The Ghost and the Dead Deb

CHAPTER 22

Casing the Joint

My head was still booming away and I tried to fix it up with a hot shower. That helped, but a mess of bacon and eggs helped even more.

—Detective Mike Hammer in The Big Kill by Mickey Spillane, 1951

I SAT BLEARY-EYED in church that morning—so tired I hardly noticed my son’s impatient restlessness, so tired my aunt had to poke me now and again to keep me awake during the pastor’s seemingly interminable sermon.

The nightmare discovery in the woods, followed by a night of Jack’s dreams, had me crawling out of bed that morning with a feeling of impending doom. After the service I said good-bye to Sadie, reminding her to pass Johnny’s letter to Mina when the girl arrived for work.

Stuffed with hot homemade doughnuts and strong coffee—and milk for Spencer—we left Cooper’s Bakery and climbed into our mud-spattered, weed-encrusted blue Saturn for the trip to Newport. The food helped immensely, and I felt the fortifying sugar rush as I got behind the wheel.

It was a radiant morning, a cloudless azure sky, fresh cool breezes off the ocean, sunlight gold and dazzling. I snatched my seldom-worn sunglasses from the underside of the driver’s-side visor to shield my bloodshot eyes from the glare.

“You wore those last year, too,” my son remarked, tapping the dash in time to one of those boy band groups on Radio Disney.

“Wore what?”

“Your Hollywood sunglasses.”

I smiled. “Maybe I was wearing my contact lenses last year, too.”

“Maybe you just want to look like all the other mommies there. They all act like movie stars.”

Out of the mouths of babes. “Maybe that, too.”

Besides the shades, I was also wearing new clothes specifically purchased for this annual event—white capri pants, a pastel sweater set, and Italian sandals with a matching bag. All were expensive designer quality, which would help me blend into the McClure ranks, but bought at outlet prices, which is all I could now afford. And, frankly, I was grateful to have the long sleeves of the summer-weight sweater. It was warm, but I had some pretty nasty scratches on my arms from running topless through the woods.

Traffic was light and we were making good time as we neared the ramp to the highway. But as we came around a bend, Spencer cried out. “Look, Mom! Cops. Lots of them.”

I braked, rolling up behind several other vehicles. Squad cars were parked along both shoulders of the road, bubble lights flashing. Several belonged to the Quindicott police force but the majority were sleek silver Ford Crown Victorias with Rhode Island State Police markings.

For a moment, traffic remained at a dead stop. Several drivers were rubbernecking at the state police in their gray uniforms and “Smoky the Bear” hats swarming through the wooded area behind the Comfy-Time Motel.

“Move along, move along,” called Officer Franzetti as he waved his arms at the traffic jam. The gawkers stepped on the gas and sped away. With no cars behind my own, I stopped next to Eddie and rolled down the window. I tried to offer the handsome police officer my most clueless smile. “What’s up, Eddie?”

He motioned my car to an empty spot along the shoulder of the road.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” asked Spencer beside me.

“I just want to ask Eddie for some directions, that’s all,” I lied. From my son’s expression, I could tell even he didn’t buy that, but I told him I’d be right back. Then I climbed out of the car and approached Eddie.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“The State Police got an anonymous tip last night. A woman caller, alerting them to the fact that a corpse was in the woods behind the Comfy-Time Motel.”

Eddie watched my reaction closely. I automatically grasped the buffalo nickel in my pocket for reassurance—the coin that apparently allowed me to bring part of Jack with me beyond the store.

Play it coy, kid, Jack whispered. Gracie Allen time.

“Who?”

Play dumb.

I blinked at Eddie in mock surprise, cocked my head. “Really? Was it that girl you told me about yesterday?”

Eddie nodded. “Victoria Banks, age nineteen. She’s dead—probably murdered right after she disappeared.”

“Murdered?”

“Strangled. And beaten, too. Maybe pistol-whipped.”

I shuddered, recalling the horrific wounds I had seen the night before.

