“Kiki had car trouble,” Ashley cried. “She got stuck in Quindicott!”
“Nice story, but I don’t buy it,” I replied, my eyes never wavering from Kiki’s. “I think Kiki confronted Angel in her own time—after the book signing, back at the Finch Inn. And I think that’s when Kiki murdered her. She was the only person in your circle besides Victoria Banks who was anywhere near Quindicott that night. And I think Vicky Banks is now off everyone’s suspect list.”
“But you’re wrong!” Kiki cried. “I saw Hal there, too. Hal McConnell.”
I blinked in surprise. “Hal McConnell was at Angel’s reading? I think I would have remembered that.”
Kiki shook her blonde mane. “Not at the store. I saw Hal at the Inn, later that night.”
I leaned forward. “When?”
Kiki shrugged, bit her lower lip. “I don’t know, maybe one in the morning. Certainly after midnight.”
“How can you be sure?”
Kiki took a breath. “Because you’re correct about one thing. I was there to confront Angel. I wanted her to stop harassing us, to leave us out of her life, her books. I was there to stop her lies.”
“What lies, specifically?”
Dead silence descended. Kiki’s lips became tight, Donald put his arm around her shoulder. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked louder than Big Ben.
“Okay,” I finally said. “Kiki, tell me more about your encounter with Hal that night.”
Kiki swept her hair back, took a fortifying sip of cognac. “I went to Angel’s room at eleven o’clock. I knocked, but she wasn’t back yet. I tried again at midnight, but she still hadn’t returned. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Maybe a half an hour later, I heard a car park, and voices, too. I got dressed and waited for Angel to come up the stairs. After a long time I went down to the front entrance. No one was in the lobby and I went outside, onto the porch. That’s when I saw Hal in the parking lot and I called out to him.”
“Are you sure it was Hal?” I asked.
Kiki nodded, “I’m positive, because he came up to the porch steps and I spoke to him. It was Hal all right. Polo shirt and all.” She rolled her eyes. Donald gave a slight amused grunt.
“What am I missing?”
Donald shrugged. “It’s just . . . well, since he was, like, twelve years old Hal has bought like twenty Polo shirts every summer, and that’s what he wears all season. It’s become kind of a joke among us. Hal and his ubiquitous Polo shirts.”
“You’re sure he was wearing a Polo shirt the night you saw him at the Finch Inn, the night Angel was killed?”
“Sure,” said Kiki. “I saw it under his open windbreaker, so wrinkled and ratty it looked like he’d pulled it out of his trunk. Hal used to be a neat freak, but I hadn’t seen much of him since Bethany died. I guess things like that can affect you in a lot of ways.”
I thought of Hal’s change of hairstyle—brushing the longish hair forward rakishly around his face instead of neatly back off his face as I’d seen it styled in all of his photos. I remembered the way he’d dressed when he’d come to the bookstore the morning after Angel’s and Victoria’s murders—well-dressed for a summer Saturday in an impeccably tailored blue blazer, his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.
I took a closer look at Kiki then. Her gauzy blue sundress revealed ample amounts of toned, tanned flesh—from her throat, shoulders, and arms to her long, lean legs. Her skin appeared flawless. Not one scratch or bruise that I could see.
“What did Hal say to you?” I asked.
“Not much,” said Kiki. “I called him over, and he said he was just passing through and wanted a room but the place was full. Said he was going to try the motel by the highway, or just go home. But I knew it was crap.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sure he was looking for Angel, too,” insisted Kiki. “He kept eyeing her rental car in the lot, like he was waiting for her to show up.”
Donald spoke next. “Mrs. McClure. You did say that Victoria’s body was found at that motel, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Well there you are. Hal was at both murder scenes. And he attended the ball where Bethany was murdered as well. Surely Hal is the better suspect?”
“Except for one thing. Hal McConnell loved Bethany Banks. Angel Stark said it in her book, and Hal told me as much himself.”
“Unrequited love, Mrs. McClure,” said Donald. “Look around at all these books. I’m willing to bet a goodly number of them tell stories of unrequited love and the tragedy that can be caused by such frustrated emotions.”
“Oh, but Hal’s love was no longer unrequited,” I replied. “In the last few months he’d been seeing Victoria Banks. They shared an affection. Why would Hal murder a woman who returned his affections?” I shook my head. “Anyway, you’re both forgetting the black Jaguar parked outside. I doubt Hal was driving it. But someone was and that someone tried to kill Angel Stark.”
“You forget that the black Jaguar belongs to me,” said Donald, a cagey half-smile crossing his face.
“Are you telling me you were in Quindicott last night?” I asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mrs. McClure. I drove here from Connecticut last night. I happened to breeze through Quindicott for gas. I saw Angel in the street, and we had words. So you see, Kiki had nothing to do with that encounter.”
“What kind of words did you have exactly?”
“I told her she made a big mistake publishing her book, that’s all.”
I studied Donald’s attractive, confident features, thinking there was more to this. Although Angel Stark had admitted no such thing in her book, Hal McConnell claimed Angel had been sleeping with Donald.
Remember what I showed you, baby, said Jack. A little information can take you a long way in an interrogation if you know how to use it. So use it—fast.
“I know you and Angel were sleeping together,” I said as casually as I could manage. “But when exactly did you stop?”
“Right before Bethany was murdered,” Donald blurted out.
Kiki’s jaw dropped. “Donny, shut up!”
Donald stared at me blankly.
Good work, baby. A deer in the headlights. You’ve got him admitting to something he didn’t want to. Keep him talking, he’s probably dying to spill . . .
“So you didn’t love Angel?” I asked. “Or did you?”
Suddenly, Kiki went from outraged to curious. She stared at him expectantly.
Donald’s eyes widened even more. “Of course I didn’t love her! Angel and I were hot and heavy for a few months. The sex was great. That’s all.”
“Did Bethany know?” I asked.
Donald shrugged, looked down at his cognac. “I think Bethany found out near the end, but she never threw it in my face if she did. I mean . . . we weren’t married yet . . . wild oats, you know . . .”
“Sure,” I replied. “And she decided to sow some oats, too,” I replied. “And get even with you in the process. Like having a fling with a member of the catering staff right under your nose—and the noses of all your buddies—a low-class stud she knew and you knew, too, because he supplied drugs to your crowd.”
Donald scowled. I’d hit a nerve. He shifted on the love seat, took yet another long hit of cognac. “That may be true,” he said, his eyes beginning to appear slightly glazed from the alcohol, “but the guy . . . he never had sex with Bethany . . . he never laid a finger on her.”
You’ve definitely got something here, said Jack. A point of pride. He’s still jealous that his girl wanted to sleep with Johnny-boy. So press that button. Hard.