The Ghost and the Dead Deb (29 page)

“Are you sure it was Hal?” I asked.

Kiki nodded, “I’m positive, because he came up to the porch steps and I spoke to him. It was Hal all right. Polo shirt and all.” She rolled her eyes. Donald gave a slight amused grunt.

“What am I missing?”

Donald shrugged. “It’s just . . . well, since he was, like, twelve years old Hal has bought like twenty Polo shirts every summer, and that’s what he wears all season. It’s become kind of a joke among us. Hal and his ubiquitous Polo shirts.”

“You’re sure he was wearing a Polo shirt the night you saw him at the Finch Inn, the night Angel was killed?”

“Sure,” said Kiki. “I saw it under his open windbreaker, so wrinkled and ratty it looked like he’d pulled it out of his trunk. Hal used to be a neat freak, but I hadn’t seen much of him since Bethany died. I guess things like that can affect you in a lot of ways.”

I thought of Hal’s change of hairstyle—brushing the longish hair forward rakishly around his face instead of neatly back off his face as I’d seen it styled in all of his photos. I remembered the way he’d dressed when he’d come to the bookstore the morning after Angel’s and Victoria’s murders—well-dressed for a summer Saturday in an impeccably tailored blue blazer, his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.

I took a closer look at Kiki then. Her gauzy blue sundress revealed ample amounts of toned, tanned flesh—from her throat, shoulders, and arms to her long, lean legs. Her skin appeared flawless. Not one scratch or bruise that I could see.

“What did Hal say to you?” I asked.

“Not much,” said Kiki. “I called him over, and he said he was just passing through and wanted a room but the place was full. Said he was going to try the motel by the highway, or just go home. But I knew it was crap.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sure he was looking for Angel, too,” insisted Kiki. “He kept eyeing her rental car in the lot, like he was waiting for her to show up.”

Donald spoke next. “Mrs. McClure. You did say that Victoria’s body was found at that motel, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Well there you are. Hal was at both murder scenes. And he attended the ball where Bethany was murdered as well. Surely Hal is the better suspect?”

“Except for one thing. Hal McConnell loved Bethany Banks. Angel Stark said it in her book, and Hal told me as much himself.”

“Unrequited love, Mrs. McClure,” said Donald. “Look around at all these books. I’m willing to bet a goodly number of them tell stories of unrequited love and the tragedy that can be caused by such frustrated emotions.”

“Oh, but Hal’s love was no longer unrequited,” I replied. “In the last few months he’d been seeing Victoria Banks. They shared an affection. Why would Hal murder a woman who returned his affections?” I shook my head. “Anyway, you’re both forgetting the black Jaguar parked outside. I doubt Hal was driving it. But someone was and that someone tried to kill Angel Stark.”

“You forget that the black Jaguar belongs to me,” said Donald, a cagey half-smile crossing his face.

“Are you telling me you were in Quindicott last night?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mrs. McClure. I drove here from Connecticut last night. I happened to breeze through Quindicott for gas. I saw Angel in the street, and we had words. So you see, Kiki had nothing to do with that encounter.”

“What kind of words did you have exactly?”

“I told her she made a big mistake publishing her book, that’s all.”

I studied Donald’s attractive, confident features, thinking there was more to this. Although Angel Stark had admitted no such thing in her book, Hal McConnell claimed Angel had been sleeping with Donald.

Remember what I showed you, baby,
said Jack.
A little information can take you a long way in an interrogation if you know how to use it. So use it
—
fast.

“I know you and Angel were sleeping together,” I said as casually as I could manage. “But
when
exactly did you stop?”

“Right before Bethany was murdered,” Donald blurted out.

Kiki’s jaw dropped. “Donny, shut up!”

Donald stared at me blankly.

“So you didn’t love Angel?” I asked. “Or did you?”

Suddenly, Kiki went from outraged to curious. She stared at him expectantly.

Donald’s eyes widened even more. “Of course I didn’t love her! Angel and I were hot and heavy for a few months. The sex was great. That’s all.”

