Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (41 page)

“
Oh,
God, what have I done?”
he sobbed.

Just
as
Chester
fell to his
knees, a shot split the air like a firecracker.  Stunned, Donovan and Spackel
jumped back—as
Chester
's chest catapulted forward with a gasp. 
Dramatically, he arched, and then collapsed to the floor. 

Edith
was still at the top of the stairs, now holding a gun. 

Donovan
whipped out his own revolver, intending to subdue her, when abruptly, she
brought her pistol to her head.  “No!” Donovan shouted, running futilely toward
the stairs, as Spackel shut his eyes.  It all happened in a blink.  The shot
cracked through the air and sent Edith Winchell flying over the railing.  Her
body dove onto the hard lacquered floor of the foyer.

“See
if she’s dead!” Donovan said as he dropped down to feel Northgate's neck for a
pulse.  He knew Edith couldn't possibly survive the gunshot and the fall, but
he still had to check.

“Um...Donovan?”
Spackel began, as he neared Edith Winchell's broken body.  “About that...” 
From here, Donovan could see that Edith's skirt had flown up over her waist.

“What? 
You're not telling me she's actually alive?”

“No...she's
not alive,” Spackel said, bending down to pick something up off the floor.  It
was a black wig with a white stripe, that had been detached in the fall. 
“However, from the looks of it here—I'd say that she...was a he.”

“Edward
Alvin White.  Alias: Eddie White.”

Irene
pruned up her face.  “That's an alias?”

Spackel
gave a deprecating grin.  “You want to hear this or not?”

“Fine,
go ahead,” Irene said, handing him a napkin as sheets of glaze fell off his
donut and onto his shirt. 

Donovan
looked up from his paperwork.  “Now Spack, you wouldn't be telling Irene private
police business, would you?”

“Oh,
please,” Irene scolded with a wave.  Donovan winked at her.  “The whole town
knows bits and pieces by now.”

That
much was true.  In the week that had passed since the Chester Northgate and
Edith Winchell murder-suicide, the small town had been buzzing about nothing
else.

“Now
where was I?” Spackel said.

Irene
reminded him, “You were saying how the police found a bunch of stolen things in
Chester Northgate's house, including the paintings that Nina Corday's niece had
reported stolen from that break-in last week, and how Chester and Edith had
mistaken one of those paintings for some kind of indictment of a crime they'd
committed over ten years ago.  Like—somehow Nina Corday had figured out where
the girl's body was or something like that?”

“I
have to assume that's what they thought,” Spackel admitted with a shrug.  More
glaze fell off his donut and Irene grumbled a motherly sigh and shoved more
napkins his way.

“You
know how a guilty conscience can skew your perspective,” Donovan threw in.

“No,
actually I
don't
know,” Irene said.  “My conscience is clear, thank
you.”

“You're
lucky,” Donovan remarked with a snort.

“But
I don't understand the part about Edith being a man.  I just can't make heads
or tails out of that.  How could she be a
man
?  I've known her for
twenty years or more.  Well, not
known
her, but seen her around town.” 
With profound disturbance, Irene shook her head and held her palms up.  “I'm
sorry if it's 'politically incorrect' but that's just wrong.  A man should be a
man.”

“Well,
maybe it depends on the man.  Maybe it wasn't so easy being Eddie White once he
had a record.”  Spackel reached for the printout of Eddie White's mug shot from
1980.  Stunned, Irene's mouth dropped open.  “Arrested three times, larceny.”

Shaking
her head, Irene took the printout, studied it.  “Same face,” she said. 

Donovan
had noticed that, too.  Eddie, with the high, almost rounded cheekbones and the
narrow eyes... seeing him young and not-in-drag was like the piece in place
that made it all connect.  He had one of those androgynous faces.  That, in
addition to his height and more masculine build—well, it almost made you wonder
how you hadn't seen it sooner.

“Probably
hard to get a job as Eddie White,” Spackel continued.  “Much less a job running
the house of a millionaire.  But, who knows, maybe as 'Edith Winchell'...”

