Hiss and Tell (4 page)

“Pushing things a little, aren’t they?” Sunny looked from the barrier to the last two houses facing the public road. “They’ve cut off access to both of their neighbors here.”

“Those aren’t neighbors. The Kingsburys bought both those places in order to keep prying eyes at bay. They also serve as extra guest quarters when a lot of people are visiting the property,” Ken explained, politely stepping aside as a pair of young women dressed in about as little as Robin Lory had worn on Ben Semple’s boat emerged from one of the houses and strolled ahead of them. “From what I hear, today’s get-together is supposed to introduce the families and the members of the wedding party to one another.”

“How nice for them.” Sunny watched the girls go off to the left while a guy in a dark Windbreaker with “Security” in large white letters on the back turned to watch them. As Ken and Sunny approached, however, the security guy directed them down a path to the right.

Sunny glanced over her shoulder as she followed Ken. Mr. Security was still checking the girls out.

They joined a growing crowd of newspeople facing an
improvised outdoor stage, and Sunny began worming her way through the assembled camera people and press photographers to find a decent vantage point.

As it turned out, she really didn’t have to kill herself. There wasn’t much worth photographing. Ken had predicted correctly, this was just a preliminary press conference, conducted by Fiona Ormond. No famous—or even semi-famous—Kingsbury faces were in attendance. Fiona repeated several times in different ways that this was just a social gathering, a chance for the families to spend time together well in advance of the wedding itself. In spite of her attempt to downplay the visit, she also tried to lay down some press ground rules, stressing the security arrangements around the nuptials both now and months in the future.

Either they’re afraid of party crashers or paparazzi,
Sunny thought as she nevertheless dutifully shot various angles of Fiona as she spoke on the stage, turning a bit to catch some of the cameras and press people as well. For Ken’s purposes, just having all these media people converging on the county would make for a good story. Asking a question would just be icing on the cake.

But Ken did speak up, making a rather pointed inquiry about how many local businesses would be contributing to the upcoming nuptials.
Good one,
Sunny thought, fighting her way around to get a picture of Ken as Fiona launched into a speech similar to the one Sunny had already heard her give at the 99 Elmet Ladies event about looking into local sources for services like catering, transportation, flowers, and so forth. “We’re even inviting local bakers to submit designs for the wedding cake,” she finished.

“Are the de Kruks staying here for the wedding
preparations? Have they arrived yet?” a new voice cut in, brashly asking what everyone really wanted to know. The Kingsburys were big fish, especially in Wilawiport, but there was no doubt that it was the nationally prominent de Kruks who had drawn all this attention.

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.

“The young people,” Cale pointed out. Sunny recognized the sandy-haired girl, in a much more sensible bathing suit, before Cale nodded toward her. “That’s Cillie over by the springboard. Carson’s the blond guy beside her.”

Carson de Kruk was tall and slim, throwing his head back to laugh at something Cillie was saying. With her fair coloring and more refined features, Priscilla didn’t look
much like her uncle Caleb; maybe, like Carson de Kruk, she took after her mother’s side. Or maybe she represented another genetic string. It had to be more than twenty years since Priscilla’s father had died in that accident while campaigning. Sunny only had blurry memories of a guy with Kennedyesque hair on political posters. She couldn’t remember Mrs. Lem Kingsbury at all, except that the woman had suffered a breakdown and later died.

Cale waved, and Priscilla waved back. “Put on a suit and join us, Uncle Cale!” she called.

“No way,” he replied. “The last thing your party needs is an old fogey hanging around.”

He drove past the pool, shaking his head reminiscently. “Used to have a lot of fun there, back in the day.”

Soon enough, they arrived back at the little parking area. “Your inconvenient fella should be long gone by now,” Cale said.

He was right. As they came back up to the makeshift stage, the area was empty except for a few Kingsbury security staffers who gave Sunny surprised looks as Cale escorted her past them. “The troopers take their job really seriously,” he said, as they reached the roadblock. “No cars allowed to stop. I hope they didn’t scare off your ride.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sunny replied. “I’m a local, from down in Kittery Harbor.”

“Well, then, good luck, neighbor.” Cale smiled. “It was nice to meet you, Sunny.”

