“Oh, goodness,” said Aunt Sadie, studying the pages of Angel’s tome. “He’s in this book!”
Bud Napp nodded. “Johnny was the one who the police arrested for the murder of Bethany Banks last year . . . but he was innocent. Probably set up by those rich folks to take the fall, but their plan backfired.”
Stop the presses, Jack declared.
I silently asked my personal ghost to keep his pucker buttoned while I tried to conjure the memory of the Banks murder coverage on the news, and the arrest that followed. But the only image I could recall was the figure of a young man surrounded by policemen, a jacket pulled up to hide his features.
It’s called a “perp walk,” doll, said Jack. The hammers thought they had their patsy.
“I remember the name ‘Napoli’ was in the papers and on television,” I told Bud, “but of course I never connected the name to you—or to Johnny. And I don’t think I ever saw Johnny’s picture at the time.”
“No,” said Bud, “you wouldn’t have. Johnny was still seventeen when he was arrested, and technically a juvenile, so the press never published his photo—thank God.”
“So what finally happened?” I asked as gently as possible. “You said Johnny was on parole. But wasn’t he cleared of the Banks murder?”
“Not cleared,” Bud replied. “He was released on a technicality—an illegal search and seizure of his locker and car by the local police, who also violated his Miranda rights. They kept him up all night trying to get a confession out of him. He gave them some statements that were somewhat incriminating, but he’d never been apprised of his rights and no lawyer was present, so those were thrown out, too. No other physical evidence could make their case against Johnny—because he was innocent, so that’s no surprise. But the Rhode Island State Police are livid that the local badges didn’t call them in to handle it. I know the Staties think Johnny is their killer, and that they could have convicted based on circumstantial evidence and legally extracted statements. They did go out of their way to nail him on a lesser charge of possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell—that ecstasy stuff.”
“Oh, my,” murmured Sadie.
“Johnny was convicted of that drug charge, but because he was a juvenile and it was a first offense he only got six months in jail before he was paroled for good behavior—though any violation of that parole will get Johnny sent back to jail for five years.”
“I can see why you don’t want to involve the police,” I said.
“Johnny was no saint,” Bud replied. “He’s had a lot of hard knocks and he didn’t take them all well. When his education got sidetracked, he got mixed up with a bad crowd. He got hooked on booze and drugs. But since his arrest and conviction, he’s cleaned up his act and deserves a second chance—which is why I don’t want to go to Chief Ciders. Not yet, anyway.”
It’s an old story, baby. The well-heeled set have the local cops in their pocket. With an obvious suspect like Johnny right in front of them, it’s no surprise they’d pushed so hard for a confession.
“Do you need me to explain Miranda rights to you, Jack? They were before your time.”
Don’t sweat it, honey. I’ve picked it up from some of those TV cop shows me and your boy like to watch. Seems to me even the screwed-up handling of Johnny’s rights serves the locals well—it keeps the victim’s family believing Johnny did the deed and got off on a legal technicality. Which means the local badges don’t have to risk angering a community of wealthy families by digging into and exposing their kids’ peccadillos to find the real killer.
Though I dreaded this moment, I knew it was time to tell Bud what really happened to Johnny last night—that he’d hooked up with Angel Stark, and may have left with her after the author appearance and the ugly scene on the street.
“Damn!” Bud yelled when I delivered the bad news. “Johnny should have been smart enough to stay away!”
Just then there came a persistent knocking at the front door. My aunt hurried to answer it, leaving me with the task of calming Bud.
“How could you invite that woman to your store? How could you set up Johnny like that?”
“Bud,” I said evenly. “I didn’t know—you and Johnny were hiding the truth. There’s no way I could have known.”
Bud slumped down in his chair, the wind out of him, his demeanor sunken with defeat. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t really blame you, Pen. It’s just that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. But it sounds to me like Johnny skipped his parole and ran off with the Stark girl.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me, then sobs. I whirled around to see Mina in tears. Obviously she’d heard Bud’s last statement, which did nothing to improve the poor girl’s day.
CHAPTER 9
And Then There Were Three
The revelation that life simply isn’t easy . . . is one of the most distressing aspects of the quarterlife crisis.
—Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties
AFTER MORE TEARS and my aunt’s comforting attentions, Mina wiped her face, brushed her hair, and declared herself fit to face the workday. Bud Napp departed soon after that, already late in opening his hardware store.
“We’ll talk again tonight, at the meeting,” Bud told me at the front door. He was referring to the monthly meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association, scheduled to assemble in our store’s Community Events space tonight, right after closing.
“We might actually be laughing about this situation by then,” I said hopefully. “When you find Johnny at the store selling pipe stems, and Angel turns up sipping coffee at the Cooper Family Bakery.”
Bud smiled weakly, but I could see he didn’t share my optimism. With a final wave, he hurried into the bright, blue summer morning. My son soon followed as his ride to day camp pulled up. With a kiss, he was out the door, trilling how he was all ready for his next swimming lesson.
Despite the fact that it was a Saturday and the weather outside was lovely, warm and sunny, yet comfortably breezy—the reason the moneyed classes of New York and Philadelphia have made New England summers by the sea a tradition for over a century—Sadie, Mina, and I were already emotionally drained by the time we opened Buy the Book, which meant we were totally unprepared to greet the public. Fortunately, there wasn’t much of a public to greet, just two women in their twenties looking for beach reading.
After selling them Janet Evanovich’s entire Stephanie Plum backlist, I sought forgetfulness in other work. I booted up the computer to check the inventory, answer some e-mail queries, review publishers’ catalogs, and made a note to order more James Patterson and Dan Brown books, dusted the counter, and assembled the display for the new Dennis Lehane hardcover—and after all of it, I still felt restless. Or perhaps helpless is a better word.
Doll, one thing you’re not is helpless.
“Easy for you to say,” I silently told my ghost. “What would you do if you were me?”
When waiting for the next shoe to drop, take a closer look at the shoe you’ve got . . . aw, hell . . . did I just make a rhyme? I hate rhymes more than nickel cigar smoke . . .