“Probably she was killed within an hour of leaving her motel room, but . . .” Eddie’s voice faltered. A shadow crossed his handsome face as he stared at the woods. “I was the one Chief Ciders sent up here to talk to her friends. I told the Chief I thought something bad had happened to the girl, but the Chief . . . well, he couldn’t issue an Amber Alert because the girl was over eighteen. And he insisted on waiting twenty-four hours before forwarding a missing persons report to the state police. We couldn’t even find her parents. The Newport and Manhattan addresses just had answering machines saying they were touring Europe for the summer.”

You get that? asked Jack.

“Sure did,” I told him. “Hal lied.”

He led you to believe you should simply drop your interest in Victoria’s disappearance. Which tells you what?

“Hal McConnell has something to hide.”

I could see the torment on Eddie’s face. He was blaming himself. I reached out, put my hand on his shoulder. “Look, Eddie. You said yourself that she was probably dead before her friends even reported her missing. You did what you could.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But if I’d gone into the woods for a look-see, she might not have been lying there all night.”

I closed my eyes a moment. I felt bad about it, too. “Oh, Jack,” I silently whispered. “I wish I could tell him about snagging Vicky’s cell phone, just to ease his mind.”

Are you nuts? Keep your lips zipped, sister. I mean it.

Just then, a Quindicott Volunteer Fire Department ambulance emerged from the edge of the woods. The red vehicle bumped along the service road at a funereal pace, swaying in the deep wheel ruts I’d followed less than ten hours before. I could tell by the expressions on the State Troopers’ faces that the vehicle bore the corpse of Victoria Banks, heiress, and now officially murder victim. Eddie Franzetti went pale as a—well, a ghost.

My heart went out to him.

Jack’s didn’t.

He’s choking on misery. Pump him for information while he’s off-kilter.

“But—”

Do it, Penelope. Now!

“Are there . . . are there any suspects, Eddie?”

His big brown eyes blinked, then his face grew more grim. “I shouldn’t say anything . . . I mean, it isn’t public knowledge. Besides—”

“What, Eddie?”

“I know you’re close to Bud Napp.”

“We’re all close to Bud. He’s our neighbor. Bud’s been part of the community since forever.”

“Just between you and me,” Eddie whispered. “Bud’s truck is parked back there, too—less than a hundred yards from the corpse. State Troopers have impounded the vehicle and are searching it now for the blunt instrument used on the victim. They found a bullet from a .38 in the cab, which is why they’re speculating the girl might have been pistol-whipped. No gun, though.”

“So they still think Johnny Napp is guilty?”

“The Staties are looking hard at Johnny’s story. Detective-Lieutenant Marsh is in charge of the investigation. He says the facts don’t add up and neither does Johnny’s alibi.”

I recalled my only meeting with Detective Marsh, and it was not a pleasant memory. An imposing giant with square chin, blond stubble, icy-gray eyes, Roger Marsh of the Crime Investigation Unit had also probed the murder of Timothy Brennan at my store last year. Detective Marsh pretty much ran roughshod over me, Aunt Sadie, and my staff. I suddenly felt sorry for poor Johnny. I would hate to be interrogated by Marsh again—especially if I were in custody. Though I was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, Marsh intimidated me so much I was ready to confess to just about anything!

“I heard Marsh tell Ciders that he was thinking of contacting the FBI’s Behavioral Psychology Unit—”

“What?!”

Officer Franzetti waved an oncoming car down the road, gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah. They’re talking like Johnny’s a real, live, serial killer . . .”

IN LESS THAN an hour, we arrived in Newport and were cruising down Bellevue Avenue, past American castles built at the turn of the last century by the Vanderbilts, Astors, and other merchant prince types. Most of those great Gilded Age elephants were museums now, open to paying tourists and available for private party bookings—such as the magnificent beaux arts mansion that had hosted the New Year’s Eve ball where Bethany Banks had been murdered.

