The Ghost and the Dead Deb (11 page)

Despite the fact that it was a Saturday and the weather outside was lovely, warm and sunny, yet comfortably breezy—the reason the moneyed classes of New York and Philadelphia have made New England summers by the sea a tradition for over a century—Sadie, Mina, and I were already emotionally drained by the time we opened Buy the Book, which meant we were totally unprepared to greet the public. Fortunately, there wasn’t much of a public to greet, just two women in their twenties looking for beach reading.

After selling them Janet Evanovich’s entire Stephanie Plum backlist, I sought forgetfulness in other work. I booted up the computer to check the inventory, answer some e-mail queries, review publishers’ catalogs, and made a note to order more James Patterson and Dan Brown books, dusted the counter, and assembled the display for the new Dennis Lehane hardcover—and after all of it, I still felt restless. Or perhaps
helpless
is a better word.

“Easy for you to say,” I silently told my ghost. “What would you do if you were me?”

“The shoe I’ve got? . . . Yes, of course!”

I dialed quickly, and the call was answered on the first ring, as I knew it would be. “Professor Parker,” I said, “I have urgent need for your literary expertise.”

“Indeed,” was Brainert’s reply, and I could almost see that inscrutable, Holmes-like eyebrow of his arch.

“Did you happen to read Angel Stark’s book?”

There was a pause. “Last night, I had two choices: read Ms. Stark’s tome, or grade the papers from my summer school class. Now the only students more dismal than the usual bunch are those so pathetic they have to repeat classes during the summer . . .”

“So you read Angel’s book.”

“Actually, no. In my opinion, my summer school students are better writers.”

“Come on, Brainert. It can’t be
that
bad.”

“Why don’t you call Fiona. She swore she was going to devour the thing when I delivered the autographed copy to her last night. And knowing Fiona, she’s probably already read the entire book twice and posted her copy for sale on eBay.”

“I might just visit Fiona, now that you mention it,” I replied. “But I still need you to read Angel’s book before the meeting tonight.”

Brainert moaned.

So I told Brainert about Johnny vanishing, about Angel’s disappearance, and the fact that Johnny Napp was really Giovanni Napoli—a material witness and possible suspect in the Bethany Banks murder. I could tell his interest was sparked, but not stoked enough to fuel his intellectual fire, or delve into “Miss Prozac-Girl-Interrupted-in-a-Bell-Jar’s” book.

“If I do read this thing, what, exactly, do you want me to look for?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Connections.”

Brainert agreed to do it, but still sounded skeptical about the whole project.

“Look,” I said. “The only two things Angel Stark and Bud’s nephew have in common are Bethany Banks’s murder—and the fact that they both vanished on the same night. You have in your hand a just-released copy of a book written by Angel Stark about that very murder. Surely it’s possible that you’ll discover some pertinent fact if you read it. You are a genius, remember?”

“So I am.”

“And please, keep everything I told you a secret for now, though I suspect the cat will be out of the bag before much longer. I’ll see you tonight at the Quibblers’ meeting.” (Among some of its members, the Quindicott Business Owners Association has come to be referred to as the Quibble Over Anything gang—or “the Quibblers” for short.)

After I turned Brainert loose on the problem, I felt a little better. But I still didn’t feel I’d done enough.

So listen to your bookworm friend,
Jack said.
Pay the Bird Lady a visit, and when you get back you can let me in on what kind of pecker she’s wearing on her lapel today.

Though offensively put, Jack’s—more specifically,
Brainert’s
—advice to pay Fiona a visit had merit. No scandal large or small, no bit of gossip or innuendo in this town, could slip past the predatory eyes and extremely sharp hearing of Fiona Finch, let alone under her own roof. So I was fairly sure that if something fishy was going on, Fiona had probably already swooped in on it.

“Oh, really, and I thought you were already dead.”

I cleared my throat and called to Sadie, “Hold the fort. I’m going over to Fiona’s inn for an hour or so.”

Aunt Sadie surprised me by stepping out from behind the counter.

“You’re thinking of breaking into Angel Stark’s room, aren’t you?” she said. My silence was answer enough.

Sadie looked over her shoulder to make sure Mina was out of earshot. Then she faced me again. “You
are
thinking of breaking in,” she whispered.

“It’s hardly breaking in if you convince the innkeeper to use a pass key. Anyway, it’s Fiona’s property. She can come and go as she pleases.”

“And bring you with her? Well, dear, you’re not going without me.”

Sadie scampered to retrieve her purse.

“We can’t just leave Mina here without help,” I protested.

“The place is empty,” Sadie replied. “And besides, we’re doing this to help Mina, too.”

“
We’re
doing this?”

“You solved a murder at this store last year, Pen,” my aunt replied. “And you never even let me in on what was going on—did you think I was too old to help?”

