want the outfits to get crushed. Out of the clothes she’d arranged on the bed, she’d finally picked a pair of suits, one with pants, one with a skirt, both dressy without being too sedate. Then she went back to the closet and took out a party dress, its coral color a bit bolder. It worked well with Sunny’s hair and her tan, but didn’t show off too much. Along with the necessary accessories and the things she had up at Neal’s Neck already, Sunny hoped those outfits would take her through the next few days.

As she reached the foot of the stairs, she held the bag high, alert for Shadow. We are not going to have another game of detach the cat this time, buddy.

But Shadow was nowhere to be seen.

Still holding the bag awkwardly to avoid a sneak attack, Sunny went into the living room, where Mike sat on the couch.

“Shadow in here?” she asked.

Her dad shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since he took off up the stairs after you.”

“I had to keep him out of my room while I was packing.” Now she felt guilty about it. “He went a little crazy with the bag I took yesterday.”

Mike shrugged. “Well, he didn’t turn up here.”

Maybe he’s sulking, Sunny thought as she went down the hall to the kitchen. Often when Shadow got in a mood, he’d scowl down at the world from a perch up on the top of Mount Refrigerator.

But Shadow wasn’t there, either.

Now Sunny found herself torn. She didn’t want a scene like the one they’d gone through the last time she’d left. But she didn’t want to go without saying good-bye to Shadow, either. She was debating whether to check out a few more of his hideouts when the doorbell rang. That took the decision out of her hands. She came down the hall to see Mike at the door, speaking with Cale Kingsbury. Usually her dad would be more animated when talking with anyone with a connection to local politics, but Mike was politely silent as Cale chatted.

Polite—or maybe a bit standoffish? Sunny suddenly wondered. Years may have passed since the scandal that brought Cale Kingsbury down, but that didn’t mean it had been forgotten hereabouts. One of the more potentially negative aspects of the Kittery Harbor Way.

Either Cale didn’t notice or he’d gotten used to that reaction. Or both. He greeted Sunny and took her bag, said good-bye to Mike, and then escorted her back to the car. Cale deposited the case in the back of the station wagon beside his load of contraband (hidden from view under an old picnic blanket) and then held the door for Sunny. As he slid into his seat, his face had a cat-who-ate-the-canary expression. “This is gonna be fun tonight.”

“You know, it started out as a joke, but now it’s taken on a life of its own,” Sunny said. “Sounds as though you’re looking forward to this game more than Cillie and Carson are. I thought you were just the facilitator.”

“And you’re the instigator,” Cale reminded her. “But I think it’s the right thing. The kids need to cut loose, and this is a fairly benign way to do that. Besides, I figure buying the beer buys me an invitation, too.” His grin was infectious, and mischief danced in his eyes. “I got this Belgian ale, very high-octane. It’s gonna be a blast, and I intend to be there as soon as I can ditch the grown-ups.”

He sounded so much like one of Sunny’s college boyfriends, she had to laugh.

They discussed the finer points of beer pong for most of the ride up to Wilawiport, with several disagreements over things like defensive deflections and penalties.

“That’s why you’ve got to download a set of rules from someplace,” Cale said. “Then they’ll be there in black and white. People will be stuck with them.”

“All right, all right,” Sunny capitulated. “I’ll take care of it after I get up in my room.”

The town car rolled past the roadblock, with no paparazzi jumping out of the bushes. Sunny felt a little disappointed. She’d been prepared this time, putting on large sunglasses and a baseball cap with a long peak.

They came to a stop outside the girls’ guesthouse. As Sunny got out and Cale got her bag, she asked, “Where will you hide the supplies? I don’t think you can just slip them into a refrigerator.”

“I’ve got ice and a couple of those Styrofoam chests.” He kept his voice down, glancing over toward the roadblock. “We’re a little too close to the outside world to go unloading things here.”

