By Familiar Means (19 page)

“Do you know where she is now?” We needed to talk to her. Of course Pete and Kenisha would have interviewed her as soon as they found her, if they'd found her that is. But Blanchard's appearance here said the police were still watching Jake and Miranda closely. If we were going to help find out who'd really killed Jimmy, we were going to have to keep digging on our own.

“No idea.”

I said several things then, and earned a hard frown from my grandmother. I'd apologize later.

“Sorry,” said Chuck.

“Not your fault,” said Jake.

“Yeah, I just—” Chuck stopped, and he swore. Now Grandma B.B. was frowning at him. “The fishbowl!”

“Fishbowl?” said Julia.

“Yeah, the fishbowl.” Chuck gestured, like he was trying to conjure the shape of what he was talking about out of thin air. “For, like, the, like, cards, like, you know . . .”

We were all staring at one another, trying to translate this.

“We keep a fishbowl on the counter,” said Jake. “People drop a card or a note or something in there and we do a drawing for free coffee.”

Val grabbed one of Chuck's flailing hands. “Michele dropped a card in the fishbowl?”

“No. I did. After she gave it to me.”

“Karma!” Jake shouted. “Beauty!” He strode down the stairs and out the door, which we knew because the bell rang sharply.

“Right,” Val heaved herself to her feet. “To the Batcave, everybody?”

“Yip,” agreed Max.

*   *   *

When we got to Northeast Java, the crowd was at low ebb. Miranda was behind the counter. Chuck charged up and grabbed the fishbowl. Now I remembered I'd put a card in myself once or twice, to try to win a free beverage.

“Chuck, what the heck?” Miranda demanded as the barista dumped a snowdrift of business cards out onto the counter. “Jake?”

“It's cool, Miranda.” Jake slid behind the counter to stand beside her. “Chuck might have found a clue.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Sweet. I guess.”

“Got it!” Chuck yanked a small paper rectangle out of the pile and passed it to me. Julia, Grandma and Val all crowded around and we all read:

SHELLY KINSDALE

VP of Properties

Dreame Royale Group

There was a red logo of a pillow with a crown floating over it. At least, I think that's what it was supposed to be. It was so stylized, it was hard to tell.

“What's the Dreame Royale Group?” asked Grandma B.B.

Valerie made a face. “They're one of the biggest hospitality chains in the country. They specialize in the high-end and exclusive, boutique and luxury properties, all that . . . stuff.”

“So, what does it mean?” asked Miranda. “Was she in town to talk to her brother?”

“But then why would she bother getting a job with us?” asked Jake. “I mean, why hide at all?”

“I don't know, but I know who we better call.” And it definitely wasn't Ghostbusters. We'd had enough of that for one day.

I pulled out my phone and hit Kenisha's cell number.

“Britton,” she answered. “What's going on?”

“We found Jimmy Upton's sister.” I admit there may have been a teensy ring of pride in my voice.

The silence on the other end was very long and very patient.

“So?” said Kenisha at last.

My pride did this little thing where it kind of just . . . evaporated. “I thought maybe you'd want to talk to her.”

“We have talked to her,” said Kenisha. “And before you say it, yes, we found her first. We're the police, Anna. It is what we do.”

I glanced at my friends and family, who were all looking back expectantly. “Um, right. Of course. I just . . . I thought if you had, you . . .”

“You are not going to ask what we found out, right? Because you know better than to ask me that, especially when I'm on duty.”

“Um, right. Of course,” I said again. “Sorry. We'll talk later?”

“Yeah, we will,” agreed Kenisha, and she hung up and I hung up.

“Something tells me that did not go well,” said Miranda.

“Anna?” said Grandma B.B. “What happened?”

My Nancy Drew pride just took a hit, and the most obvious way to find out what Michele-slash-Shelly Upton-slash-Kinsdale was doing in town had gotten a big roadblock put up in front of it. I turned the card over in my fingers.

But maybe there was another way.

“Hang on, just one more second.” This time, I hit Frank's number.

“Anna? What are you doing?” asked Grandma B.B.

I didn't answer, because just then Frank picked up on his end. “Hey, Anna? What's up?”

“Hi, Frank,” I said as I flipped the business card over in my fingers. “I need you to arrange an interview.”

“With who?”

“Jimmy Upton's sister,” I told him.

“You found her? I can't get Blanchard or Pete to even admit she exists.”

I smiled at my friends and family. “We found her and she's been back in town, really recently.”

“Back? She was here before?”

“Looks that way. Now it turns out she works for a big hospitality chain, and I thought maybe she'd like to talk to the local paper about what her company's future plans are in Portsmouth.”

I could picture the flash in Frank's blue eyes. “She just might, and I know the paper would love to talk to her.”

