The Ghost and the Dead Deb hb-2 Read online

  This time it was Mr. Koh who moaned. “Time to leave, daughter,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “I’m not leaving,” Joyce replied. “I want to find out what happens—”

  “But—”

  “Oh, come on, Dad. You only want to go because of the dirty talk. But it’s no worse than my soaps!” She tugged on his sleeve and he reseated himself with a huff.

  “Go on,” said Fiona. Johnny shrugged.

  Mr. Koh shook his head, muttering something in Korean while Joyce leaned forward, waiting to hear more.

  “I didn’t think Bethany slept around,” said Johnny. “I mean, she was engaged to Donald Easterbrook. And she never came on to me. Not before that night, anyway. I should have known it was too good to be true. That something else was going on inside her head.”

  “Please elaborate.”

  “At the lake last night, Angel gave me the 411 on what had been going on the night of the New Year’s Eve ball—that Bethany had found out her fiancé was cheating on her with one of her best friends—”

  “Who?” asked Fiona.

  “Angel claimed it was Kiki, and I believe her because there was gossip to that effect. Then Angel told me that Bethany had asked Donald to meet her in the utility room at midnight. Bethany wanted him to catch us both in the act—as revenge on him for cheating on her.”

  An old story, said Jack.

  “Wow! This is better than my soaps!” declared Joyce.

  Mr. Koh grunted.

  “Did you make the rendezvous?” asked Fiona.

  “I got there, all right. But Bethany was already dead.” Johnny’s expression darkened. “When I found her, Bethany was just lying there. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her tongue was sticking out, her face was purple . . . a belt was wrapped around her neck—my own belt as the police told me later—”

  “That’s right! Your own belt!” Fiona cried, jumping to her feet.

  “I object,” barked Seymour, jumping to his feet. “It’s my turn to—”

  “Let Johnny . . . er, the defendant, answer the question,” Brainert said, with a pound of his hammer.

  Seymour frowned and sat down.

  “She was killed in the utility room, a big storage area really. We—that is, the catering staff—we used it as a changing area. There were lockers to put your street clothes in. We all wore white-jacket uniforms for formal parties. My clothes were there inside the locker.”

  “How did it get unlocked?” asked Fiona.

  “Those lockers didn’t have locks.”

  “Ah-ha!” cried Seymour “So anyone at that party could have grabbed your belt?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Johnny.

  Seymour began to pace, “After you found the corpse, what did you do?”

  Johnny sighed. “I panicked. I had drugs on me, and in my car, too, so I didn’t want to have anything to do with the police that night. I went to my boss, the catering manager, and I told him there was a girl in really bad shape in the utility room and he should call an ambulance. Then I was going to just motor out of there, but he grabbed me and made me take him to the room. He called a security guard over on the way to come with us and I was stuck after that. They wouldn’t let me leave till the local police got there. Man, I was freaking.”

  “Because of the drugs?” Seymour asked.

  “Yeah, and the Bankses and Easterbrooks. They’re really connected—judges and lawyers and bankers and stuff. The kind of folks who’d cleaned up their kids’ messes by making a few phone calls. And now it looked like I had messed with them. I was sure the fix would be in, that the police would try to blame me for the murder . . . and that’s exactly what they did.”

  Fiona folded her arms and tapped her chin. “Why do you think Angel brought up all this with you last night?”

  “She said she found the evidence that would incriminate me,” said Johnny. “Bethany’s missing gloves.”

  “Ah, yes, the gloves,” said Fiona. “Please elaborate.”

  “Well . . . Bethany was wearing these long white gloves that matched her white dress the night of the New Year’s Eve party. You can see her wearing them in the party photos. But the gloves were gone from her body after she was . . . you know . . . murdered. The local cops never found them. That’s why they were so eager to find them that night in my locker or car. They had my belt, but they could see the lockers weren’t locked—”

  “Which meant anyone could have grabbed it,” Seymour reminded the jury.