Shaking her head, Sunny took her bag and lugged it up to her room. She’d barely deposited her burden on the faded quilt bedspread when she heard a knock on the door. It was Priscilla.

I suspect that Trehearne’s not the only one using the security guards to find out who’s where, Sunny thought. Cillie just about confirmed that with her first words. “I heard you were back, and I wanted to catch you. It’s Beau’s turn to do the lunch run, bringing sandwiches and stuff from the kitchen of the big house. If you just sort of bumped into him over there, you could spend some time alone with him.”

Great, Sunny thought. Sounds like I’m being set up with a potential murderer.

Priscilla quickly convinced her otherwise, though, her expression darkening as she spoke. “I haven’t forgotten why you’re really here—so I talked to him a little bit.” She waved her hands. “Not telling him about why you’re here, just saying that he couldn’t lie around ignoring you. This will give the two of you a chance to talk. From the way you asked about him at breakfast, I’d have to be pretty dense not to realize that you’re interested in Beau, and I don’t mean romantically. I shouldn’t be surprised, after the way he and Eliza got into it the afternoon before—” She broke off her words.

Sunny nodded. “Do you know what the two of them were fighting about?”

Priscilla shook her head. “We’re supposed to be too well-bred to eavesdrop—and of course, there was music playing. By the time it got loud enough for me to notice, they’d sort of gotten to the generic insult stage. He called her a social-climbing bitch, she said he was just a general bastard. That sort of thing.”

Sunny frowned. So it sounded loud, but not exactly personal. Neither Beau nor Eliza seemed to be throwing actual dirt in each other’s faces. Well, that social-climbing comment was a bit sharp, but it’s kind of hard to imagine a spat like that leading to murder, she thought.

Still, Beau was Will’s prime candidate, with at least a possible check by his name when it came to opportunity. She ought to take a shot.

“Okay, just let me unpack,” Sunny said. It wasn’t so much about hanging up her things as it was making sure those suits got a proper airing. She’d already twitted Cale about him smelling like mothballs; no way was she going to sit down with the de Kruks in a cloud of eau de cedar.

Cillie bit her lip. “I don’t think there’s time. I stalled him as long as I could, waiting for you, but Beau was starting for the kitchen when I headed up here.”

“Then I’d better catch him.” Sunny followed Priscilla outside, thinking, Another plan shot to hell.

She managed to catch up with Beau on his way back down the path between the big house and the pool. He was carrying a big cardboard carton easily enough, but just as Sunny came up, a breeze sent a couple of bags of chips airborne. Sunny darted to pick them up. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said, “Sunny.”

There was a barely perceptible pause before he used her name. Had he been trying to remember it, or debating whether to use it?

“Put that thing down for a minute, and let’s see what I can help carry,” Sunny suggested.

Beau dropped to one knee, setting the carton down on the graveled walk. The breeze plucked at the Hawaiian shirt he wore over another green scrub shirt—or maybe the same one Sunny had seen him in yesterday.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for the chips,” Beau said. “They had to put them on top, otherwise they’d get crushed. But I figured we’d better have some munchies around for later.” He gave Sunny a closer look as he knelt with the carton. “Did you really suggest beer pong?”

“Guilty as charged,” Sunny replied.

“What, are you trying to get us all drunk so we’ll talk about stuff we shouldn’t?” He broke off, running a hand across his eyes and then down his face. “Sorry, that didn’t come out very well. Carson and Cillie told me you’re a reporter, doing stories about the wedding planning and stuff. But after the whole mess with Eliza . . .”

Take the opening, Sunny decided. “How did you meet her? I understand she was in Priscilla’s crowd.”

“She is—was,” Beau corrected himself. “We hooked up when Carson and Cillie began getting serious. One of those big de Kruk mob scenes. How many parties have you attended where they’ve got a stage manager shepherding you in front of the cameras right on schedule to make the evening news? But we hung out and then dated a bit when my schedule allowed. Frankly, I think she was on the rebound. She’d been engaged, but it all blew up. She didn’t like to talk about it.”

