Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

The questioner’s voice sounded familiar, and it seemed to be coming from over near Ken. But when Sunny spotted the speaker through her viewfinder, she nearly dropped her camera. It was Randall MacDermott, her old boss from the New York Standard . He looked the same as ever, still tall and slim, with a ruddy face—“like a map of Ireland,” as the saying went. His generous jaw held a trace of dimple, his expressive lips set in an impish half smile. Oh crap, Sunny thought, quickly turning away. The fact of the matter was that they had once become something more than editor and reporter. Randall and his wife had separated, their marriage was finished, all that was left was signing the divorce papers, he’d told her. So she’d dated him. But while she’d been away taking care of her father, things had changed. The paper got a new owner, heads were rolling, and the next thing Sunny knew, Randall was back with his family—and she was out of a job.

As the press conference ground to an end, Sunny tried to blend in with the crowd, slouching a little so her distinctive mane of red hair wouldn’t be as visible. She risked a glance over at Ken. If I go over there to join him, we’ll be right under Randall’s nose, she thought, frantically looking for someplace to take cover as the crowd began to disperse.

The only spot she could see was a clump of decorative bushes. Moving crabwise with her head down, she darted behind the foliage—and collided with someone who was already there. A strong arm caught her as she bounced back and nearly fell. Sunny looked up to see another face she recognized—from photos, at least.

It was Caleb Kingsbury, uncle of the bride.

His hair was longer and shaggier than it had been in his Congress days. Grayer, too. But even with lines grooved in around his eyes and mouth, he still looked like a mischievous kid. Maybe it was those bright blue, innocent-seeming eyes.

“I’m so sorry!” Sunny said, checking that she hadn’t dropped her camera or any of the other equipment.

“No harm done.” Kingsbury cocked an inquiring eyebrow. “You know, when this hoedown is done, the security people will want you to go thataway.” He gestured toward the crowd of media types and the road off the peninsula which lay beyond them.

“I know,” Sunny said, “but if I go thataway, I’m going to bump into someone I really don’t want to meet. An old colleague—”

“More than that, judging from the look on your face.” Kingsbury laughed. “Or that look either. Hey, I used to be a politician. I learned something about reading people.” His impudent blue eyes twinkled. “I could help, you know. What say I give you the nickel tour of this place?” Kingsbury looked a little embarrassed as he added, “But you’d have to put your camera away.”

He offered his arm, and Sunny shrugged, putting her camera in its case. Why not? The alternative was facing Randall, and besides, this way she’d get a story she could dine out on with Ollie, at least.

As they stepped out from behind the shrubbery, Sunny spotted Ken Howell looking for her. But when he recognized Caleb Kingsbury beside her, he gave her a quick thumbs-up and walked away. Not that either of them could have foreseen this, but like all good newspeople, they both understood you had to follow the story. Even before they’d set off for Neal’s Neck, Ken had made sure she had cab fare to get back home if necessary.

“I don’t need to tell you,” he’d said. “You’ve got to be ready for any eventuality. Who knows? You might wind up in conversation with somebody and get some useful background.” Sunny couldn’t help cynically wondering if this had been Ken’s plan all along, though how could he have known?

Still, Caleb Kingsbury was pleasant as he led her around to the rear of the stage. A guy in the usual black security Windbreaker moved to stop Sunny, but Caleb waved him off. “It’s okay, George. She’s with me.”

They came upon a miniature parking lot with several golf carts lined up. Kingsbury brought Sunny to the second in line. “It’s a little easier to get around in these. They’re free for anyone in the compound, except for that one.” He pointed to the cart he’d bypassed. “See the U.S. Senate seal on the windshield? That one’s just for my dad.”

“The Senator,” Sunny said.

Caleb shrugged. “Yep, that’s even what I call him. Families have their ways—odd names and such. For instance, I’m Cale.” He gave a little laugh. “And it’s not because some folks think I’m just a bitter vegetable. My brother Lem started calling me that when we were little kids. And my niece Priscilla christened herself ‘Silly,’ although we spell it C - I - L - L - I - E . It could have been worse. You should have heard what she came up with before that, when we tried to call her Prissy.”

“Been there,” Sunny told him. “My mom was a music lover who named me Sonata, but I go by Sunny. Last name Coolidge, no relation to the president, sorry.”

Cale nodded. “There you go, then.” He followed a path that took them past a large, professional-looking tennis court. “Do you play? Between us, I think my family’s real religion is tennis. God help anyone who picks up a racquet against us.” Farther along, they came to the big house Sunny had heard about, a large, rambling shingle structure that looked as if it had thrown out several wings in the course of its existence.

“Grandfather Neal built the place more than a century ago. He was a real pistol—and I mean that literally. There are a couple of bullet holes in the dining room ceiling where he tried to shoot a wasp that had stung him. Those must have been the days. During Prohibition, the story is that he had his own private rumrunner delivering right to the wharf. Not that he sold the stuff. It was all consumed on the premises, in parties that I hear would’ve put Great Gatsby to shame.” Cale paused for a second. “After my father inherited the place, there was a lot more decorum than rum.”

Sunny got the feeling Cale wasn’t a hundred percent behind that notion.

He drove on in a large loop that took them to the point of the peninsula where carefully tended green lawns abruptly ended in a rocky drop to the sea. “You have to admit, it’s a hell of a view,” Cale said. “On days when the water gets really rough, you can catch spray from the rocks even up here. When I was a kid, this was my favorite place. I used to sit here and imagine I was steering straight out to sea.”

“And now you get to do that for real. Your yacht came past us on Saturday by the Isles of Shoals.”

“You saw the Merlin ?” Cale asked in surprise.

“A beautiful boat. And an interesting name—for a privateer,” Sunny said.

Cale laughed again. “You know that story, too, eh? It’s just a reminder. The Kingsburys started out as preachers. Sometimes I think that politics is just another form of preaching for them. The Neals, though, they were always pirates in one way or another, whether on the sea or on Wall Street.”

He leaned back in the golf cart’s seat. “People always tell me I’ve got a little too much Neal and not enough Kingsbury.” He grinned. “Works out fine if you’re going to be the family’s eccentric uncle.” Then he started up the golf cart again. “So now you’ve seen the famous compound. Hope it wasn’t a big disappointment.”

They rounded a curve, and all of a sudden a swimming pool appeared ahead of them, where a party was apparently underway. Sunny spotted the two girls she’d seen on her way to the press conference. One of them, a tall brunette who seemed in danger of falling out of her violet bikini, was dancing with a glass in her hand.