Not all of these grand houses, however, were open to the public. Throughout the town, even along the famous ocean-side Cliff Walk, some historic homes had been set up as bed and breakfasts while others, including Windswept, the McClure family manse, had been maintained or rebuilt as primary or secondary residences for both the old- and new-money families who owned them.

Windswept stood on a promontory overlooking the rocky shores of the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by acres of rolling grass and manicured trees. A grim gray edifice of weathered granite and dark wood, the mansion had been built by the McClure family patriarch well over a century ago, and she wore her age well.

As I rolled up to the gate, a uniformed security guard collected my invitation, then checked off my name on a clipboard. The ten-foot-tall iron bars of the crested gate swung open electronically. We drove for a moment and I soon spied heavy stone turrets and slate-shingled spires looming above tall oaks. A long red banner flapped in the wind from the tallest flagpole. Suddenly Jack whistled in my head.

Wow, babe. You never told me you used to live like the Queen of England.

“Impressed, Jack?” I asked silently. “Don’t be. I never lived here.”

Well, you married royalty by the looks of these digs.

“I always thought of Windswept as a modest dwelling. After all, it’s smaller than San Simeon and has fewer rooms than the Taj Mahal.”

Cute, doll, but bitter doesn’t play right when it comes out of you. Leave the world-weary cynicism to mugs like me.

The surroundings grew more festive as we approached the main building. Laughter and music floated on the fresh ocean breeze along with the smoky scent of mesquite barbecue. On the great lawn, tents were scattered about. Swarms of children ran and played, chaperoned by an army of party planners dressed as clowns, cowboys, and cowgirls.

A man with orange hair, a red nose, and a polkadot jumpsuit waved me into a parking area that was already crowded. He looked a bit surprised to see a battered Saturn with weeds stuck in the fenders rolling into an area crowded with mirror-shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, and Rolls-Royces, but I noticed he did offer me an extra-big smile.

On the seat next to me, Spencer plastered his face to the window.

Hmm, lots of fun—for the curls, bows, and knickers set. Where do the grown-ups romp and play?

“See that big yellow tent down by the tennis courts? That’s the bar—though I think my sister-in-law Ashley prefers to call it a ‘salon.’ ”

Yeah, I’ve noticed rich gin-suckers employ euphemisms.

“I will be avoiding that place like the proverbial plague. But speaking of employment, Ashley must have hired an army for this event. As usual, she’s outdone herself in the excess department.”

Can’t wait to meet this dame.

“With luck you won’t have to.”

I pulled into a nice shady spot in the shadow of two Cadillac SUVs nearly the size of Buy the Book’s floorspace. I grabbed my Italian leather bag (bought at outlet prices) and slung it over my shoulder. Spencer burst through the door and raced toward the great lawn.

“Whoa, hold it, mister. Let’s stick together.”

“Aw, Mom.”

“Come on, what do you want to do first?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Paintball.”

I frowned. “I’m still not sure you should be participating in that sort of thing. You’re too young, and it sounds dangerous.”

“Come on, Mom!”

Yeah, come on, Mom. Let the kid play cops and robbers. And for heaven’s sake, don’t coddle him like a China doll or he’ll turn into another overly sensitive, depressive snob, just like your ex.

Jack’s observation stalled me, and I realized that if my late father and brother Pete had been here with me, they probably would have said the exact same thing. “You know . . . you could be right.”

“What did you say, Mom?”

“I said you’re right, Spencer. Let’s go find that paintball stand and sign you up right now.”

Spencer’s smile would melt the ice caps. “It’s this way, Mom. I saw the tent as we were driving up.”

My son led me to a large khaki-colored tent crowded with kids. Inside, I approached a tall man in camouflage fatigues and black boots with a nametag on his combat suit that read Captain Bob. He offered me a polite grin, then addressed Spencer.

“Are you here for the junior competition, recruit?”

“Yes, sir!” Spencer barked, perfectly in character.

“And what’s your name, soldier?”