He blinked, as if dealing with an unpleasant memory. “But Eliza was really on my case to be my plus-one when I got the invite to this get-together. I thought it was kind of pushy, but Carson and Cillie were cool. To tell the truth, I was really looking forward to taking a break up here. Carson said it would be nice and quiet.”

“But it didn’t turn out that way?”

Beau’s face tightened. “So now it’s about that stupid fight? Does everybody know about that? Will I see my face on Eagle Eye while they play detective and wonder if I’m ‘involved’ in Eliza’s murder?”

“I can’t promise what Eagle Eye will do,” Sunny said. “As you pointed out, I am a reporter, but there is such a thing as off the record. If you say that up front, reporters can’t quote you. Not all reporters follow that as strictly as they should nowadays, but those are supposed to be the rules.”

“Why would you even tell me that?” Beau frowned.

“Because I think you’re going to need a crash course in dealing with reporters.” Sunny gave it to him straight.

Beau paused for a moment. “You mean they think . . . ? Sure they do. That detective guy seemed like just a schlubby-looking older guy at first, but he’s like some of the surgeons in the hospital. Put a scalpel in their hands—”

He stopped again. “Does that detective think I killed Eliza?”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” Sunny told him.

Beau turned round to sit on the grass, his head in his hands. “This is like a nightmare. I came here to chill out.” He looked up at her. “You don’t know what a pressure cooker a medical residency can be. Becoming a doctor is sort of like joining the biggest fraternity there is, but getting there, they don’t just put you through hell week, it’s more like hell years. I’ve put in a hundred and twenty hours a week sometimes.”

Sunny nodded. Carson had said something along the same lines.

“So I come up here, Carson’s told me how quiet and secluded the place is, and all I really want to do is sleep. I mean, I know I’m supposed to stand up for Carson on the wedding day, and I’ll do whatever they want of me. But my whole plan for coming up here was to veg out. With Eliza pestering me, I was kinda down to my last nerve, and the minute we got here, Eliza started getting on it.”

“Why do you think that was?”

He looked down for a moment, then up at her again. “I couldn’t say, but she was in a foul mood even on the way up here. Carson had one of his dad’s private planes fly us up from New York—Carson, Peter, me, and Eliza. I thought she’d be delighted at such a sweet setup. Instead, she was rude to the cabin steward and drank a lot. All I wanted to do was sleep. We were going to be in the air for about an hour and a half, and I intended to get some rest.”

“And?” Sunny asked.

“It seemed to drive her crazy that I wasn’t paying attention to her. Eliza insisted on talking to me, even when I was dozing off. She kept it up when we got to the compound. And when we were around the pool, she even got worse. She kicked me to wake me up, and I told her to knock it off. Instead, she jumped down my throat.”

Beau took a long, deep breath. “Maybe I could have handled it better if I hadn’t been so burnt out. But when she began screaming at me, I started shouting back.” His shoulders slumped. “It’s not as though I was the only one—just the one who got it the worst. Eliza also got into it with Carson and Tommy Neal, too. I thought I was pretty tightly wound up when I joined up with Carson to come here, but now I’m wondering if maybe Eliza was worse.” If Eliza was being blackmailed, Sunny thought, remembering Randall’s theory, that might’ve made her a little touchy.

Beau stood up. “So that’s the story. I liked Eliza—not an undying love thing, but she was cool, and pretty, and we had some good times.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s not like I had any reason to want to murder Eliza. Guess it sounds kind of corny, but the whole reason I wanted to become a doctor was to help people, not to kill them.”

“Well, you can’t help it if the police suspect you,” Sunny said, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy for the big guy. “I suppose they’ve been pretty careful with you, since you’re on a big shot’s home turf. They’d get a lot tougher if they had some strong evidence linking you to the crime. Don’t get yourself in trouble with them by telling them lies. And if they do start questioning you seriously, remember you’re allowed to get a lawyer. And stay quiet until one gets there.”

