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.