21

People will always tell a stranger more than you might think, and when that stranger is a journalist, they'll make space in their schedules for the chance. So, it didn't surprise me when Frank called back saying he'd gotten an appointment to talk with Shelly Kinsdale at five o'clock the next day.

What did surprise me was when he told me where it was.

“She's staying at the Portsmouth Inn.”

“She's here? Right here? In town?”

“Apparently.”

“The police must need more information from her.”

“Maybe,” said Frank. “But she was really interested in talking about Dreame Royale's plans in Portsmouth and didn't mention Jimmy once. Usually when you tell people you're from the paper and they've had a murder in the family they kind of assume that's what you want to talk about. She didn't even mention it.”

“Wow. That's . . . that's . . .”

“Cold?” said Frank. “Seems to run in the family. See you there.”

*   *   *

Once upon a time, the Portsmouth Inn had been a Victorian mansion. It was nowhere near as big or as grand as Harbor's Rest, but it was a long way from the Quality 6 out by the highway.

Shelly Kinsdale, aka Michele Upton, opened the door right away when Frank knocked. She was a striking woman with dark, waving hair and dark eyes set in a thin face with high cheekbones. Her shoulders were wide, her chin was sharp and her smile was open and brilliant.

“Mr. Hawthone?” she held out her hand. “Shelly Kinsdale. Delighted to meet you. And you, Miss . . . ?”

“Nancy Parker,” I said. Frank and I had agreed on a cover story on the way over, just in case she'd heard someone mention my name in connection with the Luces. We might not know for sure if the police had talked with her, but if she really did have something to do with Harbor's Rest, the Hildes might have.

“Won't you come in?” Shelly stood back and we thanked her and did just that.

The room had been freshly made up and all signs of personal belongings tidied away, except for a gleaming black laptop on the desk. Oh, and the fruit basket, which had two bottles standing beside it. The first was some high-end burgundy wine. The second had an apple tree and a cursive script label.

My mind's eye flashed on the bar at the Harbor's Rest, and Kelly Pierce holding a bottle just like that and saying she was going to take it as a “sweetener.”

I was really glad Frank was doing the talking right then.

“Miss Parker's doing a trial period at the paper,” Frank told Shelly as she gestured us to the sofa while she took the desk chair. “I hope you don't mind I brought her along?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But, as I told you on the phone, I've got another appointment in thirty minutes, so I'm afraid I can't give you as much time as I'd like.”

“I understand, Ms. Kinsdale.” Frank pulled out his digital
recorder and his notebook. “I appreciate you making the time.”

Frank started by asking some fairly innocuous questions about how long Shelly Kinsdale had worked for the Dreame Royale chain (five years); was the chain feeling the economic recovery (delighted to say that hotels are almost all filled to over eighty percent capacity, a tribute to the high standards of excellence found at all Dreame Royale properties). I sat beside him with a notebook and pen in my hands and occasionally checked the pocket recorder on the coffee table to make sure it was still running. But mostly, I watched the woman in front of me.

She certainly didn't act like someone whose brother had just gotten murdered. She was smooth, poised and elegant, clearly comfortable with herself and her surroundings. Upbeat corporate jargon flowed easily from her and her answers were heavily laced with projections and market shares and exciting opportunities for the future.

“So, since you're here, can we assume Dreame Royale is looking to expand in the Portsmouth area?” asked Frank.

Ms. Kinsdale smiled. “Dreame Royale is always keeping an eye out for new opportunities to serve the community,” she said breezily. “We know that Portsmouth is a sought-after destination for recreational and business travelers, so we know that Dreame Royale has a place here.”

“And does Dreame Royale have an eye on any property in particular?” I asked.

Ms. Kinsdale waved this away. “I'm afraid I can't discuss any deals that may or may not still be in negotiation.”

“No, of course not,” said Frank. “It's just that there's a rumor floating around that someone is in talks with the owners of one of Portsmouth's more established hotels.”

“The Harbor's Rest,” I added, for clarity's sake.

Shelly Kinsdale paused and frowned. “Can I ask where you heard this rumor?”

“That would be a confidential source,” said Frank immediately.

“Of course.” For the first time, I heard the tension under
Shelly's corporate happy-talk. “Well. I suppose I can say that we were at one time interested in the Harbor's Rest, but unfortunately we were not able to come to an understanding with the whole family. It was a disappointment, of course, but unfortunately, not everyone was able to see the advantages of becoming part of the Dreame Royale suite of properties.”

“But some could?” I prompted.

“Some, yes.” She smiled in that way people do when they want to make it really clear they're done talking now.

Frank and I exchanged glances and I knew he was asking the same question I was. Which Hilde had wanted to sell out?