Beau Bellingham bent down to get the carton of food. “I didn’t think I’d be saying this, but thanks, Sunny.”

Don’t mention it, Sunny sourly thought as she collected the bags of chips. I do this for all the murder suspects I bump into.

*

Shadow absentmindedly licked one paw. One of his claws had broken in his struggle to escape from Sunny’s bag. After being squashed, carried, and then left in a cold, dark place, he had wormed his way to the top of the bag. It had one of those open-close things the two-legs used, a little piece of metal on a long track. He’d dealt with them before.

But he’d never had to open one from the inside. Just getting hold of the little piece had been a struggle, and moving it had resulted in the painful break. Annoying, but not too bad. There wasn’t any blood.

He’d gotten the bag a little bit open, but then he’d been interrupted by sudden light, getting picked up, carried . . . and squashed down again.

He’d landed heavily on a bouncy surface—a bed—and heard Sunny’s voice. But by the time he’d gotten a paw out and opened the bag enough to squirm out, Sunny was gone.

Searching this new house had not been good. Everything was old and dusty, and even the air smelled dead. Even worse, he hadn’t found Sunny.

So Shadow found a way out and began exploring outside. There were fewer houses around here than at Sunny’s place—or was that Sunny’s old place? Was this Sunny’s new place? There was plenty of grass and some bushes, quite a few interesting smells that had distracted his search. But he only caught a few brief whiffs to show that Sunny had been in various places.

Then Shadow’s stomach began telling him it was time to eat. He’d walked a long way to some of the other houses nearby, hoping to find one of those bags that humans filled with old food. It might not be the best tasting, but it would fill him up.

The problem was, the two-legs around here locked those bags up in strong containers. He began to lose hope as he approached the back of yet another house to see a human female standing behind a glass door. When she saw Shadow, the two-legs knelt down to peer out at him.

Shadow stretched up, resting his forepaws against the glass to get a better look. Suddenly he watched a flurry of motion as another cat, a She by the size of her, appeared, flinging out her paws and raking at the glass with her claws.

This stupid She wants to scare me away, Shadow thought. He’d seen this before, cats who were very brave so long as there was a door or window between them. He could understand not wanting to share a special two-legs with some wanderer. Sometimes Sunny had annoyed him by feeding some passing freeloader. But no self-respecting cat should threaten what she—or he—couldn’t do. Claws were real . . . and so was blood.

Sure enough, when the human opened the door, the brave warrior-She disappeared. But happily the two-legs brought out a paper plate with some food on it. Shadow took a bite. It was unfamiliar, and rather rich. His stomach would probably make noises later. But he ate, taking small bites.

And as soon as the door had shut, those white paws and claws appeared again. He didn’t even bother to pretend-fight. As soon as he had enough, Shadow trotted along. It looked as though he’d be stuck around here for a while. He still had to find a safe place to rest.

*

As the day progressed, Sunny found herself looking forward to the clandestine beer pong tournament. If someone had told her a week ago that she’d be spending the day lounging beside the private pool in a million-dollar compound, she’d have had a hard time believing it. She’d have given this someone an even harder time if they’d suggested that such an R&R setting would get on her nerves.

The fact of the matter, though, was that she felt restless. She swam, she sat in the sun for a while, she chatted with the wedding party, she had something to drink—something non-alcoholic, she didn’t want to get a head start on the evening’s competition. Carson, Priscilla, and the others were perfectly nice—even though Beau was still mainly catching up on his sleep. But there were odd silences, sudden stilted moments that showed no one was really comfortable.

Then it was time to change for dinner. Sunny returned to her room to discover her travel bag still lying on the bed. She’d been so distracted, she’d forgotten to come back and hang everything up.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Everything is probably all creased now.” Would she be able to get hold of an iron?