Sunny smiled back. “Thank you for being so gallant—and gracious.”

She waved good-bye and passed the troopers . . . then saw Will Price, fuming, in a Kittery Harbor patrol car.

Sunny walked over
to the open driver’s-side window. “I hope Ken Howell didn’t ask you to come up here and get me,” she said.

But as it turned out, Will hadn’t even known Sunny was still around, nor did he now think to ask why she’d been there so late after the press conference. “I just had another wonderful meeting with the head of security around here, Lee Trehearne,” he vented. “Some security. I got to hear all his complaints about what a traffic jam the news trucks caused, and how we’ll need more officers to handle crowd control on the day of the big event.”

Will shook his head in frustration, but he did agree to give her a lift back to Kittery Harbor, where Sunny dropped off the camera with Ken Howell, who immediately had one of his interns working to download the photos. “That I can trust
them to do,” he muttered to Sunny. “They still have a lot to learn before I can let them actually take the pictures.”

“All I’ve got are shots from the press statement,” she said apologetically. “When Caleb Kingsbury took me around the compound, it was on the condition that I didn’t take any pictures.”

Ken shrugged philosophically. “Not surprising. That’s pretty much what always happens. The only pictures that come out of there nowadays are official photos. Even the stuff on Facebook looks professionally staged and vetted. Anything else to report?”

“I got a lot of old family stories—interesting, but I don’t think there’s any way to tie them in with the statement by the wedding planner. Oh, and one piece of hard news, if you can really call it that: Carson de Kruk is already in the compound. Cale pointed him and the bride-to-be out to me as we passed by a pool party.”

“Cale, eh?” Ken cocked his head. “How was Mister Kingsbury?”

“Very nice,” Sunny replied. “But whether it was politician nice or pickup-artist nice, I couldn’t tell.” She grinned. “Or maybe he had nothing better to do, and helping me out of an embarrassing situation appealed to him. I spotted someone in the crowd, my former editor.” She paused for a second. “We were an item, once. Seeing him sort of threw me off.”

Trust Ken to be all business at such a revelation. “You don’t usually see an editor out in the field, unless it’s for a small operation like mine,” he said. “Why do you think a New York paper like the
Standard
would send him all the way up here?”

“I don’t know, and I’m sorry, Ken, but I don’t want to find out,” Sunny told him. “If I talk to anyone who’s still
on the paper, it’s sure to get back to Randall, and I’m in no mood to deal with him.”

Outwardly, Ken accepted that, but Sunny could sense the wheels turning in his head. “I wonder where he’s staying,” the editor said.

“Well, I can assure you he didn’t get a bed and breakfast reservation through the MAX site,” Sunny replied. “In the old days, especially for an editor, the
Standard
would have sprung for the best hotel or motel nearby. But working on a tighter budget, I don’t know how that affects the old expense account.” She headed for the door but then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “And let me repeat, I don’t care.”

Sunny returned to the MAX office to find everything going smoothly. No smoke was pouring from the back of the computer, Nancy sat at the keyboard posting information to one of the databases. “Ollie tried to hang around until you came back, but he got a call from the rehab center. I heard Elsa’s voice on the line, so he didn’t put up a fight.” Nancy leaned forward eagerly. “So how’d it go? Give me all the details, I’m living vicariously through you.”

“The press conference wasn’t very exciting,” Sunny told her. “They had the wedding planner telling the newspeople how to behave. Not exactly riveting stuff—especially since any reporter worth his or her salt would happily break any of those rules for a good story. But,” she added as Nancy’s face fell, “Caleb Kingsbury did take me on a personal tour of the compound.”

Nancy obviously recognized the name—and judging by her expression, she hadn’t heard good things about its owner. “Isn’t he kind of a skeevy guy?”

Sunny had to laugh. “That’s something you learn in the
journalism business, Nancy. It’s the skeevy guys who usually give you the best stories.”

Nancy looked unconvinced. “Did you see anyone else?”

“I saw Priscilla Kingsbury and Carson de Kruk, but at a distance,” Sunny said.

Nancy leaned forward, all eagerness again. “What did they look like? Is Carson as good-looking in person as he seems in the papers?” Nancy asked. “He doesn’t look at all like his dad.”