  “Right,” said Johnny. “And they figured her gloves would have my DNA on them, so they were sure if they found them, that would slam-dunk my conviction, you know, totally link me to the murder. But they didn’t find them. They never found them. Now Angel claimed she had recovered the gloves and that my DNA was on them—”

  “Did you believe her?” asked Fiona.

  Johnny shifted. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what happened to those gloves . . . nobody did. But . . . Bethany did touch me with them that night at the party . . . while she was inviting me to meet her in the utility room at midnight.”

  “Touched you how?”

  “She brushed my bangs back . . . she was being flirty, you know . . . and I’d been running back and forth with a lot of heavy trays all night . . . so some of my sweat could have ended up on her gloves . . . And now Angel was saying she was going to take them to the police, unless I did her a favor.”

  “What kind of a favor?” asked Fiona.

  “She wanted me to kill someone,” said Johnny.

  The room gasped.

  “Forget your soaps, Joyce,” said Milner. “Now it sounds like one of my noir crime novels.”

  Joyce waved her hand. “Sorry, Mr. Logan. You obviously haven’t been watching daytime television lately.”

  “And just who was it that you killed for Angel Stark?” Fiona cried, ignoring the peanut gallery.

  This time Seymour pounced. “I object. The prosecution is making baseless accusations and is openly hostile to the witness—”

  “I’m supposed to be hostile,” said Fiona, hand on her hip. “That’s my job.”

  “Enough already. I want to pursue a new line of questioning, just so I can get a word in edgewise,” said Seymour.

  Fiona stomped her foot. “I object!”

  “Overruled,” said Brainert. “I think it’s time we heard from the defense.”

  “Johnny, tell us: Who was it that Angel wanted you to harm?”

  “I didn’t stick around to find out, because I told Angel flat out I wasn’t going to do it, no matter what she claimed about having Bethany’s gloves.”

  Seymour whirled on Johnny so suddenly he flinched. “Did you believe Angel was serious about wanting someone killed?”

  “Word,” replied Johnny.

  “What?” asked Sadie.

  Huh? said Jack.

  “He meant yes,” interrupted Joyce, “as in, you can take his word for it.”

  Brainert turned to Johnny. “The witness will refrain from using hip-hop slang.”

  Johnny shrugged.

  “What did you do next, Johnny?” asked Seymour.

  “I refused to take care of her problem. Then I told Angel that she could go to the cops if she really wanted to because I wasn’t some hit man. I’d take my chances with the authorities because I wanted to set my life straight.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Angel freaked. Started calling me names. Started screaming about everyone in Newport conspiring against her. Then she opened that handbag of hers and yanked out a handgun, a .38-caliber police special. I thought she was gonna shoot me, so I ran off, back to the parking lot.”

  “Hmm,” said Fiona, pacing, “That’s rather interesting . . .”

  “What?”

  Fiona spun around and pointed her finger. “You knew what caliber of gun she was holding? How?”

  Again, Johnny shrugged. “I knew because my drug supplier had a gun just like it.”

  �
��Are you sure it wasn’t because you have one, too—and you were the one who pulled the gun, not Angel?”

  “No! No way! It’s like I said, I swear!”

  “I object!” cried Seymour. “Fiona is a pest!”

  Brainert raised an eyebrow. “You mean she’s pestering your witness?”

  “That too.”

  “All right,” said Brainert. “Sustained. Fiona, get on with your next question.”

  “Fine,” said Fiona. “Now where was I? Oh, yes . . .” She began pacing again. “You say you ran away. Did Ms. Stark follow you?”

  Johnny nodded. “Angel caught up with me at my uncle’s truck while I fumbled with the lock. I got behind the wheel, but she grabbed the door, tried to shove the gun into my hand. I threw it on the pavement and the next thing I know I got a face full of bullets—”

  “What?” Bud leaped to his feet. “She shot at you!”

  “No, no, Uncle Bud, chill,” said Johnny. “Angel had bullets for the gun—I guess it wasn’t loaded. When I tried to leave she threw them in my face. I just brushed them off the seat, the dashboard, and slammed the door. I was bug-gin’ and I accidentally flooded the engine. The pickup stalled, so I had to wait a few minutes, but I tried again and it finally started. Then I drove off, and that’s the last time I saw her, I swear.”