But when she opened the bag, she not only found creases, but cat hair all over everything.

I guess keeping him out only worked so far, she thought, and this is the way Shadow punished me. That crazy cat! Now I’ve got to find one of those sticky roller gizmos before I can iron anything.

She hung up the garments, keeping them far away from her other clothes, then dressed for dinner and put on her company manners, and went to deal with the “grown-ups,” as Cale called them.

Dinner was another tedious affair. Conversation seemed to die around the Senator, except for topics like politics. Mrs. Kingsbury tried a couple of times to talk about the upcoming wedding, but even Fiona Ormond couldn’t keep the talk going. Sunny was a little surprised to learn that either Cillie’s grandmother was computer-literate or had somebody on staff who was, because she complimented Sunny on her blog post about the wedding gifts.

At last the meal ended, and people began to drift away. Sunny went back to her room to collect the beer pong rules she’d printed out earlier. When she emerged, she encountered Priscilla, her eyes sparkling and conspiratorial.

“Everybody’s looking forward to this,” she said in a hushed voice, as if her grandfather could hear her from hundreds of yards away. Downstairs, they met the Neals, who looked livelier than Sunny had seen them thus far. Tommy even said hello and chatted a bit as they walked over to the pool.

The sun was going down, and there were long shadows. But only a couple of lights were on, mainly in the area around the cabana, where Carson, Beau, and Peter were manhandling a decrepit-looking old Ping-Pong table out onto the deck surrounding the pool.

“That was down in the basement of the big house,” Cillie said. “I don’t know how Uncle Cale managed to smuggle it out here.”

Tommy joined the guys in setting up the table. “This will make the game simpler,” he said. “It’s the regulation size.”

Sunny held up the rules. “Okay, I assume you all know the basic idea of the game. Each side fills a certain number of cups one-third of the way with beer. Teams take alternate turns tossing or bouncing a Ping-Pong ball into their opponents’ cups.”

Sunny stopped. “We’ve got the table. Have we got a ball?”

Peter Van Twissel held up a crisp new package of Ping-Pong balls and a sleeve of plastic cups. “It looks as though Cale took care of everything.”

“Good.” Sunny resumed reading. “Each member of a team gets one shot. Whether a toss or a bounce, the shooter’s elbow must remain below the level of the table. If a ball lands in a team’s cup, one of the team members must drink that cup. If the ball lands in that cup again, the game is over, and the losing team must consume all of the cups remaining on the table. So, if the enemy’s ball lands in a cup, it’s a good idea to drink it right away, rather than risk a double hit. You can toss or you can bounce the ball toward your opponents’ cups. But if the ball is bounced, the opponents can try to deflect it away.”

“That’s not the way we played it at school,” Carson objected.

“It’s the way we played it,” Cillie replied.

“And this is why I was advised to download something.” Sunny waved the paper in her hand. “In case of arguments, these are the rules we’ll go by.” She went back to reading. “Twice in the course of a game, a team may rerack its cups. There’s a diagram showing how they can be arranged. If a ball circles the rim of a cup, the defending team can try to flick it away. Of course, if you spill the cup, it counts for the other side. If one team clears all the opposing team’s cups, the opposing team still has a turn. Each member of the team is allowed to keep shooting, until he or she misses. When all the team members have missed, and there are still cups on the table, they have to share the beer in those cups.”

She looked around. “So now we consider the question of teams. We’ve got an odd number of people—”

“Count me out,” Beau Bellingham said. “I’m not up for a night of drinking.”

“Well, Cillie and I will be a team,” Carson said.

“And Yardley and I will be one,” Tommy Neal announced.

Peter looked at Sunny. “I guess that leaves you and me.”

Sunny shrugged. “Next question—how many cups?”

They decided on six, which would make for a quicker game. Carson and Tommy went into the cabana, emerging with a heavy cooler. Peter had already unwrapped the package of plastic cups. The guys opened a couple bottles of beer and began pouring.

