“I always thought of Windswept as a modest dwelling. After all, it’s smaller than San Simeon and has fewer rooms than the Taj Mahal.”
Cute, doll, but bitter doesn’t play right when it comes out of you. Leave the world-weary cynicism to mugs like me.
The surroundings grew more festive as we approached the main building. Laughter and music floated on the fresh ocean breeze along with the smoky scent of mesquite barbecue. On the great lawn, tents were scattered about. Swarms of children ran and played, chaperoned by an army of party planners dressed as clowns, cowboys, and cowgirls.
A man with orange hair, a red nose, and a polkadot jumpsuit waved me into a parking area that was already crowded. He looked a bit surprised to see a battered Saturn with weeds stuck in the fenders rolling into an area crowded with mirror-shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, and Rolls-Royces, but I noticed he did offer me an extra-big smile.
On the seat next to me, Spencer plastered his face to the window.
Hmm, lots of fun—for the curls, bows, and knickers set. Where do the grown-ups romp and play?
“See that big yellow tent down by the tennis courts? That’s the bar—though I think my sister-in-law Ashley prefers to call it a ‘salon.’ ”
Yeah, I’ve noticed rich gin-suckers employ euphemisms.
“I will be avoiding that place like the proverbial plague. But speaking of employment, Ashley must have hired an army for this event. As usual, she’s outdone herself in the excess department.”
Can’t wait to meet this dame.
“With luck you won’t have to.”
I pulled into a nice shady spot in the shadow of two Cadillac SUVs nearly the size of Buy the Book’s floorspace. I grabbed my Italian leather bag (bought at outlet prices) and slung it over my shoulder. Spencer burst through the door and raced toward the great lawn.
“Whoa, hold it, mister. Let’s stick together.”
“Aw, Mom.”
“Come on, what do you want to do first?”
Spencer didn’t hesitate. “Paintball.”
I frowned. “I’m still not sure you should be participating in that sort of thing. You’re too young, and it sounds dangerous.”
“Come on, Mom!”
Yeah, come on, Mom. Let the kid play cops and robbers. And for heaven’s sake, don’t coddle him like a China doll or he’ll turn into another overly sensitive, depressive snob, just like your ex.
Jack’s observation stalled me, and I realized that if my late father and brother Pete had been here with me, they probably would have said the exact same thing. “You know . . . you could be right.”
“What did you say, Mom?”
“I said you’re right, Spencer. Let’s go find that paintball stand and sign you up right now.”
Spencer’s smile would melt the ice caps. “It’s this way, Mom. I saw the tent as we were driving up.”
My son led me to a large khaki-colored tent crowded with kids. Inside, I approached a tall man in camouflage fatigues and black boots with a nametag on his combat suit that read Captain Bob. He offered me a polite grin, then addressed Spencer.
“Are you here for the junior competition, recruit?”
“Yes, sir!” Spencer barked, perfectly in character.
“And what’s your name, soldier?”
“Spencer, sir.”
“We’d better hurry, the junior event starts in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get Lieutenant Spencer here suited up.”
Ten minutes later, Spencer stood proudly before me. Paint gun in hand, he wore a clear face mask, coveralls, rubber galoshes, knee guards, and a helmet. My little trooper.
Captain Bob could see the look of trepidation on my face. “Don’t worry. These kids are firing the equivalent of water balloons filled with paint from a distance of fifty yards—the trees and grass are going to take the most punishment.”
“Can I watch?”
Spencer was horrified. “Mom!”
“Afraid not, Mrs. McClure. No one goes into those woods without protective gear. Anyway, there are more chaperones than soldiers out there. The officer here will be just fine.”
“What next?”
“Well, the lieutenant here joins the rest of the squad in the woods. You head back to the party. Meet your friends, have a drink, and get something to eat.” Captain Bob glanced at his watch. “We’ll be back to this tent in about two hours.”
I gave my son a final hug and a kiss before I sent him off to paint war. Then I left the tent and emerged in the brilliant sunshine, fumbling in my bag for my “Hollywood” sunglasses. I turned away from the glare to face the mansion—or rather, a small area beside it, which was the family’s private parking area. I recognized the McClure family’s Mercedes, and my sister-in-law’s white BMW. The car parked next to them was also familiar—a sleek black Jaguar with a white and blue decal on the trunk.
My heart stopped. “Jack, that’s the car! I’m sure of it. The car that almost ran over Angel Stark.”
Careful, doll. I know what you’re thinking.
“But Jack, shouldn’t I check it out?”
Sure. I just want you to be careful.
I looked around. There were plenty of people nearby, but everyone seemed to be going about their own business.
Just waltz over to the car, Jack said. Walk like you own the place and nobody will look twice. Trust me.
I got all the way to Ashley’s BMW without anyone noticing, walked right past it to the black Jag. Up close, I realized the odd decal was a parking tag for a Newport country club, the splash of blue a leaping marlin.
I peered through the windshield—hopefully without appearing to do just that. Leather seats, sporty, wood-grained interior, stick shift, GPS, combination radio and CD player, cell phone in the dashboard, all the bells and whistles. No guns, bludgeons, whips, or chains in sight.
Luckily, the door was unlocked.
I reached out and grabbed the handle on the passenger side. I closed my eyes and lifted the latch, waiting for a car alarm to blare, for everyone to look in my direction, for a security team to surround me and escort me off the premises where the Newport Police would take me into custody.
Miracle of miracles, the door opened soundlessly. I climbed inside, sank deep into the leather bucket seat.
“What now, Jack?”
Case it good. Toss the glove compartment, check under the seat, behind the cushions—
“Will do.”
I found nothing on the dash or under the seats. Inside the glove compartment, however, I discovered a leather case containing the Jag’s registration and insurance information, and a batch of business cards. All bore the same name. I fingered one of the cream-white linen paper, gilt scripted cards that read Mr. Donald Morgan Easterbrook, Jr.
I pocketed one card, stuffed the rest back into their pouch, then shoved the case into the glove compartment. I was about to peer under the dashboard when a silhouette abruptly blotted out the bright sun.
“Breaking and entering and grand theft auto. Have you fallen on hard times, Penelope?”
I looked up. Kiki McClure-Langdon stood beside the car. Behind her stood the owner of the Jaguar, her fiancé Donald Easterbrook, Jr. His photograph in Angel’s book didn’t do him justice. From the top of his perfectly coifed head to the broad span of his muscular shoulders, the prince of the Newport jet set was more than just John Kennedy, Jr. handsome, there was a sizzle of hot Latino blood, courtesy of Easterbrook’s wealthy Brazilian mother, that rendered him breathtaking.
I turned away, flushed red with embarrassment. Just as I was certain the situation could not possibly get worse, it did. Coming toward us was La Princessa herself: my sister-in-law, Ashley McClure-Sutherland.