Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

“It’s mainly state police work,” Will admitted with a sigh, “passed along by Hank.”

“Did you get anything from MOM?”

Will shrugged. “My mom usually told me to shut up and do my homework.”

Sunny rolled her eyes at Will’s sense of humor. “I meant Motive, Opportunity, and Means.”

“Yeah, yeah. Motive still looks pretty short. Eliza Stoughton came to Neal’s Neck because she was dating Beau but didn’t have much to do with the Kingsburys. She was also friends with Priscilla and her matron of honor, Yardley, but it doesn’t seem like she knew the husband, Tommy, that well.”

“Well enough to get into an argument with him,” Sunny pointed out, “as well as with Carson de Kruk.”

“True, at least according to the rumors. And if we accept manual strangulation as the means of death, it would indicate that a male did the deed,” Will said. “Which leads to opportunity. Priscilla gives Carson an alibi.” “Apparently, they were together, but not exactly sleeping.” Will waggled his eyebrows, though his voice grew more serious as he went on. “Lieutenant Wainwright estimates the time of death as between shortly before midnight, when Eliza was last seen alive, and one-thirty, when her body was discovered. The Neals also have a joint alibi, having tucked themselves in together.”

“How about the guy who brought her here—Beau Bellingham?”

“He says he was asleep, alone,” Will replied.

“That doesn’t look good for Beau,” Sunny said. “He’s a big guy. He wouldn’t have had a problem strangling Eliza, or lugging her body around to dispose of it.”

“Yeah, he’d be suspect number one, except the security footage doesn’t show anyone leaving the guesthouses.”

That got Sunny sitting up straight. “You mean they’ve got surveillance cameras set up inside the compound?”

“Not as fancy as that ring of steel thingy you had in New York City,” Will said. “What is it, more than four thousand cameras, I read somewhere.”

“That wasn’t my ring of steel,” Sunny told him. “That was in lower Manhattan, and I lived in Queens.”

“Well, this is Wilawiport, and it comes down to the same old question—security versus privacy.” Will shrugged. “This is supposed to be the family hideaway, and they don’t want to be on candid camera all the time. So the surveillance is set to protect the perimeter, not monitor the occupants.”

“Which means the private road, the checkpoint, and what else–the guesthouses?”

Will nodded. “The front and back yards. Anybody sneaking around there should have been recorded, but when Wainwright and Trehearne checked the hard drives, they only saw Eliza leave a dark house, and then—nothing. Nobody in or out, not even a squirrel.”

Sunny frowned in thought. “But as you say, the security is facing outward, to keep intruders away. If you were inside the perimeter . . . The cameras around the guesthouses cover the front and back.”

“As I said,” Will frowned, too, trying to follow her logic.

“And I suppose there must have been coverage along the side of each house where they faced the neighbors,” Sunny went on.

“There’s a tall board fence, no greenery to hide in, and cameras along the whole thing,” Will assured her.

“How about the opposite side of the house, behind all these lines of defense?” Sunny asked.

Will opened his mouth to answer and then stopped. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s no side door.”

“But there are windows,” Sunny pointed out.

“And it wouldn’t hurt to ask if they were covered.” Will considered the situation for a minute. “I’ll bring it up with Wainwright. At this point, Bellingham has to be the prime suspect, with Peter Van Twissel as the dark horse. He’s the only member of the wedding party Eliza didn’t tangle with. If she wasn’t with Bellingham, maybe she made a rendezvous with Van Twissel, who also has no alibi.”

He shook his head. “It all probably boils down to who was sleeping with whom, and when. This case is turning into the kind of thing you might expect from a dive bar like O’Dowd’s, not in the run-up to a millionaire wedding. Arguments plus alcohol, things go too far, and a girl winds up dead.”

“What was the argument about?” Sunny asked.

“Not sure,” Will replied. “Apparently from the moment they arrived, Eliza kept sniping at Beau until he finally told her to shut up, and then the war began.”

Sunny shifted uneasily on her seat. “That’s not much of a motive.”

“As I said, it’s more like something out of O’Dowd’s.” Will shrugged. “Except there, it probably would’ve been settled with broken beer bottles. Not every murder involves a criminal genius. Sometimes it’s just an angry drunk.”

“Unless there is another motive.” Sunny bit her lip. “One that does involve a criminal genius . . .” She dove in. “Uh, I must have mentioned my old boss on the Standard .”

Will looked at her for a moment. “The one you were dating?”

She nodded. “He’s up here, supposedly covering the wedding prep, but he’s actually following another story.” Sunny briefly outlined what Randall had told her about the Taxman.

“And your ex . . . colleague really believes this stuff?” Will looked about as willing to accept the story as Sunny had been when Randall first told it to her.

“He does,” Sunny replied. “And he was asking for my help, as someone who knew the local scene.”

“Then I guess I’d better talk to this Randall guy,” Will said quietly. “Hear what he has to say firsthand.”

Sunny dug out her cell phone, scrolling through the “contacts” lists.

“You still have him on speed dial?” Will’s voice got a little sharper.

“It’s my old phone from New York,” she told him. “Lots of numbers from my past life are still on it.” She found Randall’s cell number and clicked on it. From the blurry “Hello?” she got, it sounded as if he must’ve zonked off right after the late newscasts. But Randall woke up pretty quickly when he realized who was calling. “Change your mind about working together, Sunny?”

“No,” she told him, “but I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Randall agreed to meet them at a 24-hour diner outside of Wilawiport in twenty minutes.

He must’ve had a room nearby, because by the time Sunny and Will arrived at the diner, Randall was already at one of the Formica-topped tables, glancing around, almost bopping in place to the jukebox music. Sunny wasn’t sure whether his energy came from eagerness or from the cup of coffee already in his hand. But all trace of animation left Randall’s face when he spotted Will’s police uniform next to Sunny.

“We were just discussing a story—a theory. Why would you go and make it official? Guess you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a real journalist,” he said sourly.

“Oh, this isn’t official,” Will said as he and Sunny took seats on the other side of the table. He stared at Randall, but it wasn’t his usual cop gaze. It was the look of a male checking out competition.

“Randall MacDermott, Will Price.” Sunny was determined to get the introductions done correctly and politely.

Unfortunately, Randall declined to play along. “Price,” he said, “the man who would be sheriff, right?” He met Will’s stare with the same kind of look, then glanced back at Sunny. “And your friend on the force. I’ve been using other sources for local background since you weren’t interested.”

Great, she thought. They’re both going caveman. What’s next? Is Will going to drag me out by my hair?

But Randall donned his bland reporter’s mask as he returned to Will. “I’m sure, given your political aspirations, that solving a case like this would be a big deal.”