The shorthand is that this Johnny was obviously framed for the Bethany Banks murder. Legal technicalities can throw out confessions and incriminating statements, but if he’d really done the deed, there would have been enough physical evidence on the body for the DA to put him on trial. What seems more likely here is the frame didn’t stick—the locals didn’t have the stomach to look hard at the sons and daughters of any powerful, well-heeled families and the deb’s real killer got off. Except now your authoress was trying to keep the case alive in the public eye—so she gets bumped and once more Johnny gets blamed.
“You’re saying the person who killed Angel also killed Bethany?”
That’s the bet, honey. Not a sure thing, but if it were a horse, I’d give it pretty decent odds.
“Who then?” I asked.
Who were the people around Angel last night, who were also around Bethany the night she was murdered? Besides the old man’s nephew, of course.
“Kiki . . . she was at the reading. And she was staying at Fiona’s inn last night, too, which is where Angel was staying.”
Who else?
“Let’s see . . .” I grabbed a box cutter from the desk near the door and slit open a carton of All My Pretty Friends. I piled five books on the handcart and flipped through the sixth until I got to the color photo insert.
“Angel claims there were plenty of people at the party but only a small circle who had strong motives to kill Bethany. Bethany’s fiancé, Donald Easterbrook, was one . . .”
I studied the photo, which looked like the typical candid shot found in any photo album of a young man hanging out on an athletic field. Sporting jeans, a rugby shirt, and effortless posture, Easterbrook was tall and muscular with short, dark hair, blue eyes, a strong, square jaw, and a broad, easy-going smile. According to the caption, Easterbrook was the offspring of an aristocratic, polo-playing father and a wealthy Brazilian mother. The combination had produced a strikingly handsome young man.
“He’s described in the caption as a ‘young prince of Newport,’ ” I murmured. “Hmm . . . very JFK, Jr.”
Who?
“John Kennedy, Jr.?” I replied impatiently.
Baby, I need more.
I winced, realizing to whom I was talking. “Sorry, Jack—before your time. JFK, Jr. was the famously good-looking son of a famously charismatic president who was assassinated in 1963, an event that gave their family legendary status in America ever since. The son died in a tragic small-plane accident—”
Collision?
“No, he wasn’t instrument rated, but he tried to fly through overcast skies at night anyway. Refused to change plans even though he got a late start and the weather warned of visibility problems. Apparently, he lost his bearings and flew right into the ocean.”
Got it. He’s what we’d call a victim of the carefree, careless class. They like to roll the dice, take their risks, for an entirely different reason than the street punk, but fate often gives them the same outcome.
I sighed. “Well it was a national tragedy, I can tell you. JFK, Jr. was a charismatic young man, and the country loved him almost as much as his father . . . It looks to me like Easterbrook has the same features as the late president’s late son, who was very popular with the ladies, too, by the way. Easterbrook’s also engaged to Kiki now,” I noted. “And Kiki is apparently also my cousin, through marriage, but let’s not go there—”
You may not want to go there, doll, because it’s another motive for Kiki to have killed Bethany—if she was in love with this super stud Easterbrook and wanted him for herself. Did you see Easterbrook at the reading?
“No. But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been around Quindicott.” I flipped another page. “Another of the circle Angel mentions is a young woman, Georgette LaPomeret, but she committed suicide after this book was published.”
Next.
“There’s a young man named Hal McConnell.” The photo of Hal depicted a typically preppie young man in a polo shirt and khakis. Brown hair brushed neatly back, good-looking face with regular features, and hazel-green eyes. He was shown laughing with Bethany on the deck of a yacht, an almost tender expression of affection on his face. “I didn’t see him around either.”
What’s his motive?
“I do believe he was in love with Bethany. Unrequited.” I looked down at the book again to find I’d reached the end of the photo section. “That’s it.”
What about the little girl who blew a gasket at the big show?
“You mean Victoria Banks? Bethany’s little sister.”
Hold the phone. That little girl was Bethany’s little sister?
