Neighbors are frightening enough when they’re alive.
—George A. Romero, filmmaker
THOUGH I WAS completely gobsmacked by my sister-in-law’s announcement, I managed to form a coherent monosyllabic sentence in response—
“Why?”
“Honestly? We were stuck in a rut.” Ashley shook her blond mane and spoke in a conspiratorial half whisper. “You were so right to get out of the city when you did. Manhattan’s become such a mess, so we’ve put our town house up for sale.
“Of course, our son will still attend Manhattan Prep. The campus is isolated from the common people, and it’s by far the finest boarding school in the Northeast.”
Brace yourself, doll.
“There’s always a berth for Spencer, you know. Bertram is on the board; I’m sure he can arrange a full scholarship due to your financial . . . situation.”
You want me to blow cold smoke up her skirt? Jack asked.
I had to admit, it was a tempting offer—Jack’s. Not Ashley’s.
“You must think of your son’s future,” my sister-in-law argued. “Boarding school would be far superior to a public education. He’d socialize with a better class of people, and that’s a definite plus. No more troublesome locals like Spencer’s little blue-haired babysitter.”
“Tracy? What do you know about Tracy?”
“Oh, look!” Ashley cried, gesturing to a cluster of people across the room. “My friend Marjorie’s arrived!”
Another ding-a-ling makes an appearance.
Marjorie Binder-Smith, mayor of Quindicott, was surrounded by several members of our town council, well-known to be her political puppets. The woman’s typical disapproving countenance—which Sadie once described as “Mrs. Grundy 2.0”—had brightened considerably, and I quickly saw why. She was chatting up that famous television newscaster.
Meanwhile, Ashley continued to gush all over me.
“I’m so excited about our impending move!”
Well, I’m not, the ghost groused. So you better warn that pretentious petunia, if she moves anywhere near this place, I’ll scare her into next week.
Biting my cheek to keep from laughing, I asked, “Where exactly are you moving, Ashley? Larchmont Avenue, I presume?”
“Actually, Bertram and I have our eyes on a magnificent Queen Anne, right on the pond . . .”
As Ashley went on describing Fiona and Barney Finch’s property, right down to the beachfront Lighthouse, her husband visibly winced.
“Nothing is settled yet,” Bertram interjected pointedly, cutting off Ashley’s careless words. But it was too late.
See that, doll? Jack declared in triumph. The truth will out!
Jack was right. Just like shaky Benny in that tenement basement, Ashley had given me the verbal equivalent of a monogrammed cuff link—without having any idea what she was handing over.
Now I knew who was behind the outrageous local tax on the Finch Inn. I did my best to hide my reaction, but inside I was absolutely fuming!
Buying off their political friends, my sister-in-law and her husband had set out to ruin my friends and defy the last will and testament of Harriet McClure by claiming the estate she’d left to the Finch family—property that was now an absolute treasure, thanks to the painstaking work Fiona and Barney had done to improve and beautify it.
This underhanded ploy is classic Ashley! I told the ghost.
Yeah, getting others to do your dirty work keeps your fingerprints off the knife. But cheer up. This is what I call the bright side of the gumshoe’s tunnel.
Bright side?
Learning the real truth not only gets you out of the dark; it gives you an advantage in the ring.
How?
Same way those two vultures are taking out the poor Finches. If your opponent can’t see you, knocking them out is a whole lot easier.
I don’t know if that’s true, Jack. But I sure wish I could KO Ashley.
I was so angry I might have done it, too. Good thing Sadie stepped into the middle of the shop and announced that our authors had arrived.
“Take your seats, everyone. Our launch party is about to begin!”
AFTER EIGHT OF the busiest hours of my life, capped by the overwhelming success of our book launch for the Palantines, it was time to celebrate with a lavish dinner at Chez Finch.
Not that I was feeling the least bit festive.
I was still seething about Ashley’s scheme to grab the Finch Inn. I myself wanted to grab my sister-in-law by her skinny neck, but I knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Instead, I was desperate to grab Fiona and Barney and tell them everything.
But right now I had to fulfill my professional role, put on a happy face for my guests, and keep my lips zipped as Fiona Finch played the perfect fine-dining hostess and seated us.
After everyone settled in, we ordered drinks, and I excused myself to “visit the ladies’ room.” On the way, I waved frantically to Fiona, who was sorting menus at a service stand. She followed me around the corner, into the empty hallway.
“Pen? What’s the matter?”
I told her everything.
Fiona scowled. “I knew something was going on behind the scenes. But I never suspected Ashley McClure-Sutherland!”
“Believe it, Fiona. Ashley talked about moving into your property as if it were a done deal.”
I could see Fiona was upset about the news. Legal battles didn’t come cheap. Sure the Quibblers were willing to band together and back the Finches. But we didn’t have bottomless bank accounts. Not like the McClures. They were one of the richest families in the region, and when they wanted something, they usually got it.
I began throwing out suggestions, looking for some kind of leverage.
“There’s something else that I don’t understand. Ashley weirdly bragged about Quindicott changing direction after they take over your property. Do you know anyone who might give us some answers? If we’re going to fight them, we need all the information we can get.”
“Sam Tibbet is here,” Fiona said excitedly. “I don’t think you’ve ever met Sam. He’s a cousin of Welsh Tibbet, who your friend Eddie works with on the police force, and he runs Tibbet Real Estate. He’s also on the town council. I can work on him.”
“How?”
“Sam comes here to wine and dine his clients. If he closes a deal, after the client leaves, he has a bottle of Chianti to celebrate. If he doesn’t make a deal, he drowns his sorrow with Chianti. Either way, he’ll appreciate a complimentary bottle of the stuff—and maybe I’ll ask a few innocent questions after the wine loosens his tongue.”
“In vino veritas, Fiona, that’s the spirit.”
Jack was impressed, too. She’s one clever bird.
And you were right, Jack. Fiona was glad to know who to fight, even if it feels like a match Rocky couldn’t win.
Yeah, Marciano was one of the greats.
No, not that Rocky, Jack, the one from—oh, forget it.
Buoyed by Fiona’s spirit, I left the alcove to rejoin my guests and nearly collided with Violet Brooks.
“Oh, sorry, Mrs. McClure!” Stepping back awkwardly, she shook her heavy mop of bangs. “I was looking for the ladies’ room?”
“Right around the corner,” I said, frowning as I watched her go. When I’d turned the corner, she hadn’t been “looking” for anything, just standing out of sight, close to the wall.
Did you see that, Jack? First, she’s chatting up my sister-in-law. Now she’s eavesdropping on my conversation with Fiona.
That’s one St. Bernard to keep an eye on.