“They should be in a triangle,” Sunny called, “with the wide end flush with the end of the table.”

“So who goes first?” Cillie asked.

“One member of each team come to this end.” Sunny opened the package of Ping-Pong balls. Cillie, Tommy, and Peter joined her. She gave each of them a ball. “Now, without looking at the cups, toss your ball toward them.” Priscilla and Tommy both managed to get a ball into a cup. Peter missed altogether.

“So, Peter and I will play whoever wins this game.” Sunny said as Carson retrieved the balls. “Cillie, you and Tommy toss to see which team goes first.”

This time, Priscilla missed while Tommy hit, so the game proper began. It was a close-fought battle, but in the end, the Neals eliminated all of Carson and Cillie’s cups while two of theirs remained. The de Kruk-Kingsbury alliance drained the cups, and while the field of battle was being restored, Beau stood up. “Sorry, guys,” he said. “It’s been fun, but I think I’d rather sack out.” He gave Peter Van Twissel a tap on the arm. “Good luck, bro. You, too, Sunny.”

They didn’t have much, though. The game quickly developed into a slaughter. Sunny managed to clear three of the Neals’ cups, but Peter missed every shot. “I’ll drink the extra one,” he said, his voice gallant but a little slurred. The Belgian ale was already hitting him pretty hard.

Priscilla and Carson pulled off a victory in the next round, and proceeded to roll over Sunny and Peter in the next. This time, Peter managed to land one of his tosses not in the cup, but in the pool.

Tommy and Yardley Neal fought their way back to victory in the next go-round and made mincemeat of Sunny and Peter. This time, he attempted to block a bouncing ball and managed to spill two of their cups down the front of his pants. As he stood blinking down at the spreading stain on his khakis, Cale Kingsbury came strolling around the pool. “That doesn’t look good, Van Twissel.”

Peter jerked his eyes up to Cale’s, an ugly expression on his face. “I don’t need you to point out the obvious.”

Apparently, all that beer he’s taken on has made for a real Jekyll and Hyde transformation, Sunny thought as she took in the scene. Drunk, humiliated, angry—and now he’s found a focus.

Cale tried to smooth things over. “I just thought that maybe you’d want to take a break. I could pinch-hit—”

“Don’t talk down to me, old man!” Peter’s bony, capable hands clenched into a pair of dangerous-looking fists as he took a furious step forward. “I don’t—I don’t—” He suddenly stopped, his hands loosening to clutch at his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”

“I think what you need is a chance to lie down,” Cale said.

At least he didn’t say, “sleep it off,” Sunny thought. Otherwise, he might have set Peter off again.

“I’ll help him back.” Carson put a supporting arm around Peter, whose face had gone from brick red to off green in mere moments.

“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “I think you’d better hurry.”

Carson guided Peter in a quick, if wobbly, walk. After they were through the gate Cale glanced around the remaining members of the party.

“So what do you say?” he asked. “Should I pinch-hit for Peter?”

By now, everybody had drunk enough beer to be in an agreeable mood, although Sunny warned Cale that he was probably boarding a sinking ship. She had him read the rules, which had gotten a bit smeary thanks to spilled beer, but he was able to understand enough. He took his position beside Sunny as Tommy Neal attempted to bounce another ball at their two remaining cups. Cale’s hand darted out to flick the ball away.

Then it was their turn. Sunny and Cale both successfully landed their shots, reducing the Neals’ cups from five to three.

“That’s the closest score you’ve had in a while,” Carson said when he finally returned through the gate.

“How is Peter?” Sunny asked.

Carson shrugged. “I put him in bed with a large bucket—just in case. But he passed out before he got sick.”

“Are we playing doctor or beer pong?” Tommy demanded, turning them back to the game. He and Yardley tried to make a comeback. Tommy managed to land a toss, reducing Sunny and Cale to a single cup. Then Yardley tried to bounce the ball at the lone survivor.