“Did Bethany know?” I asked.

Donald shrugged, looked down at his cognac. “I think Bethany found out near the end, but she never threw it in my face if she did. I mean . . . we weren’t married yet . . . wild oats, you know . . .”

“Sure,” I replied. “And she decided to sow some oats, too,” I replied. “And get even with you in the process. Like having a fling with a member of the catering staff right under your nose—and the noses of all your buddies—a low-class stud she knew and you knew, too, because he supplied drugs to your crowd.”

Donald scowled. I’d hit a nerve. He shifted on the love seat, took yet another long hit of cognac. “That may be true,” he said, his eyes beginning to appear slightly glazed from the alcohol, “but the guy . . . he never had sex with Bethany . . . he never laid a finger on her.”

You’ve definitely got something here,
said Jack.
A point of pride. He’s still jealous that his girl wanted to sleep with Johnny-boy. So press that button. Hard.

I cleared my throat. “Is that what you think? That Johnny didn’t have sex with Bethany? Well, that’s wishful thinking, but that’s not what I heard from the police.”

“Hey, whatever you heard is wrong, okay,” said Donald, his voice finally betraying tension. He pointed his finger at me. “That guy, he
was
a patsy. I know. Because I know who set him up. The same person who killed Bethany Banks.”

“Oh my God!” Ashley lunged between us, wide-eyed. “Don’t say anything more,” she cried.

“Why not, Mrs. Sutherland?” Donald replied, the pointing finger turning into a dismissive wave. “What does it matter now anyway? Beth’s dead.”

“Sit down, Ashley,” I barked. To my amazement, she did.

“It was
Angel
who killed Bethany,” said Donald. “I know because I saw Angel leave the room right after the murder. Bethany went down there to have her fling with that waiter. I got wind of it and went down to stop it. But by the time I got there, I saw that Angel had already strangled Beth. She’d killed her before that Johnny person even arrived.”

“Why?” I asked, not yet ready to believe him.

“She was high that night,” said Donald. “And she was crazed because . . . well . . . she wanted me to dump Bethany and marry her instead. She made this declaration to me in private . . . but that was absurd. Angel Stark was a crazy slut and I told her so. She slept with every guy I know. She was just wild oats, a party girl, not someone you’d marry . . . not someone in my position, anyway. Angel lied about Beth in her book, you know? Bethy didn’t sleep around. Angel was describing
herself
. . . a convenient fuck.”

I looked at Kiki. Her legs were curled up under her like a gawky adolescent. She was biting her pink lips.

“You know all this, don’t you, Kiki?” I asked.

She gave a tense shrug. “Of course.”

My gaze swung back to Donald. “I gather Angel wasn’t happy with your decision.”

“That’s an understatement. Angel claimed she was going to tell the world about me cheating on Bethany, and I threatened Angel right back. I told Angel to keep her mouth shut or I’d turn her in for dealing drugs.”

My eyebrows rose at that. I knew Angel used drugs, she’d said so in her first book. But this was the first I’d heard about her
dealing
them. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because its true,” Kiki blurted out. “Angel’s been dealing drugs in our circles for years. Johnny Napoli was a Johnny-come-lately to that little business.”

“Where’s your proof . . . for any of this?” I asked.

“I was an eyewitness . . . I
saw
Angel leave that storage room,” Donald replied. “Her silk jacket was ripped, her face was flushed. When she was gone, I went inside and . . . I found Beth, lying there, not moving . . . I didn’t want to believe she was dead at first, you know? I tried to see if she was breathing, but she was dead all right . . .”

He stopped talking, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He sipped more cognac and I pressed. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you saw? Why didn’t you tell them everything?”

Donald sat back, shrugged. “Klaus von Bülow.”

“Excuse me?”

“O. J. Simpson . . . Michael Skakel . . . The media and private investigators crawl into every nook and cranny of people’s lives when there’s a high-profile murder trial. We didn’t want that. None of us. Bethany was already dead. Nothing could bring her back . . .”

