CHAPTER 23
Angels and Demons
With his strong face, his athlete’s build, and the Gary
Cooper manner, [he] projected what psychologists call
the halo effect. People with the halo effect seem to
know exactly what they’re doing and, moreover, make
you want to admire them for it. They make you see the
halos over their heads.
—Tom Wolfe, Hooking Up, 2001
“GOOD GOD, JACK, what do I do?” I silently asked, trying not to lose it.
Guess, he answered in my head.
Swallowing a lump of sheer terror, I attempted to feign cool Jack Shepard control, then stepped out of the Jaguar, shut the car door, and faced Kiki. Meeting her stare, I flashed a (thoroughly fake) confident smile and levelly told her, “Sarcasm doesn’t suit a woman who tried to run down Angel Stark on the very night she was murdered.”
Kiki winced, then looked at her fiancé—worry and confusion suddenly invading the typically superior expression of her ice-blue gaze.
Beautiful, doll. Keep going.
“Oh, you were quick,” I said, “but not quick enough. There were witnesses to that incident on Cranberry Street. And I think the police will find it a neat coincidence, your staying at the same inn on the same night as Angel Stark—who just happened to turn up dead on that very property the next day.”
A sudden gust stirred long blonde strands of Kiki’s hair and the gauzy blue fabric of her sundress. Her already pale features turned snow white. Her pink painted lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Florid-faced, Ashley McClure-Sutherland pushed past her cousin and stepped between us. “This is ridiculous,” she cried. “How dare you invade my home and intimidate members of my own family. My God, Penelope, you’re nothing but trouble. My family’s curse.”
It was a vicious remark, but I refused to be baited by my sister-in-law. I bored in on Kiki instead.
“Did you know Victoria Banks has also been murdered?” I asked. “It happened within hours of Angel’s demise, and she was strangled in the same manner—just like her sister Bethany.”
Kiki literally fell against her fiancé. Ashley appeared to be struck dumb, for perhaps the first time in her life.
Pour it on thick, doll. They’re on the ropes, Jack coaxed.
Finally, Donald Easterbrook spoke. “Where did this happen?” His rich baritone seemed unruffled by my revelations.
“Victoria’s corpse was discovered in a wooded area outside the motel in Quindicott this morning.”
I locked eyes with Kiki again. “I watched the State Police haul her dead body to the morgue on my way to Newport.” I paused to let the words sink in. “Don’t you find it odd that Victoria’s murder occurred so close to Quindicott, where Kiki chose to stay the night?”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that our confrontation was beginning to attract attention. Kiki shifted her gaze from her fiancé to Ashley, then back to me.
Reaching a hand into the pocket of my capri pants, I grasped that old buffalo nickel. “Jack? I have to get them to talk to me. What more can I say?”
Threaten them with the cops, baby. Do it loudly.
“So let’s call the police,” I said with a raised voice. “Because if you don’t talk to me now, you can talk to the police when they arrive.”
Donald Easterbrook’s dark eyes flashed, but he quickly masked his annoyance with a smile. His strong, tanned hand closed on my arm.
“If you want to talk, let’s do it inside,” he said smoothly.
He released me before I could yank my arm free. With Ashley flanking me, I followed Donald and his fiancée through a side door into the mansion.
Ashley caught up with Donald, spun to face him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glared at me. “Not at all.”
“This won’t take long, Mrs. Sutherland. We’ll go to the library,” said Donald.
I half expected Ashley to butt out, but she angrily followed the rest of us into Windswept’s bookroom. The large two-story space was lined with polished oak shelves. Aging, gilt-edged books filled those shelves, and high-backed, green velvet upholstered chairs, ornate book stands, and Tiffany lamps were scattered about the waxed and polished hardwood floor. One corner of the room was dominated by a large Victorian standing globe with brass fittings. Sun streamed through high windows, warming the room, which smelled faintly of dust.
“Sit down, Mrs. McClure, won’t you?” Donald said with a chivalry that surprised me, considering the circumstances.
Ask for a drink, advised Jack.
“But I’m not thirsty,” I silently told him.
Baby, wise up. Alcohol loosens tongues, remember? Ask for some yourself. Pretend to sip yours. Chances are, Prince Donald will join you—and do more than pretend to sip.
Jack was right. I boldly asked for a cognac and got one. Donald went to a small bar in the corner and fixed a round, including Kiki, Ashley, and himself.
I sat rigidly in one of the high-backed green velvet chairs. Ashen-faced Kiki sat in an antique love seat opposite me. Ashley chose to pace the hand-woven Aubusson area rug. Finally, Donald Easterbrook sat down on the love seat next to his fiancée. He leaned forward, dark eyes studying me. For a moment we faced one another in silence.
Despite the malice radiating from my sister-in-law, and the rage in Kiki’s eyes, I felt no such hostility from Donald. I read somewhere once that anger and animosity often spring from a lack of confidence. Donald Easterbrook had no such deficit. Poised, polite, and self-assured, he seemed in control of the situation. Though half the age of my sister-in-law, Donald had handled Ashley better than I ever could. And by dragging us into the mansion, I realized he’d handled me well too.
It was Donald who broke the silence. After a long sip of his cognac, he asked, “Why do you think Kiki killed Angel Stark?”
“It goes back to Bethany’s murder,” I replied. “Someone in your circle murdered Bethany Banks. Angel said as much in her book, and I believe her.”
“Someone else was arrested for that crime,” said Donald.
“And he was acquitted,” I pointed out.
“Released because of legal technicalities,” he corrected.
“He was an innocent patsy and you and I both know it, Mr. Easterbrook. You have more of a motive for murdering Bethany than Johnny Napoli. She was your fiancée and was cheating on you when she rendezvoused with Johnny that night.”
“So why do you suspect Kiki?” Donald pressed.
“Three reasons. The first is that she had a better motive than anyone else. After Bethany’s murder, Kiki became engaged to you.”
“We’ll let that go for a moment. Tell me the second reason.”
“Angel’s book made a lot of people angry. Some of them were mad enough to confront her. Her publicity manager told me a doctor she identified as a pill pusher to your set nearly assaulted Angel in a Manhattan bookstore. Victoria Banks almost attacked Angel in my own store the other night. And someone driving the black Jaguar outside tried to run down Angel Stark an hour later.”
“Your point?” Donald asked.
I shifted my gaze to Kiki. “You were in my store the night Angel gave her reading. You were staying in the same bed and breakfast as Angel, when you could just as easily have been staying here at Windswept.”