“But
Chester
had to know,
right?” Irene asked, looking from Spackel to Donovan.  “Surely he had to...I
mean, rumors and all...for years, people have suspected that
Chester
and Edith were
sleeping together.”  Donovan cringed slightly; he hated when Irene talked about
sexual topics.

“Hey,
maybe they were,” Spackel offered affably and took another donut from the box. 
He bit into it enthusiastically, like a kid without a care. 

“You
mean that...
Chester
was...”  Irene seemed to be searching for her next
politically incorrect moment.  It didn't matter, though.  The truth was, with
both
Chester
and Edith dead,
probably no one would ever really know the exact nature of their relationship. 
It was a big question mark.  But maybe that was for that better.

Spackel
added, “And who knows if Edith—or, Eddie—was afraid that an investigation into
Marlee Wurther's death might drag up his past, his real identity, whatever,
into the open.  You have to admit, before all this came out, Edith Winchell had
it real good for a 'housekeeper.'” 

“Okay. 
Now one final question.”  Purposefully, Irene crossed her thick arms over her
bosom.  “Was there any connection to the theft of those paintings and the stiff
that turned up in Nina Corday's basement?  And don't give me that State Police
routine—I know the boys' network talks to each other.”

Always
one to enjoy a rapt audience, Spackel paused—then eyed Donovan.  Lifting his
brows, he said, “Well?  Can I tell her?”

Rolling
his eyes, Donovan barked a laugh.  “What the hell, you've already blabbed
everything else.”

“Okay,”
Spackel said, turning back to Irene.  “This is what we heard.  But you might
want to sit down for this one…”

***

Leo
Kelling was just about to bite into a glistening thermo nuclear buffalo
wing—the sauce of which had already stained his fingertips bright orange—when
his cell phone rang.  He had no intention of answering until he saw who it
was.  With saucy fingers, he snapped the phone to his ear.  “Yeah.”

“Leo,
my main man—you ain't called lately.  How you doing for supplies?”

Disgusted,
Leo snorted into the phone.  “Yeah, supplies.  You hooked me up with some
baaad
pharmaceuticals.”

“What
do you mean?” his sometimes-dealer said.

“Those
so-called
relaxants
you hooked me up with a couple months ago?  Remember
those?”

“Shit—yeah—I
remember.  What do you mean bad pharmaceuticals?  That was good shit.”

“It
killed my brother!  And his girlfriend, too.”  Annoyed, Leo bit into a wing and
chomped at the bone.

“Stop
playing.”

“I'm
not.  You said they were like roofies.  Good to knock people out with, you
said.  You didn't say they were deadly!  That's
fucking murder—
”

The
line went dead. 

Put
out, Leo rolled his eyes and tossed his cell phone to the end of the bed.  On
the move again now, he was just trying to kick back in his motel room and eat
his dinner in peace. 

Suddenly
there was banging at his door.

He
froze. What the fu...?

Who
could be at his door?  The maid?  Maybe she'd forgotten to leave him fresh
towels?  Ha, right.  For the maid to actually give a shit, the place would have
to be something other than a flea-bag dump.

BANG,
BANG, BANG!

Shit! 
Suddenly terrified, Leo jumped off the bed, sending the bucket of wings
toppling over onto the cheap bedspread.  Was it one of his bookie's guys?  When
his last bet went south, Leo had skipped out of
Massachusetts
as fast as he
could.  Even though it meant abandoning his efforts to scam his way past that
girl, Nicole, and into her aunt's house. 

But
how could his bookie have tracked him to
Miami
this fast?

“Open
the door!” a man shouted. 

Anxiously,
Leo looked around.  Could he climb out the window?  He was only on the second
floor.  Goddamn it, he was too old to jump out of windows.   

“Open
up—police!”  With that, Leo went for the window anyway.  Just as he was clawing
with the rim to pull the goddamn thing up, he heard the door to his room bust
open. “Freeze!”

The
door hit the wall hard, ricocheted back, and three men in black vests barged
in, big guns drawn.  Holy shit—were these—Federal marshals?  “What the FUCK!”
Leo exclaimed, livid.  Boiling with the rage of a trapped animal.