“Yes . . . Oh! And I forgot to tell you, I learned from Officer Eddie Franzetti, on the way to Fiona’s, that Victoria Banks’s friends reported her missing around midnight. She’d left their motel room for a soda and never came back.”
Is Banks, the younger, in that book?
I flipped through the book some more, went to the index. “No. Nothing on Victoria Banks. What makes you think she might have killed Angel?”
You’re kidding, right? Angel smeared her late sister’s name in that book you’re holding, revealed all kinds of trash. And Victoria threatened Angel in public. You heard her yourself, sweetcheeks.
“Don’t call me that.”
Why not? You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, baby—they’re a luscious pair. Aces.
Despite my having been exposed to Jack for some time, my face flamed. “Stop it, Jack.”
Male laughter filled my head and I felt the room’s cool air grow icy for a moment, enough to raise goosebumps. The ghost was playing with me again. “Jack. Stop it.”
He laughed once more, but the chill receded.
Okay, Miss Priss, he finally said. Set me straight, then. What’s your big theory on the Banks girl?
“Just that Victoria’s public threat is exactly why I wouldn’t put her at the top of the suspect list. Too many witnesses to her threats. How stupid would she have to be to carry out a murder right on the heels of it?”
Maybe she didn’t care. You’re forgetting about someone trying to run Angel down right on the street out front. It could have been Victoria and her friends. Don’t you see? She could have killed Angel and fled. That’s why she’s missing.
“But you said that the person who killed Angel also killed Bethany, and Victoria didn’t kill her own sister.”
First of all, you don’t know Victoria Banks well enough to say that. Second of all, Victoria’s murder of Angel also set up Johnny as the fall guy. If Johnny did kill Bethany, then wouldn’t that be the perfect revenge—to set him up with a second chance to be convicted of a second murder while getting rid of the dame that’s dragging your late sister’s rep through the mud?
“I’ll grant you that the theory holds water . . . but Victoria looked too small and frail to have strangled Angel by herself.”
Listen and learn, doll. One thing this business teaches you is, don’t rule out anyone based on size or appearance or the perception that they’re ever too smart or too dumb to inflict the big chill. Everybody who’s sucked in a breath and let it out again is capable of murder, given the right set of circumstances, and rage has been known to send every rational thought out of people’s heads—that’s what a crime of passion is. Victoria Banks might be young and delicate looking, but there wasn’t much to Angel, either. Little Vicky may have had her friends help her, too. On the other hand, she may have done the deed alone. She had a loud mouth and a hot temper last night. And, in my experience, mousy exteriors can hide a lot of rat.
For some reason, I thought of Mina, but I didn’t like the thought—
Of course you don’t. She’s been a good employee and never gave you a second to doubt her . . . but you wouldn’t be a decent dick if you didn’t consider she had a motive.
I sighed, remembering the look of hurt and anger on her face the night before when Angel had thrown herself at Johnny, the way she’d violently tossed around those even
t room chairs after they’d gone off together. Could she have confronted Angel after Johnny had stood her up?
Her roommate picked her up, Jack pointed out. So if she confronted Angel, then her roomie probably drove her to the scene to do it. Easy enough to check out. Unless roomie is sworn to secrecy.
“Speaking of secrets,” I said, continuing to fill the handcart with books. “I wish I knew what Bud and Sadie were talking about. They’ve been at it since we got back.”
I got an earful, baby. It’s personal stuff. The old man’s telling your auntie about his wife’s death from cancer a couple of years back, and how he was glad to help out Johnny. He was telling how much he liked the kid and how he can’t believe Johnny’s guilty. Mostly, I think the old guy is feeling lost and betrayed and alone. Little Sadie’s helping him through it just fine . . . I suspect the old girl’s got the eye for Bud, by the way.
“Bud’s a good man . . . but I think you’re mistaken. They’re just friends. So what’s my next move?”
That’s easy. Let the cops handle it.