“De-fense! De-fense!” Carson and Cillie chanted, and Cale came through, flicking the ball away.

Now it was Sunny and Cale’s turn. He tossed his ball unerringly into one of the Neals’ remaining cups. Course, it’s easier for him, Sunny thought. He’s sober.

She went to toss her ball, and her foot slipped on spilled beer. Her shot looped high, hit, and flipped up, catching an astonished Tommy in the forehead . . . and dropped into the cup.

“We won! We won!” Sunny jumped up and down, waving her arms in triumph.

“But we won the most games.” Yardley tried for dignity, but she was swaying a little as she spoke.

“I’m just glad we won one.” Sunny stopped jumping. She was beginning to feel the beer, too.

“I think it’s time we called it a night, before one of us falls into the pool.” Priscilla bit her lip, belatedly realizing her comment was a little too close to what happened to Eliza. Nobody else said anything, but Sunny could feel that cloud of constraint setting in again.

She looked at her watch. It was getting late. Will would be getting off soon. She should share what Beau had told her about his fight with Eliza.

They dragged the damning evidence into the cabana, cleaned up what they could, and headed down the path to the guesthouses. Cale waved a silent good-bye as he set off in the opposite direction to the mansion.

“I think I’m going to take a little walk,” Sunny said when they got to the front of the girls’ house.

Priscilla laughed as she held onto Carson’s arm. “Trying to clear your head?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” Sunny watched Cillie, her fiance, and the Neals go in, then turned to pass the roadblock. A quick turn at the first intersection, and yes, there was Will in his police cruiser. She got in on the passenger side, and he set off through the neighborhood. “You look a little wobbly tonight,” he observed. “Were you trying to dig up clues over brandies by the fireplace?”

“More like trying to get the suspects to let their hair down over beer pong,” Sunny admitted. “Not much to report there. But I got Beau Bellingham alone earlier. We talked about his relationship with Eliza and that fight they had.”

Sunny stopped, realizing that Will wasn’t listening. He’d slowed the car and was peering off into the distance. This was a quiet residential block in a part of town that didn’t run to streetlights. Whatever he was staring at stood in an even deeper patch of shadow from a huge pine tree. “That’s Nesbit’s car,” Will said.

Now Sunny looked harder, barely able to make out the fact that a car was parked in the shadows. She knew that the sheriff often drove an unmarked county car, but how would Will recognize it all the way over there?

“It’s the whip antenna,” Will explained as if he’d overheard her thought. “I just caught the silhouette, but that’s something we all keep an eye out for. It means the boss is around.”

He drove up behind the mystery car, his headlights revealing that someone was behind the driver’s wheel. The driver didn’t turn around, though.

Will stopped the car and got out. He looked in the window and recoiled, trying to stop Sunny as she got out to join him.

But he was too late. She got an eyeful of Frank Nesbit’s trademark mustache and pale face, now twisted in a rictus of pain and surprise, his glazed, staring eyes—and of the bloody wound across his throat. All the beer Sunny had drunk made a sudden attempt to leap out of her stomach, and she stumbled back, fighting for control.

Will would kill me if I threw up on his crime scene, some part of her brain commented.

Will stepped back and took out his flashlight, playing it over the interior of the car. Sunny wished he hadn’t. All it seemed to show was drying blood all over.

“I think he knew whoever did this.” Will turned to Sunny, took in her pale face, and went to her, but she waved him off.

“I’m okay.” She gulped heavily. “I think.” Then she asked, “What makes you say that?”

“He let him get close enough to slit his throat,” Will’s face was grim. “I know that Nesbit always carried a gun in a shoulder rig. He said it was one of the perks of the job. But when I looked now, his jacket was zipped closed. If he’d had any suspicions at all, he’d have wanted free access to his weapon. That jacket would have been open. Instead . . .”

Will shook his head. “It looks as though he made the mistake of bringing a gun to a knife fight.”