“Hands
up!” one of the men shouted.  Leo had no choice but to obey; he was in his
boxer shorts and undershirt, for chrissake.  Did they give a guy any fucking
dignity anymore?

“Is
there a problem, officer?” he asked.

One
bit out a brusque laugh and grabbed him.  Spun him around and cuffed him, while
another grabbed him by the elbow.  “Yeah, I'd say fratricide would be a
'problem.'  Not to mention fraud and embezzlement.” 

Fratricide? 
“Since when do cops know the fifty cent words?” Leo asked sarcastically.  “Can
I at least put some pants on, Jeeesus!  What the hell is this?”

“Leo
Kelling, you are under arrest for the murder of Abel Kelling.  See this?  It's
a warrant; we're taking you back to
Massachusetts
.” 

Leo
swallowed hard, his fifty-eight-year-old heart thumping like a stallion in his
chest.  His mouth was dry.  If they weren't even letting him put pants on, he'd
guess a shot of scotch was also out of the question. 
Holy shit, holy Jesus,
holy crap
, his mind raced frantically.  He'd been in trouble for bunko
before, but how had they linked him with Abel's death? 

Okay,
they hadn't mentioned anything about the woman—Nina—so maybe they hadn't put
that part together.  Sure as hell Leo wasn't about to bring it up.  But still,
if they knew about Abel, he was fucked!

Damn
it all to hell, nothing ever worked out for him!  It wasn't fair.  All of this
had started when he'd gone to his brother—his big shot brother, who hadn't seen
him in five years or more—and asked for a loan.  A simple fucking loan! 

As
the marshals did the Miranda routine, Leo thought bitterly about all that had
led to this moment.  He had come to
Boston
, to Abel's co-op, to ask him for
some money.  In deeper than he'd ever been, Leo needed help.  He'd been so sure
about that last race...  Well, it wasn't like he would have gone to Abel unless
he was desperate.  But does his brother help him out? 
Nooo
.  Instead,
Abel gives him some crap about how he's out of money, too—how his business
tanked and he'd even sold off his house on the
Cape
.  Tells Leo that
he's staying with his girlfriend in
Chatham
and he's having trouble making
ends meet, too.  Right—fucking
Chatham
!  What, did he
think Leo was born yesterday?  They had high-priced dog-shit in
Chatham
, for chrissake.

Leo
wasn't gonna let Abel off that easy.  So he'd gone down there and surprised
Abel and his girlfriend, Nina, at her house one night.  Made it seem like a
friendly visit.  But all the while he was looking for an opportunity to drug
their wine and rob them.  No biggie—it wasn't like they couldn't afford it. 
Leo had even cleaned out his car and put the backseats down, figuring he'd
carry as much loot out as he could, in addition to cash.  He figured that once
his brother came to—well, Abel wasn't gonna press charges.  They were blood,
after all. 

It
was a no-fail plan.  Except, it didn't work out so good.  Typical; nothing
ever
went his way.  First, Abel acts like he doesn't even want him there.  Then when
Leo finally convinces him to let him come in and spend some time with them,
Abel keeps dropping hints about how bad he's doing financially—as if he's
anticipating that Leo's gonna hit him up for money again. 
Joke's on him
,
Leo was thinking, because soon Abel and Nina would be passed out and Leo would
have the run of the place.  Throughout dinner, Leo was charming and debonair
and shit, and then Nina suggested Abel go get another bottle of wine from
downstairs in the cellar.  As Abel was getting up to go, he looked at Leo and
said, “Why don't you come, too?”  It was like he didn't trust Leo with
Nina—like he thought he'd be all crass and ask
her
for money.

That's
where everything went down the crapper.  While they were in the cellar,
suddenly Abel started freaking out, shaking, grabbing his neck like he couldn't
breath.  Leo panicked and was frozen in place, not knowing what to do or what
was happening.  Then, just like that, Abel fell over, knocking into a column
with a crash, and Nina must have heard because all of a sudden she's screaming,
“What's wrong?  What did you do to him?  I have to call an ambulance!”  As she
turned and ran back upstairs, Leo panicked.  He had to get out of there.