  “So where were you for the last twenty-four hours?”

  “I got scared. Figured Angel was going to the police,” Johnny said. “I was almost at the Canadian border when I came to my senses and decided to come back, face the music—tell the authorities my side of things. But when I got close to Quindicott, I heard about Angel’s murder on the radio and I panicked. I ditched my uncle Bud’s pickup and hoofed it back to town through the woods. I tried to get home, but I saw cops staked out at my uncle’s house and the hardware store so I came here and hid.”

  “Where did you ditch the truck?” Bud asked. “I should go get it.”

  “If you do that, the police will know you’ve seen Johnny,” I said. “The truck was reported missing with him, remember?”

  “Yeah, I forgot,” said Bud. “I hope it’s safe.”

  “Don’t worry, Bud,” said Johnny. “I drove it up the old service road near the highway.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Bud. “I thought that road was blocked by a couple of concrete posts and a steel cable.”

  “It is,” Joyce Koh said. “But the cable is loose and you can unhook it yourself.”

  Johnny nodded. “The kids around here use it for a lovers’ lane sometimes.”

  Mr. Koh glared at his daughter. “How do you know of this place, Joyce?”

  “Everybody knows.” Joyce shrugged.

  Her comment was followed by a string of Korean words.

  “I never did,” Joyce insisted. “I just know about it. But it’s no big deal.”

  Mr. Koh countered with more Korean.

  “Order! Order!” Brainert cried, pounding his hammer.

  Johnny stood up. “Stop arguing all of you!” he cried. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to turn myself in to Chief Ciders.”

  All at once the Community Events room was plunged into silence.

  “He’s right,” said Bud, rising. “Innocent men don’t run. And if we try to hide him, we’ll all get in trouble with the law.” His gaze found his nephew’s eyes. “We’ll go to Chief Ciders together.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Dark Discovery

  I haven’t got the heart to see a nice-looking young man like you go to jail.

  —Erle Stanley Gardner, “Leg Man,” Black Mask magazine, 1938

  THE QUIBBLERS’ FAREWELL to Johnny was a sad sight. Linda and Milner wore grim faces as they wished him good luck. Joyce Koh tearfully hugged the young man with her scowling father looking on. Even my aunt Sadie, who usually maintained a flinty exterior, appeared a bit misty, and I realized she was not watching Johnny but Bud.

  “Good luck, kid,” said Seymour, shaking Johnny’s hand. “If you ever need a good lawyer, look one up in the phone book, because you can do way better than me.”

  “I second that assessment,” said Fiona.

  After a final respectful nod from Judge Brainert, I escorted Johnny and Bud out of the Community Events room and through the dimly lit store. I unlocked the front door to let them out, and Johnny turned to face me. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. McClure. I left a note in your storage room. On that old desk. It’s for Mina. Could you make sure she gets it?”

  I nodded. I had sequestered Johnny in that room until the meeting began. “I promise she’ll get your message first thing in the morning.”

  “I told her everything.” He shook his head. “She’s been the best thing in my life since all the bad stuff happened. She made me start to feel good about myself and . . . I don’t know . . . to want to be a better person, you know?” He shrugged. “I decided she deserves to know the truth . . . everything . . . and then she can dump me if she wants to. I won’t blame her.”

  “Mina cares about you, Johnny,” I assured him. “I haven’t known her long, but I don’t think she’s the kind of young woman who gives up on people. You’ll see.”

  As they exited the store, Bud Napp put his arm on Johnny’s shoulder, gave his nephew a reassuring pat—a paternal gesture that just about tore my heart out.

  “What’s your verdict, Jack?” I silently asked.

  Poor dumb Johnny wanted to be a player. And the smart set ended up playing him. But the evidence is stacked, baby, and the cops are likely to be leaning in the same direction.

  “But Johnny’s innocent,” I replied. “And Bud believes the court will clear him.”

  The old guy’s sucking hope through an air hose, kiddo. Bud’s happy thoughts and square-john rectitude ain’t gonna keep that kid from wearing a fresh fish special—

  “Huh?”

