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 event room chairs after they’d gone off together. Could she have confronted Angel after Johnny had stood her up?