“I can’t do that, Jack. I’m worried about too many people here. If Johnny’s guilty, I want to know it—as much for Mina’s safety as every other young woman in this town. And if he’s not guilty then I want to help the kid—for Bud’s sake.”
Baby, listen to me. You want to fit yourself with my fedora, but you haven’t learned the angles, not by a long shot.
“Okay, fine. I haven’t learned the angles. So you can teach me along the way. You can help me prove Johnny did it—or find the real killer.”
There was a long silence. The room, which had been comfortably cool, was slowly becoming warm and stuffy again. I felt Jack’s presence receding.
“Jack? Don’t leave me. Come on! You can consider it a pastime. Helping me solve another murder has got to be more interesting than watching a sluggish parade of overheated customers make their beach reading selections.”
The silence was interminable.
“Jack? Listen. I’m going to do it anyway—with or without you.”
Finally, the room cooled again. I felt a whisper of a breeze against my cheek.
One condition, he growled in my head.
“Name it.”
Read my files. Starting with the one marked “Stendall.”
“Fine. Okay, after I . . .”
NOW.
I jumped. “Okay, okay, calm down . . .” I swallowed nervously, hating that Jack’s haunting temper could still rattle me and walked over to the files—eight boxes of them. I lifted the top off the first, hoping to find some part of the alphabet, the M’s through the O’s or the T’s through the W’s. But the files weren’t alphabetical.
“Talbot, Lionetti, Hague, Zika, Walters, Karpinsky,” I recited, reading the typewritten labels on the dusty beige folders. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Jack, what was your filing system?”
Alphabetical, sweetheart. Two things I prided myself on when I was alive—an organized mind and an organized office.
“But these aren’t alphabetical. They’re a big mess is what they are.”
And they’re not the way I left them. What did you expect after fifty years of the biggest a-hole in the world pawing through them, stealing my life to create his best-sellers. And from what I remember about the louse, Timothy Brennan was cheap as a dime store kazoo and orderly as a typhoon. This proves the latter.
With a sigh, I pawed through the first box, then placed the lid back on it and went to the second. I finally found it in the fourth box I opened.
“Stendall! Found it!”
Bravo, baby.
As I pulled the folder free of its dusty confines, a tremendous sneeze shook me, and I nearly dropped the file. In the process, I felt something slip out and fall to the floor with a ding.
“What fell?” I muttered, looking around my feet. The wink of silver caught my eye and I bent down to pick up the coin. “It’s a nickel . . .”
A buffalo nickel, to be precise—a coin minted only from 1913 to 1938, after which it was replaced with the Jefferson nickel. Seymour Tarnish had excitedly brought one in a few months back after one of his ice cream truck customers had passed it to him without noticing.
The profile of a rugged, dignified American Indian’s head was engraved on one side with the word Liberty and the year 1937. I remembered Seymour saying that the artist based his image on a composite of three models: Iron Tail, Two Moons, and Chief John Big Tree. The reverse side displayed an American bison in the center of the coin, United States of America arced over the bison’s head, and Five Cents stretched beneath its hooves.
“Jack?” I whispered, running my fingers over the old coin. “Was this yours?”
“Yeah, baby.”
With my eyes still fixed on the engraved buffalo, I slowly realized that Jack’s answer hadn’t been in my head. The ghost’s voice, for the first time since I’d initially heard it almost a year ago, sounded as if it had been projected from two feet in front of me. Perplexed, I lifted my eyes—and gasped.
“Jack . . . ,” I rasped, “I can . . . see you . . .”
“You’ve seen me before,” he pointed out.
“But not . . . like this . . .”
Over the past year, I’d seen Jack Shepard in my dreams mostly, or in the black-and-white photo on the flap of Timothy Brennan’s Jack Shield books. On very rare occasions, I thought I’d glimpsed him in other ways—as a silhouette or shadow, but nothing more than a flickering blink. This time, Jack appeared before me as real and solid as the stacked brown boxes around me in this storage room.
