“We’re here, Jack. What do you think?”
Piles of wood were stacked about, most under canvas. I wove my way around support beams and unfinished walls that would soon be dining areas and a kitchen.
It’ll work. But you need something even higher than these walls.
I spied a tall pole, planted just beyond the perimeter of the structure, and probably used by the builders for surveying. “Found it!” Glancing around the area, I also discovered a tall ladder propped near a parked yellow forklift and backhoe.
“I think it’ll work, Jack.”
Then roll the dice before your subject skips town. Make that call.
I flipped open Victoria’s cell phone. On the display screen, I highlighted the phone number of her last incoming voicemail message—just as I had yesterday. The party answered on the third ring. I recognized Hal’s voice.
“Still have Victoria’s cell phone, I see,” he said, the touch of weariness in his voice making him sound older than his years.
“Yes,” I replied. “And I’m about to turn it over to the police so they can match the calls stored in its memory against your own phone records.”
The silence was deafening.
“Hal, I know you lied to me. About Victoria’s father being in town, and about where you were the night Victoria vanished. It’s time we talked again.” I paused. “Nine o’clock tonight. At the construction site near the Finch Inn. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t know where that is.”
I hung up before he could reply. With a sigh, I consulted my ghost. “Jack? Do you think he bought it?”
You have to assume he did. Now you’ve got to work fast to get it all ready.
“I know. Lots to do. And no time like the present.”
Jack grunted. So to speak.
A FEW HOURS later, I was pacing the Finch Inn construction site, watching the sun drop below the horizon and a black velvet shroud slowly smother the summer blue sky then pierce it with starlight as sharp as daggers.
Behind me, that tall wooden pole I’d spied earlier stood firm as the wind increased, blowing through the trees with an ominous intensity. The inlet’s sea water continued its lazy incessant lapping against the dark bank.
“We’re all set,” I murmured to Jack as I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes.
Maybe not.
Seeing as how I had a potential murderer on his way to meet me, I tried not to react with total alarm when I asked Jack, “What the heck do you mean, maybe not?!”
I’ve been mulling everything over, and it seems to me there’s still a piece missing in this puzzle. The piece. Angel’s gun. The one she tried to give to Johnny. Remember why Johnny raced to the border in the first place? Angel was trying to blackmail him into killing someone for her—now who do you think that someone was?
“Donald Easterbrook?” I guessed, “for almost running her over? Or Kiki, for stealing Donald away? Or . . . Victoria Banks?”
Victoria had threatened Angel very publicly at your bookstore—
“And, according to Vicky’s roommates, she’d sent Angel threatening e-mails, too. You know what e-mails, are, right, Jack?”
What do you think? I’ve been watching you tap away on that typewriter box for a year now. Anyway, that means there’s even more evidence to show Victoria Banks had an intent to harm Angel Stark—which would have given Angel a motive to go after Victoria. Seems to me, Angel was worried how far Victoria would go with her threats . . . and that night, when the girl actually threatened her in public, Angel decided to rid herself of the little Banks pest before she got around to getting rid of Angel.
“So what about the gun then?”
We know from Kiki’s claim that Hal was here late last night looking for Angel—and he lied about it to you, so he’s trying to cover up his tracks. If he killed Angel, like you and I both think he did, he might have taken that gun from her. And he could be packing right now.
“Gee-zus, Jack, what a time to share this with me!”
I quickly used Vicky’s cell to call Eddie Franzetti. He was the only person on the Quindicott Police force whom I trusted with this information. He’d been through this with me before, when he helped me capture Timothy Brennan’s killer.
“Sorry, Mrs. McClure,” said the desk sergeant. “Eddie went up to Providence with Johnny and Bud Napp. Tomorrow Johnny’s going to be arraigned for murder, and the Staties wanted him close for a perp walk in the morning. I guess Bud wanted to go along to support his nephew.”
“Dammit!” (I couldn’t help myself.)
“Is anything wrong? Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No thanks, Sergeant.”
Call it off, doll, Jack said when I hung up. If he’s armed, you may be setting up another crime scene here.
A stone rattled on the path. I turned at the sound. Hal McConnell was approaching me, a frown creasing his handsome features.
“Sorry, Jack,” I silently told the ghost. “It’s too late. We’ll just have to make do with the resources at hand.”
I surveyed the suspect. He wore khaki pants that flapped in the summer wind. A yellow polo shirt, buttoned to the top, peeked out of his buttoned blue blazer. Once again, he wore an outfit too heavy for the warm, sticky weather. Hal stopped a few yards away, eyes level with mine. The warm breeze blew his forward-swept hair back, and for the first time I saw the angry bruise, confirming what I’d suspected. He’d suddenly changed his hairstyle for one reason—to cover a defensive wound.
“Well?” Hal asked, sliding his hands into his pants pockets.
“I spoke to Kiki Langdon earlier today,” I began. “She told me she saw you the night Angel was killed, in front of this inn.”
Hal’s half-smile turned sour. “I see now that Newport’s code of silence is selectively applied . . .”
I shook my head. “Hal, listen to me. The security camera above the Inn’s front door would have photographed your whole encounter with Kiki. The State Police have that evidence now—and they’ll care about it once I tell them what to look for and why.”
Hal swallowed. His hands came out of his pockets. He rubbed the back of his neck, like he was thinking fast.
Good, honey. You surprised him with the camera. He didn’t know about it.
“So I talked to Kiki that night? So what?” he finally replied. “It’s not illegal to stop by an inn . . . I’ll just deny having anything to do with Angel’s murder.”
“There are things the police don’t know yet, Hal. Like the fact that Angel was the one who murdered Bethany, and Bethany’s little sister, Victoria, discovered that fact.”
Hal blinked. I’d caught him off guard again.
Keep going, baby.
“Yes,” he slowly admitted. “It’s true. Vicky knew. Donald told her . . .”
“Easterbrook?”
Hal nodded, sighed, folded his arms tightly across his chest. “It wasn’t enough to have Bethany. He started on Victoria, too . . . Before Bethany’s body was even in the ground.” A bitter expression crossed his features. “Donald has a hobby, Mrs. McClure, getting girls into bed . . . not that it’s a crime. With him it’s more of a compulsion . . . maybe it’s in his blood, part of that Brazilian meal-ticket his father married, or maybe he’s just phenomenally more successful at it than the rest of us so it comes off as out of control, but . . . there it is.”
“You must be furious with Donald then. He slept with both of the women you loved.”