Hal McConnell rose. “Now, Ms. McClure, you have to excuse me. I have to get back to Newport.”
I stood. “What’s the hurry? Don’t you want to stick around? Maybe talk to the local police? Aren’t you worried about Victoria Banks?”
“Of course I’m concerned,” he snapped. “That’s why I’m leaving. You said yourself that the local police aren’t taking the missing persons report all that seriously yet. That situation will change once Cambridge Upton Banks enters the picture.”
“Victoria’s father?”
“Of course. Mr. Cambridge Banks is a punctual man. He should be finishing his afternoon golf game right about now. If I hurry, I might just catch him at the country club.”
Then Hal McConnell’s eyes hardened. “I certainly wouldn’t want old man Banks to hear such disturbing news from anyone else but me. So I thank you for your concern, Ms. McClure, but I can assure you that this matter will be well taken care of and you can drop your ‘unofficial’ interest from this moment on.”
With that, Hal McConnell turned his back on me and strode to the front door. The bell tinkled as he went through it, into the sun-splashed afternoon. I hurried to the window, watched him climb into a silver BMW.
Needless to say, I was disappointed it was not the black Jaguar with the blue and white bumper sticker on the trunk that had nearly run Angel down the night before. Things might have gotten simpler.
It’s okay, kid, said Jack. You got some good info.
“I’ll say,” I whispered in reply. “Angel lied in her book. She herself was cheating on Donald Easterbrook while he was engaged to Bethany. And, according to Hal, it sure does sound like Victoria was planning to kill Angel herself—as we’ve suspected all along.
One more thing, sweetie. According to Stephanie Usher, Victoria’s parents are on the grand tour of Europe. So who was lying to you? Hal or Stephanie?
I sighed in frustration. And confusion. “This thing is getting complicated. We need some help to sort it out.”
The coppers?
“No, the Quibblers.”
Oh, my God, not that yammering band of cracker-barrel philosophers and coffee-klatsch raconteurs you call a business association?
“The very same,” I replied. “A half dozen heads—”
You mean head cases.
“—are better than one, so I’m taking this case to the Quindicott Business Owners Association.”
Doll, please. Spare me an evening with those fruitcakes.
“No.”
CHAPTER 17
Kangaroo Court
You got a tender spot in your heart for the palooka but it’s not going to do him any good.
—Frederick Nebel, “Take It and Like It,” Black Mask magazine, 1934
AFTER CLOSING THE bookstore at seven, I set up the folding chairs in the Community Events room, placed a table against the wall, and prepped the coffee urn. Then I locked up and went upstairs to the somewhat rundown yet cozy three bedroom apartment above the store to have dinner with my son. My aunt had stepped out already to have quahog cakes with Bud at the Seafood Shack. (And before you ask, quahogs—which comes from the Narragansett Indian name “poquauhock”—are usually referred to as “hard-shell clams” outside of Rhode Island.)
By nine, I was pulling the plug on Spencer’s Shield of Justice marathon, which was playing on the Intrigue Channel.
“But Mom!”
“No buts, Spencer. I agreed to let you watch TV until nine. Now it’s time for bed.”
“But I’m gonna miss the next episode. My favorite one’s the next one . . . The one where Jack Shields goes undercover at a racetrack and at the end he has to chase the bad guy down on the back of a horse!”
A soft male chuckle rolled through my head.
I silently asked Jack if that particular episode was based on his case files.
Only the racetrack part, baby. Those horseback antics are pure Hollywood.
I smiled. “You won’t miss a thing,” I promised my son. “I’ve got a tape in the machine. You can watch it in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
While I was less than thrilled that my nine-year-old was enamored of crime melodramas, I was relieved he’d taken an interest in anything after the suicide of his father. Sometimes I still worried that moving him away from the life he’d known in New York City, away from the private school and luxurious Manhattan apartment, might have been a mistake. But one look at the smiling face of my seemingly normal and healthy boy told me I did the right thing.
After tucking Spencer into his narrow bed with a recent children’s Edgar winner, one of the many young adult mystery books we carried, I was ready to implement my plan, beginning with presenting the facts in the case of Johnny Napp to the rest of the Quibblers. I headed back downstairs to turn on the lights and start the coffeemaker. But as I proceeded to the Community Events room, I was startled by a noise—something had bumped against one of the metal folding chairs in the darkened room.
For a split second I wondered if it was the ghost of Jack causing some sort of poltergeist mischief, as he had been prone to do when I first opened the new wing of the store over a year ago. I moved to snap on the lights. But before I could feel the switch in the darkness, a callused hand clapped over my mouth and a strong arm encircled my waist. A man’s voice hissed in my ear.
“Don’t scream.”
I didn’t. I stomped down with all my might on the intruder’s toe instead. He howled and released me. Stepping backward, he threw his hands up in surrender.
“Mrs. McClure! . . . It’s me . . . Johnny Napp!”
I flattened myself against the wall next to the light switch, flicked on the lights. It was Johnny all right, blinking against the sudden glare. Beneath an open grease-stained denim workshirt, he appeared to be wearing the same baggy blue jeans and black T-shirt he’d worn to Angel’s reading the night before.
“How did you get in here?” I cried, unable to suppress the hysteria in my tone.
“I jimmied the lock on the back door. I thought nobody would come back until morning.”
“Your uncle is looking for you.”
I realized Johnny was at least as rattled as I was. “My uncle Bud isn’t the only one. I tried to get home, but spotted a State Police car staked out around the corner, another in the alley behind my uncle’s hardware store. They’re out to get me again!”
“Yes, they’re looking for you. But they only want to ask you some questions—”
Johnny violently shook his head. “The last time cops ‘asked me questions,’ they grilled me all night and roughed me up in the process. They want to pin Angel Stark’s death on me, Mrs. McClure, just like they tried to frame me for Bethany’s murder!”
“You heard about Angel?”
He nodded. “On the pickup truck’s radio. They talked about Angel’s books and said her death appeared to be a homicide. When I heard the news, I turned around and came right back. I knew Uncle Bud would help me figure out what to do. But then I saw the police, and I was scared they’d grab me before I even got a chance to talk to my uncle.”