“Spencer, sir.”

“We’d better hurry, the junior event starts in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get Lieutenant Spencer here suited up.”

Ten minutes later, Spencer stood proudly before me. Paint gun in hand, he wore a clear face mask, coveralls, rubber galoshes, knee guards, and a helmet. My little trooper.

Captain Bob could see the look of trepidation on my face. “Don’t worry. These kids are firing the equivalent of water balloons filled with paint from a distance of fifty yards—the trees and grass are going to take the most punishment.”

“Can I watch?”

Spencer was horrified. “Mom!”

“Afraid not, Mrs. McClure. No one goes into those woods without protective gear. Anyway, there are more chaperones than soldiers out there. The officer here will be just fine.”

“What next?”

“Well, the lieutenant here joins the rest of the squad in the woods. You head back to the party. Meet your friends, have a drink, and get something to eat.” Captain Bob glanced at his watch. “We’ll be back to this tent in about two hours.”

I gave my son a final hug and a kiss before I sent him off to paint war. Then I left the tent and emerged in the brilliant sunshine, fumbling in my bag for my “Hollywood” sunglasses. I turned away from the glare to face the mansion—or rather, a small area beside it, which was the family’s private parking area. I recognized the McClure family’s Mercedes, and my sister-in-law’s white BMW. The car parked next to them was also familiar—a sleek black Jaguar with a white and blue decal on the trunk.

My heart stopped. “Jack, that’s the car! I’m sure of it. The car that almost ran over Angel Stark.”

Careful, doll. I know what you’re thinking.

“But Jack, shouldn’t I check it out?”

Sure. I just want you to be careful.

I looked around. There were plenty of people nearby, but everyone seemed to be going about their own business.

Just waltz over to the car, Jack said. Walk like you own the place and nobody will look twice. Trust me.

I got all the way to Ashley’s BMW without anyone noticing, walked right past it to the black Jag. Up close, I realized the odd decal was a parking tag for a Newport country club, the splash of blue a leaping marlin.

I peered through the windshield—hopefully without appearing to do just that. Leather seats, sporty, wood-grained interior, stick shift, GPS, combination radio and CD player, cell phone in the dashboard, all the bells and whistles. No guns, bludgeons, whips, or chains in sight.

Luckily, the door was unlocked.

I reached out and grabbed the handle on the passenger side. I closed my eyes and lifted the latch, waiting for a car alarm to blare, for everyone to look in my direction, for a security team to surround me and escort me off the premises where the Newport Police would take me into custody.

Miracle of miracles, the door opened soundlessly. I climbed inside, sank deep into the leather bucket seat.

“What now, Jack?”

Case it good. Toss the glove compartment, check under the seat, behind the cushions—

“Will do.”

I found nothing on the dash or under the seats. Inside the glove compartment, however, I discovered a leather case containing the Jag’s registration and insurance information, and a batch of business cards. All bore the same name. I fingered one of the cream-white linen paper, gilt scripted cards that read Mr. Donald Morgan Easterbrook, Jr.

I pocketed one card, stuffed the rest back into their pouch, then shoved the case into the glove compartment. I was about to peer under the dashboard when a silhouette abruptly blotted out the bright sun.

“Breaking and entering and grand theft auto. Have you fallen on hard times, Penelope?”

I looked up. Kiki McClure-Langdon stood beside the car. Behind her stood the owner of the Jaguar, her fiancé Donald Easterbrook, Jr. His photograph in Angel’s book didn’t do him justice. From the top of his perfectly coifed head to the broad span of his muscular shoulders, the prince of the Newport jet set was more than just John Kennedy, Jr. handsome, there was a sizzle of hot Latino blood, courtesy of Easterbrook’s wealthy Brazilian mother, that rendered him breathtaking.

I turned away, flushed red with embarrassment. Just as I was certain the situation could not possibly get worse, it did. Coming toward us was La Princessa herself: my sister-in-law, Ashley McClure-Sutherland.