He was tall, over six feet, and his powerful form was draped in a gunmetal-gray double-breasted suit that rose in a V from his narrow waist to his acre of shoulders. Beneath his fedora, his forehead was broad with brows the color of wet sand; his nose like a boxer’s—slightly crooked with a broken-a-few-times bump. His jaw was iron, his chin flat and square—with a one-inch scar in the shape of a dagger slashing across it. And his eyes were the most intensely piercing gray I’d ever seen.
He blinked at me, then pushed up the brim of his hat with one finger. A tiny smile touched his lips. “Take it easy, baby. You look like you’re ready to kiss concrete.”
I swallowed. My mouth was suddenly filled with cotton balls. “Yes . . . I do feel a bit . . . shaky . . .” I turned away, went to the old wooden desk, and sat down, placing the nickel carefully on the desktop to wipe off my suddenly sweaty palms. I spun the chair to face Jack again—but he was gone.
“Jack?”
“Pen! . . . Penelope?”
The voice was male, but it wasn’t Jack’s. And it was coming from down the hall.
“Bud?” I croaked, seeing Bud Napp pop his head into the storage room. The space had become warm and stuffy again. My throat was still dry, my heart still pounding like a carpenter working overtime.
“I’m about to head out, but Chief Ciders is pulling up. Sadie wanted me to let you know. He’s probably here for Mina’s statement.”
I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right there.”
Bud left, and I rose on unsteady legs. I crossed the room to pick up the Stendall file, placed it on the handcart, and rolled it into the hallway. Before I snapped off the light, I remembered the buffalo nickel. I went to the desk, picked it up, and shoved it into the front pocket of my khaki pants.
“Jack?” I called again. But he was gone.
CHAPTER 14
The Little Sister
“Mind your own business about my sister Leila,” she spit at me. “You leave my sister Leila out of your dirty remarks.”
“Which dirty remarks?” I asked. “Or should I try to guess?”
—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, 1949
WHEN I ARRIVED on the selling floor, I saw Sadie had taken over the register. Mina stood by the new-release table, wringing her hands as she peered at Chief Ciders speaking to Bud on the sidewalk.
I rolled the handcart up to Mina and asked her to help me arrange the titles—
a task I’d hoped would get her mind off what was to come. Within five minutes, however, the bell over the front door tinkled and Chief Ciders came swaggering in.
“Mina Griffiths,” he called.
The pale, freckle-faced girl seemed to go even paler.
“Take it easy, Mina,” I said softly. “He’s just going to ask you a few questions.”
“You know why I’m here?” asked Ciders, striding up to her.
“Yes,” said Mina.
“You want to come to the station to talk to me about Johnny or answer my questions here?” asked Ciders.
“There’s no need for Mina to have to go to the station, Chief,” I interjected.
“That’s right,” agreed Sadie, rushing up like a mother hen. “There’s plenty of privacy in the Community Events room. You can talk to Mina in there.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I told Sadie. “You cover the register.” Sadie nodded and I led the way into the adjoining room, set up two folding chairs, and gestured for Mina and the Chief to sit down.
I took my place, standing behind Mina, and the Chief looked at me the same way he had back at the Finch Inn—like a wad of chewing tobacco had just gotten stuck in his esophagus.
“You can go now, Mrs. McClure.”
“Oh . . . um . . . but couldn’t I stick around?” I threw a worried glance at Mina.
“No,” barked Ciders. “Please give us some privacy.”
“Oh, okay . . .” I sighed. At least he’d said please, I thought, feeling my spine stiffen. I spun on my heel, but then slowed my movements and drifted ever so languidly toward the archway that led to the main store. I lingered there, trying to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, there was nothing to hear. When I turned around again, I found the Chief squinting at me with open hostility.
“Mrs. McClure, you’ve already given me your statement. If you don’t leave the premises, I will have to take Mina to the station—”
“No, don’t do that,” I said. “I’ll go. I just have to get my purse and car keys upstairs, okay? It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Fine, you do that.”
The Ghost and the Dead Deb Page 12