My eyes narrowed on Donald. He was an attractive charmer, but I knew he was holding back. “It was more than that, wasn’t it? Did Angel threaten you somehow?”

Once again, Donald shifted uncomfortably. “After I had gone down there . . . you know . . . and saw Bethany like that . . . my mind started racing. I put it together that Angel had done this . . . I ran back upstairs, found Angel coming in from outside. Her torn silk jacket was gone . . . her long white gloves were gone . . . I pulled her into an alcove.” He shook his head. “I could have strangled
her
right then and there. I told her we were going to call the police together, but she told me if I called the police, she’d testify that I had killed Bethany. That she’d seen me do it . . . I knew it wasn’t an idle threat . . . I had already touched that belt and Beth’s body . . . I was afraid there would be evidence against me . . .”

“You got scared?” I coaxed. “You panicked?”

“Angel told me that Johnny Napoli was about to go down to have sex with Bethany, and he would be the one to discover the body and the police would discover it was his belt . . . she said the police would pin it on Johnny . . . I knew she was right . . . and I wasn’t thinking clearly . . . so I went along with it . . . when the chaos started, after the body was discovered, I made sure people
saw
me go in the room and touch Bethany’s body—the grieving fiancé, you know? So the police would be told I had touched her after her murder. Everything went like Angel said, the police took the catering kid away and we all went home fast . . .”

“And when you considered coming out with the truth,” I said, “your family raised the nightmare specter of those celebrity scandals? The Klaus von Bülow case and the Michael Skakel and O. J. Simpson trials?”

“Right,” said Donald.

“And then Angel wrote that book.”

Donald shook his head. “When I saw her in the street, I really cursed her out. It wasn’t enough she killed Bethany, now she wanted to cash in on it.”

“What did she say?”

“She just laughed in that way she does,” said Donald. “She was such a bitch. She jacked up her usual threat level. This time she told me to keep my mouth shut or she’d come out with evidence that I had been cheating on Bethany with Kiki and that Kiki and I killed Bethany together. It was just a bluff. I knew it, but it made me crazy, and I told her to go to hell.”

“Your story is very detailed, Donald. But why should I believe you?”

“Because Kiki and I still have Angel’s torn silk jacket and white opera gloves from that night. There’s blood on the jacket and gloves, so it probably has traces of Bethany’s DNA.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re joking.”

But Kiki shook her head. “I also noticed Angel had ducked outside. Donny saw Angel come in downstairs, but I actually watched her from an upstairs bedroom window. She’d stuck something behind some statue in the garden. And when she came back, she wasn’t wearing her jacket or gloves any longer. I’m sure she expected to retrieve the clothes later, but I went out, took them, and threw them in my car. I thought it was a good idea to hold on to that stuff.”

“You forgot about the other pair of gloves,” said Donald. “They were in that bundle, too.”

“Whose gloves?” I asked. “Kiki’s?”

“No,” said Kiki. “Bethany’s.”

Donald explained. “Angel had taken Bethany’s opera gloves off her corpse. One can only assume she wanted to make sure there was as little physical evidence left behind as possible.”

Kiki nodded. “That’s why there was no skin under Bethany’s fingernails from their fight.”

I blinked in astonishment. The two of them would make a formidable couple, I concluded.

“There’s still something you aren’t telling me,” I said. “When exactly did you two start your romantic relationship?”

Donald and Kiki exchanged glances. It was Donald who spoke. “By New Year’s Eve I was through with Angel, and I was getting tired of Bethany’s endless demands and tantrums. Kiki and I became close over the holidays and hooked up.”

“Kiki said she saw Angel from an upstairs bedroom,” I noted. “But those Cliff Walk mansions are essentially museums. The upstairs rooms are supposed to be off limits, even during private parties. So I’m guessing Donald was with you up there, Kiki? And that accounts for the ‘mysterious’ hour Angel claimed in her book that Donald was missing from the party?”

“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?”