“Yes, he was with me,” she admitted. “The whole idea that the rooms were off limits is what made it so”—she shrugged—“interesting. Donny and I hooked up in one of those museum bedrooms, then Donny went back to the party first. I waited fifteen minutes before coming down to the ground floor again. You know, so people wouldn’t see us coming down together.”
“So, if this is all true, then who murdered Victoria Banks?”
“It wasn’t me,” said Donald. “I liked Vicky. After Bethany was gone, the Banks family wanted me to stay in touch—to help them get over their loss. I did. Vicky and I got to be friendly . . . When Hal wasn’t around, we talked.”
“How close did you get?” I asked.
“Close,” said Donald, glancing nervously at Kiki.
“Close enough to tell Vicky Banks that Angel was the one who killed her sister?”
“Maybe . . .”
“No wonder that poor girl was gunning for Angel. It wasn’t Angel’s book at all—it was your telling Vicky that Angel got away with killing her sister that drove her over the edge.”
“I didn’t kill Vicky,” Donald replied. “I have dozens of witnesses that will tell you I never left this house since Friday night when I drove through Quindicott and spotted Angel.”
“No, you didn’t kill Vicky with a rope,” I said, “but you told her things you never should have, just to ease your own guilty conscience. Things that sent a young and impressionable girl over the edge. Keep that physical evidence safe, because you’re going to need it to prove your story.”
I stood and faced Ashley, whose expression was nothing short of shock—whether it was from the startling truths she’d just heard or the fact that I’d stood my ground and shook those truths loose, I couldn’t say.
“Thank you for your gracious invitation,” I told my sister-in-law. “Now I’ll collect my son and we’ll be leaving.”
I arrived at paintball headquarters in time to witness the junior team being rewarded for their efforts. Every little solder got a plastic medal, complete with a red, white, and blue ribbon. Spencer’s eyes were bright when he rejoined me a few moments later.
“It was so cool, Mom. Captain Bob led us on a commando raid and we ‘achieved our objective.’ ”
“I’m proud of you, honey,” I said sincerely. “Mommy achieved her objective, too.”
CHAPTER 24
Judgment Day
They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated into their money or their vast carelessness . . . and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . .
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1925
Planning is for the poor.
—Robert Evans
AFTER TAKING SPENCER out for ice cream, then stopping by the bookstore to make sure Sadie and Mina had things in hand, I drove my Saturn over to the Finch Inn, but not up the tree-lined drive. Instead, I parked on the side of the street and cut the engine.
I pulled out Victoria’s cell phone and dialed the Inn’s number. Fiona answered on the first ring. We exchanged pleasantries, then I got to the point of my call. “Is the security camera you installed over the front entrance still working?”
“You bet,” Fiona replied. “I haven’t had a lithograph, framed portrait, or antique lamp disappear since, either.”
“Do you still have the surveillance video from the night Angel disappeared?”
“Sorry, Pen. The State Police confiscated it the next day. I never even had a chance to review it before they swept it up in their investigation.”
“But if there was something to see, would the camera pick it up?”
“Sure,” said Fiona. “The camera moves back and forth, from side to side—covers the entire porch and the front door. If there’s something to see, the State Troopers will see it.”
“But only if they know what to look for . . .”
“Something’s up, isn’t it, Pen?” Fiona’s voice was palpable with excitement.
“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” I quickly ended the call before prosecutor Fiona could begin her cross-exam.
Though it was nearly six o’clock, the late summer sun was still above the horizon and a few hours of daylight remained. I would need it to prepare for what Jack had suggested on the way back from the McClure’s. I climbed out of the car and walked up the Inn’s tree-lined drive. Instead of going up the steps to the Inn’s main house, I followed the wooded path along the pond, which led to Fiona’s still-under-construction restaurant. The scent of salty sea was heavy as a damp, warm breeze whipped across the inlet.
Even down by the water, the day was still sticky and uncomfortably warm, yet I suppressed a shiver. The body of Angel Stark had been dragged from this very spot, and I doubted I would ever banish the sight of her murdered corpse—or Victoria Banks’s, for that matter—from my mind.
Living with the dead, said Jack. That’s the world you’re in now, baby. Get used to it.
“Jack, do you believe Kiki and Donald’s story? That Angel killed Bethany in some kind of jealous rage?”
Yeah, doll. It all fits. I’d already suspected Angel of being envious of Bethany from that little bit of self-serving prose she read in your store. What convinced me that Priss Kiki and Prince Donald were on the level about Angel doing the dirty deed was their claim of evidence. Angel’s silk jacket—
“Right, like a certain presidential intern’s blue dress . . .”
Blue dress? Want to drive that by me again, sister?
“Never mind.”
Anyway, physical evidence like that will back to the hilt what they’re claiming, so you better count on it existing if this next step fails.
I nodded, understanding and agreeing. Angel had been more than a careless, eccentric author. Obviously, a sick, jealous, unbalanced monster had been lurking behind the bohemian-style designer clothes and false-revelatory prose.
So you’ve got Johnny down to two counts of murder, Jack said. You still have to prove who killed Angel—
“And Victoria. I know.”
Donald has a solid alibi for that night. But Kiki doesn’t.
“No. But there’s something else she doesn’t have.”
I could almost hear Jack smiling when he said, That’s right, doll. You tell me.
“Defense wounds.” In the warm car, I had already removed my long-sleeved summer-weight sweater and threw it over my scratched-up shoulders. “If Kiki had needed to hide scratches or other defense wounds,” I told Jack, “she would have worn something with long sleeves to the party, just like I had. But that slight gauzy sundress of hers revealed nothing but perfect skin. Not one bruise, not one scratch.”
Right, baby. You’re on a streak. Don’t stop now . . .
I approached the construction site. The restaurant was still a fleshless skeleton, stark in the waning afternoon. The brick foundation rose chest-high. Wood-frame walls and supporting steel beams were still exposed. Work had stopped here since the grisly discovery, and close to the water, ribbons of yellow plastic crime scene tape fluttered on the warm breeze.