“So,” Frank was saying. “There's nothing we can tell our readers about Dreame Royale's plans for the seacoast?” Frank had an amazing ability to sound gently disappointed.

“We-e-e-elllll . . .” Ms. Kinsdale clasped her hands around her knee and leaned in. “How about this? You can say we are actively pursuing an exciting new opportunity, partnering with local entrepreneurs. This will be a unique, luxury boutique hotel, with all the same standards of excellence our guests expect from the Dreame Royale brand.” She beamed, but she also glanced at the clock. “I'm afraid I have a dinner meeting, so we'll have to wrap this up fairly soon. Were there any other questions?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just one.”

Shelly raised her immaculately plucked eyebrows at me. Frank cleared his throat; he also nudged my foot. I ignored him. There was no way to tell if or when we'd get another chance to talk to this woman. The time for subtly was over.

“Why'd you spend two weeks working for Jake and Miranda Luce?”

Whatever reaction I'd expected from Shelly, I don't think it was a small squirm indicating mild embarrassment. Not that this was her only reaction. She also reached out and snapped the Off button on the recorder.

“So,” she said. “You found out about that?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “We found out about that.”

“Well, I knew it would go public sooner or later.” She sighed. “I was just hoping later.”

“That was kind of wishful thinking, considering they've been implicated in your brother's murder.”

The word “murder” dropped heavily between us, but Shelly didn't even blink. “Jimmy's death has nothing at all to do with my coming to Portsmouth.”

Frank reached for the recorder.

“Turn that back on and I'm not saying another word,” snapped Shelly. Frank lifted his hand away and held it up, fingers splayed, showing her it was completely empty.

Her eyes narrowed. “I'm assuming that's why you're really here, isn't it? To talk about Jimmy?”

“It's on the list,” I said. “So, why the Luces?”

“I needed some cover while I came to Portsmouth to assess the market. If people get word that a major developer is coming in, suddenly everything is spruced up and the red carpet is rolled out, and all kinds of cracks are painted over. It's very hard to get an accurate picture of the local situation.”

“But your deciding to come to Portsmouth had nothing to do with your brother being in town?” An online search for Jimmy's name had turned up the article the
Seacoast Times
had run on Jimmy and his prospects as a star chef. I know because I checked.

Shelly's jaw shifted back and forth a couple of times. “Now you're thinking, wow, she's cold, aren't you, Miss . . . whoever you are? Well, how's this for cold? My brother ran out on his family. My father had to go on disability when I was sixteen, and his insurance covered exactly squat. I worked all the way through high school just to help cover the rent. But what does Jimmy do, right when he's getting old enough to really help out? He decides to hit the road and leave me and Dad to sink or swim. Ten years, and the only time we hear from him is when he's trying to weasel some money out of us or, I should say, out of Dad, because he knew I was on to him.”

If I hadn't liked Ms. Upton before, I most definitely did not like her now. “So, you took advantage of a couple of nice people so you could scope the place out and maybe find a way to put one over on your brother?”

She shrugged. “Nobody got hurt. They even got two weeks' worth of free labor. I figured it was a fair trade.”

“Nobody got hurt? They might be accused of murder!”

“I've told the police what I know. If they have their reasons for suspecting the coffee hippies, it's got nothing to do with me.”

I sat back. My stomach was churning. I could not believe Shelly could sit there talking about her brother's death so calmly, especially to a reporter and, well, me.

“And what was the money for?” asked Frank. “Jimmy had five thousand dollars on him when he died.”

That actually made her blink. “Oh? Did he? I had no idea.”

“You're sure?” I asked.

“Very sure. I had no idea Jimmy even had that kind of money. He never did before. My brother got fired from every job he ever had. He couldn't stand anybody being the boss of him. He'd last two months, maybe three, and then he'd start picking stupid, petty fights, and when he got fired, he'd blame everybody else for it.”

I remembered the story about the Boston chef. I remembered all those restaurants he'd named for Frank, all of which were conveniently closed down so there was no way to follow up on how he'd come to work there and, more important, how he'd left.

“Ms. Upton . . .” began Frank.

“Kinsdale.” She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers, making the gold and diamond band sparkle in the gray light filtering through the arched windows.

“Ms. Kinsdale,” Frank corrected himself. “Did you meet with your brother before he died?”

“Yes. I met with him on that very sofa!” She gestured dramatically. “I listened to him whine for as long as I could stand it. Jimmy had found out I was back in town to discuss a deal on a new luxury hotel, one specifically designed for the twenty-first century, and so he came around begging me to leave Portsmouth and the Harbor's Rest alone. He told a lovely story all about this nice little old lady who runs it
with her kids and how that's all they have. Please, pretty please, sis, don't do it.” She batted her eyelashes and for a minute I saw a flash of the family charm.