“No, Carson was lucky enough to get his mother’s genes,” Sunny agreed, though she wasn’t sure which one of Augustus de Kruk’s ex-wives was Carson’s mother. His father had gone through a string of spouses, mostly blond, all beautiful. Which had certainly helped to balance out the genetic books, since Augustus himself looked like a bald eagle suffering from some kind of digestive upset.

“So . . . what are they like?”

“You mean, are the rich really different, the way people say?” Sunny shrugged. “I’ve met a couple of rich people, and they certainly have concerns and a view of the world I can scarcely guess about. The house there was probably bigger than this whole block, and I’ve never had servants jumping to take care of me.”

“Neither have I,” Nancy sighed.

“On the other hand, the pool partly looked like a pool party. Nobody seemed to be wearing a solid gold bathing suit. I bet there were expensive designers involved, but I couldn’t really tell that from a distance. It was just people drinking and dancing. So I’d say not all that different, really.”

Not that I’m likely to find out for sure,
Sunny thought.
Neither MAX nor a journalism job would put a place like
Neal’s Neck in my future. Not unless I married someone like Augustus de Kruk.
Sunny shuddered a little.
Or maybe Cale Kingsbury. Wonder what it would be like to live on a yacht?

They finished out the day’s work, and Sunny headed home, where Shadow met her at the door and gave her a brief once-over. But Sunny didn’t hear the usual background noise of the TV as she walked down the hall to the arched entrance for the living room. “Dad? You home?” she called.

Mike sat stiffly on the couch, his arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. “I called Ken Howell, trying to see if there was some way to get extra coverage about Will since he’ll be tied up in Wilawiport. Imagine my surprise when I heard where you’d been. What was he thinking, letting you go off on your own with someone like Caleb Kingsbury?”

Sunny had faced this kind of inquisition before, whenever she got involved with guys whom Mike considered inappropriate boyfriends. But the last time this had happened had to be during her freshman year in college.

She fought down the urge to laugh. That would only make things worse. “Well, Dad, I didn’t go out sailing with him,” she said. “And since the place was crawling with press and security people, I figured he’d probably control himself.”

“I’m sure that poor girl who drowned didn’t think anything bad was going to happen to her, either.” Mike harrumphed, but Sunny could see in his eyes that he’d begun to realize how ridiculous this conversation was.

She gave him a smile. “I wouldn’t worry, Dad. He didn’t ask for a date.”

“Yeah. Well. You know how these rich people can be.”
Mike unbent a little. “And rich and famous, that can be a really nasty combination.”

“I know, Dad. I’ll tell you all about it over supper.” Sunny headed for the kitchen with Shadow at her heels. Mike already had the table set, so Sunny just had to get the cold dishes out under Shadow’s supervision. It was lucky that they still had leftover salad stuff for supper. A bottle of flavored seltzer, and they were all set.

Mike enjoyed the story of her jaunt to Neal’s Neck. He’d heard the stories about the rum-running and the attempt to shoot the offending wasp but was interested in the details that Sunny gave. Maybe too interested, when Sunny mentioned Randall MacDermott.

“I never met that Randall fella, did I?” Mike said when she finished. “He was one of your New York beaus.”

“Like I had so many of them.” Sunny tried to dismiss the subject.

“And you say he’s up around here somewhere?” Mike went on innocently.

“Dad, he’s ancient history now. A mistake I made.” Sunny put her fork down and gave Mike a look. “One I don’t want to revisit.”

“Of course not,” Mike hastily agreed with her. “Did you tell Will about him?”

“Dad!” Her tone of voice was enough to bring Shadow over, rising to put his forefeet up on the chair seat to see what had upset her.

They finished the meal in silence and went to the living room to watch TV. Sunny sat on the floor, distracting herself by playing with Shadow. As he crawled over her lap, he often stopped to sniff at the side of her leg—the left side,
which had faced Caleb Kingsbury as they’d buzzed around the family compound in the golf cart.

Don’t tell me he keeps a captivating cat aboard that yacht of his,
Sunny thought as she gave Shadow a good scratch between the ears.
I don’t think you’ll be heading over to Neal’s Neck for any play dates, kiddo.

