Hmm, murmured Jack, if that’s true, could be Bethany caught fiancé Donald cheating, flew into a rage, threatened or attacked him, and he killed her.
Gasps of surprise were heard, and the audience leaned forward, waiting to hear more. But instead of elaborating further, Angel pointed to another audience member with a hand raised.
This time a young man with longish brown hair and a fuzzy brown soul patch under his lower lip stood up and asked Angel the question that was probably on everybody’s mind. “Do you really know who killed Bethany Banks? Was it the dude they charged and later freed? Or was it one of her friends?”
Angel cautiously scanned the room like a scout in front of a wagon train. “Are there any lawyers present?” she asked at last. “If so, please leave.”
Her mock inquiry was greeted by laughter and applause. When the response died, Angel seriously addressed the man’s question.
“I have my suspicions, of course. And if you read my book, you’ll see what I think. I can only say that I am absolutely positive that the young man who was arrested was innocent, and that someone close to Bethany Banks is the real murderer—and that’s the person who framed the catering worker. You see, there wasn’t any physical evidence linking him to Bethany’s murder, only his belt around her neck, which the killer could have easily taken with gloved hands from the worker’s unlocked locker . . . which is why they couldn’t prosecute him.
“All the defense would have had to show was physical evidence that pointed to other people having been in that room with Bethany near the time of her murder, which there clearly were, and sufficient motive, which I amply reveal in my book, and they would have created a shadow of a doubt that would have easily meant an acquittal for that young man. Therefore, I believe, and most everyone who examined this case believes, that Bethany knew her killer, and that she left the ball to rendezvous with the person who murdered her.”
Of course she knew her killer, said Jack. That murder was a crime of passion. Without a doubt.
The young man with the soul patch called out a follow-up. “So why haven’t the police solved it?”
“Two names: O. J. Simpson and Martha Moxley. As in the Simpson case, the local cops botched their handling of the physical evidence. They pinned all their expectations on a confession from the catering worker, and allowed the wealthy crowd to flee without being questioned or searched.” Angel shrugged. “After that poor catering worker was released, the case just became another example of the very rich successfully retreating behind their attorneys and high hedgerows—as teen Martha Moxley’s killer had done for decades before Mark Fuhrman broke that in Murder in Greenwich.”
Next, a woman wearing tight jeans, a belly shirt, and a nose ring rose to speak.
“Ms. Stark, it seems that you condemn Bethany Banks for the life she led—for the men she slept with and the drugs she consumed. But as a feminist yourself, don’t you feel you should be defending Bethany Banks’s right to choose whatever lifestyle she wished to live, regardless of the moral and ethical strictures placed on women by the double-standards of a sexist society?”
Angel Stark listened to the question without even a nod. When the girl sat back down, Angel wet her lips and spoke. “I think you all know the kind of lifestyle choices I’ve made, since I’ve written about them ad nauseum—”
Sly laughter from the audience.
“My problem with Bethany was that she hid her true self behind a mask, as if she were ashamed of the men, the drugs, the partying. No one should ever sin and then feel bad about it. Either don’t sin, or don’t feel bad. Anyway, I’ve always believed that guilt is something best left to working-class churchgoers, nuns, and old ladies. Of course, I realize this is a cutting-edge, postmodern philosophy that flies over the heads of a population stuck in the past.”
Sheesh. This dame really thinks she’s class on a stick, but I’ve got news for her. There’s nothing new about her attitude. In my day, she’s what was called a “debutramp.”
“A what?” I was trying my best to ignore Jack and listen to the author I was hosting, but that last comment got me. “Come again?”
Debutramp. Walter Winchell’s shorthand for a wild, amoral society girl.
“Whose shorthand?”
Walter Winchell! Jack said in a tone that showed he was clearly astonished and annoyed that I didn’t recognize the name. Vaudeville man turned New York Evening Graphic and Daily Mirror gossip columnist? Scandal sheet hound turned radio personality? Walter . . . Winchell . . .
“Uh . . . sorry . . .” I replied.
Aw, forget it.
I turned to Seymour. “I guess everything is under control here—”
Everything except the broad at the podium—
I ignored Jack. “Seymour, have you ever heard of Walter Winchell?”
“The newspaperman from the twenties and thirties? Sure, Pen, who hasn’t?”
I blushed and changed the subject. “So I’m going to make sure we’re ready for the author signing.” Then I raced to the front counter on the selling floor where Aunt Sadie was assisting a few locals now staring with open curiosity at the laughing, youthful crowd overflowing from the events room. Mina Griffith, our part-time clerk, worked the cash register.
“Angel Stark is still answering questions, but she’ll be done soon. Are we ready for her?” I asked, still giving Lady Macbeth a run for her money with my hand wringing.
Sadie reached out and gently pushed my arms to my sides. “Nerves of steel,” she reminded me, finger raised.
“Is the table—”
“All set up and ready,” Aunt Sadie declared. Like me, she’d dressed for tonight’s event, abandoning her usual casual slacks, loose T-shirt, and open denim shirt for a new, powder-blue dress. She’d even stopped by Colleen’s Beauty Shop to get the gray rinsed auburn and those “Shirley MacLaine” strawberry-blonde highlights put in.
“And the books?” I asked.
“Stacked and ready to go, Mrs. McClure,” Mina said with confidence.
I smiled at the girl. A tall, slender St. Francis College student with flyaway light brown hair and freckles, Mina was a sweet, quiet kid who devoured books and hoped to one day become a librarian.
I exhaled with relief. “Looks like you two have got it covered. So, I’ll just—”
“Go back inside and relax,” Aunt Sadie insisted. “You’ve earned it, dear, setting up this whole shindig in the first place. Believe me, everything’s under control.”
Before going into partnership with me a year ago, my aunt had never attempted author appearances like this one. I was the one who’d urged her to agree to the store’s complete remodeling, an inventory overhaul, and the addition of the new Community Events space. But whether it was Sadie’s years in the book trade or just her seventy-three years on earth, the lady’s nerves were clearly tempered into firmer stuff than mine.
Just then I heard a woman’s hysterical shouts echo out of the events room. I froze, trying and failing to make out what she was saying.
A second later, Seymour Tarnish, ashen-faced, burst out of the room and ran toward me. “Better call the cops!” he called. “You’ve got a riot on your hands!”
CHAPTER 3