  A prison haircut. You’re fresh fish when everyone knows you’re the new guy because you’ve just been clipped. My point being that these are high-altitude crimes, with crème-de-la-crème stiffs pushing up daisies, so the heat’s on the suits in the system to throw a neck-tie party—even if the guest of honor’s just a patsy.

  “But—”

  No buts. There’s yards of circumstantial evidence to make the charges stick like a floozy’s chewing gum.

  I returned to the Community Events room, where a funeral pall had descended over the assembly. Seymour and Brainert were silently munching cinnamon rolls. Fiona clutched a cup of tea, and was leafing through a copy of All My Pretty Friends. Joyce Koh was dramatically blowing her nose into a tissue.

  “Poor Johnny.” She sighed. “He’s so young and cute. It’s like, how could anyone so buff be a criminal? Bummer.”

  “You think he’s innocent, then?” I asked.

  Joyce blinked. “Don’t you?”

  “I’d like to know what everyone else thinks.”

  “Well, I think he’s been framed,” said Seymour. “And not because I represented the guy. I know those rich bums up in Newport. I’m sure one of them did it. They’re all pond scum.”

  “That’s a blanket generalization,” said Brainert. “Overruled.”

  “Listen, Judge, the trial’s over, and I speak of what I know.”

  “What has the Newport set ever done to you, Seymour?” Linda asked.

  “That’s easy. Remember last year, after I had to have my ice cream truck repainted after some dude’s guts got splattered all over it?”

  I shuddered, recalling the murder of a young Salient House publicity assistant that occurred right in front of this store.

  “That paint job set me back a few dollars, let me tell you. Plus I lost a week of selling while the work was getting done. My ice cream business struggled for the rest of the summer, until I feared I’d have to sell a few pulps to swell my bank account. I decided to extend the ice cream season, instead.”

  Brainert adjusted his bow tie and huffed impatiently. “What’s your point, Tarnish?”

  “Well, then came autumn a
nd I was still working to make up for lost revenue. I was parked down at the Inn during Fiona’s Oktoberfest celebration when a few rich snots from Newport asked for sundaes. I whipped them up, served them up with a smile, and the a-hole who ordered them just walked away with his friends without paying—like it was free or something. I tried to collar them, but the guy just laughed. ‘It’s only ten bucks,’ he said, like it was too little of an amount to bother fishing out of his wallet. When I got more adamant, I was muscled by some bodyguard-type, and those a-holes just strolled away.”

  Brainert frowned “That’s no reason to brand an entire class.”

  “Why the hell not?” Seymour replied. “I’m like an elephant that way. Do me wrong, I never forget.”

  The room fell silent for a moment, everyone lost in thought. Suddenly Aunt Sadie spoke. “What if Johnny is innocent? He’s no Klaus von Bülow. He can’t afford proper legal representation. I feel like we’ve condemned the poor boy to the gallows.”

  For once these cornpone yahoos are talking sense, said Jack.

  “Quiet, Jack,” I silently replied. “And my friends are not yahoos.”

  “I think he’s guilty,” said Milner. “It doesn’t make sense, otherwise. If Johnny didn’t do the crimes, who did?”

  Fiona slapped her book closed loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “I know I’m supposed to be the prosecutor here, but to be frank, I can finger a few other suspects just by perusing Angel Stark’s book.”

  “I read that book, too,” said Brainert. “And despite what she claimed at her reading here, I thought Angel dropped the ball when it came to blame, wrapping it all up with the old ‘unanswered questions’ summation.”

  “She didn’t name anybody,” Fiona replied. “But a close reading reveals some tantalizing clues.”

  Brainert huffed. “If you say so. I yield to your true crime expertise.”

  We faced Fiona. Some of us were hopeful. Others—like me—were dubious.

  “Well, it says on page two nineteen that Donald Easterbrook, Bethany’s fiancé, disappeared from the party about an hour before Bethany’s body was found. Angel also writes that Bethany cheated on Donald many times. That’s certainly a good motive for him to murder her in a fit of rage.”