*

Shadow closed his
eyes. Playing with Sunny was always fun. But the best part of all was being able to lie in her lap, boneless, his paws splayed out, his belly up and unprotected. For most of his life and in most of the world, that would be suicide. He knew he could do it here, though, because he was safe with Sunny. She was gentle and would never let anything bad happen to him. He could utterly relax around her.

And, of course, he might also get a tummy rub.

As he stretched out, his paws just kneading the air, Shadow let his head fall back on Sunny’s left thigh. Then he turned round, sniffing. There was that fragrance again, very faint. He could just detect it . . . a combination of several scents that mixed together into something wonderful to inhale.

It wasn’t like what had happened when he came across Portia’s scent. That had just about driven him crazy. And it wasn’t like his response to Sunny’s natural scent. That made him want to be close to her, enjoy her warmth and her breathing, the feel of her hands caressing him. No, this was a made smell, like some of the things Sunny sometimes put on. Frankly, Shadow didn’t like most of those. Why mess up a perfectly good scent with some odd, made-up smell that usually made Shadow want to sneeze? But this one was surprising, a good smell he’d like to investigate.

He shifted around in Sunny’s lap, thinking. This was another one of those weird two-leg things. They were never content to let things be. They had to make things to go fast, to make hot air cold and cold air hot. Of course, they
did
do some pretty amazing things with food. In his travels Shadow had sometimes had to hunt for himself, and he knew how difficult that could be. But Sunny often went out and a little while later would come back with all kinds of food. When he was a kit, Shadow thought the two-legs had to be the greatest hunters ever.

Now, of course, he knew about the big houses where humans went for food. When he was on the street, he’d sometimes gone behind those places and found food for himself—some of it going bad, some of it running and squeaking when he came along.

Shadow shook that memory away. Those had definitely not been good times. Why should he even think of them, when he was having a wonderful time with Sunny?

She leaned over him, whispering, and laid a hand on his belly fur. He brought both forepaws down to trap it in place, wriggling with delight. The faint trace of scent from her leg only heightened his pleasure.

He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the combination. Whenever she came back from whatever strange two-leg places she visited, he’d check for this scent again. . . .

*

Sunny found herself
yawning before the detective show her dad liked was underway. She wasn’t even paying attention when they brought out the big plot twist before the ads for the halfway point. It was hard enough just to keep her eyes open.

“I guess I did too much today,” she said, yawning and stretching. Shadow jumped out of her lap, ready for some other game. But Sunny just wished her dad a good evening and padded her way up the stairs and to her room.

By the time she had her pajamas on, Shadow had come upstairs and joined her. She’d gambled that the warm weather wouldn’t hold up after the sun went down, so she’d opened the window before sitting down to dinner. Good bet. The temperature in the room was just right. With a sheet and light blanket, she’d be fine.

She’d just turned off the light and arranged herself comfortably when a small head butted her just above the elbow. Shadow was demanding that she open the circle of her arms and let him in. Sunny obliged, and they lay together in the dimness. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of their breathing, hers growing longer and longer until she was asleep. She dreamed that Shadow was howling in her ear: “Get up! Get up! The phone!”

Sunny opened her eyes. No sign of Shadow, but the phone
was
bleating away. She fumbled for it in the blue green light from her clock radio and finally got the handset to her ear. “H’lo?”

“Sunny? Ken Howell here.”

Does he ever sleep?
Sunny wondered blearily, trying to make out what time it was.
Two a.m. Wonderful.

“Sorry to call so late, but—Look, I just got a tip that something happened out on Neal’s Neck. I’m heading out there, and frankly I could use a photographer.”

“What happened?” Sunny’s reporter side was instantly awake and coherent.

“I’m not sure. Somebody spotted lights on the shore. Not party lights, searchlights, up on top of the cliff. That’s never happened before. There may be an accident or some other kind of trouble.”

Sunny found herself sitting up. “I’ll be there—”

“Hello? Hello? What’s wrong?” Mike’s voice came over the line, sounding old and frightened. He always equated late-night calls with bad news.

“It’s Ken Howell, Mike,” Ken said. “Sorry to wake you, but I need to borrow Sunny’s services.”

“She’s got work in the morning,” Mike protested. “Of all the damn fool—”