“I never said anything of the kind!” I cried. “I was just trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection!”

Then Sadie sighed and looked at me over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses. “Sorry, dear . . . I don’t mean to snap . . . it’s just that things were getting pretty dull around here until you and Spencer came back into my life. I didn’t realize it right off . . . but I kinda like all the excitement.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Sadie. I understand. But I honestly hope things
don’t
get too exciting—and by the time we reach Fiona’s inn, we find Johnny and Angel are back.”

I called to Mina, who was restocking the stacks at the rear of the store. “Mina, we need you up front. Sadie and I have to go out for an hour or so.”

 

 

WHEN WE STEPPED into the bright sunshine, I spied one of the three Quindicott Police squad cars parked on the other side of Cranberry Street. Standing next to the vehicle, looking tall and more handsome than usual in his dark blue uniform and mirrored sunglasses, was Officer Edward Franzetti.

“What do you know? Sometimes there is a cop around when you need one,” I said.

Aunt Sadie touched my arm. “Bud specifically asked us not to contact the police—not yet, anyway. It’s not our place to interfere.”

“I’m not going to contact the police . . . not officially. I’m just going to have a talk with my old friend Eddie. And if something about a missing person gets mentioned . . .”

My voice trailed off. Inside my head, I could hear Jack’s voice, but faintly. When I let go of the door I felt him fade away completely—his spirit imprisoned inside of the brick and mortar building that housed our bookstore.

I caught Eddie’s attention and waved. As I hoped he would, Eddie sauntered across the street, fingers hitched in his holster belt.

Eddie Franzetti was a longtime friend of mine, and the very best friend of my late brother Peter—who’d died drag-racing in high school. One of the sons of the man who opened Franzetti’s Pizza some time in the early 1960s, Eddie decided he wanted more than a spot in the family business. So he did a tour in the military, then returned to Quindicott and joined the police force, which my late father, who’d also been part of that force, had helped him do.

“Hey, Pen. Sadie,” he said, touching the brim of his cap.

“How are you, Eddie?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Working Saturday in the middle of the summer, when I should be sunning myself on the Ponsert Beach,
that’s
how I am. It’s not like the old days, when we were young and the living was easy, eh, Pen?”

“When we were young, we didn’t have children to support,” I replied.

“I’ll say. Found out my oldest kid needs braces. What passes for my dental plan will pay for less than half the procedure, so I’ll be working Saturdays for the rest of the summer . . . Maybe the rest of the year.”

Sadie began window-shopping, tactfully moving down the street until she was out of earshot.

“Can I ask you something, Eddie . . . off the record?”

“Not if it’s about the littering ticket. I’m sorry about the fine, Pen, but you weren’t the only business that got hit. Lots of folks along Cranberry did . . . It wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders.”

I knew Eddie and his fellow “Brothers in Blue” were feeling the heat as the result of new revenue-enhancing policies instituted by Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, the most frustrating woman in local politics. Sadie and Marjorie had been feuding since before I was born, it seemed, and it was my aunt who dubbed her “The Municipal Zoning Witch.” The councilwoman’s newest shakedown had most of the town’s business leaders buzzing, and not in a nice way. The strategy involved an insidious manipulation of perfectly reasonable trash laws.

“It’s not about the ticket, which I paid in full,” I replied. “Actually, it’s about a missing person, who, technically, may not be a missing person—at least not officially.”

Eddie reached under his cap and scratched his head. Then he put his hands on his hips. “Are you talking about the young woman who disappeared last night?” he asked.

Could it be that Dana Wu actually filed a missing report after all? I wondered. Only one way to find out.

“Do you mean Angel Stark?” I asked.

To my surprise, Eddie shook his head. “Never heard of anyone called Angel Stark. Our missing person
is
a woman, though . . . college kid who came to town for the weekend.”

It was my turn to scratch my head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“She’s a Brown University student, over from Providence,” Eddie continued. “She and her friends were staying at the new Comfy-Time Motel on the highway last night. Sometime after midnight—the roommates are not sure of the exact time—they claim the girl stepped outside to get a soda and never came back. Her car is still in the parking lot. Her purse with her ID and credit cards was still in the motel room. She was reported missing to us first thing in the morning.”

“What are you doing about it?”

“Not much yet. If she’d been under eighteen and we had more information, we could issue an Amber Alert right away. But the girl’s over eighteen and she hasn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours, so Chief Ciders wants to wait it out before getting the Staties involved, which is more or less standard procedure. We’re trying to contact her parents right now to see if she’s tried to get in touch with them in any way. Once we’ve confirmed she hasn’t called them—or shown up at any of her known addresses—then we’ll ask the State Police to issue an All Points Bulletin. Till then, I’ve been showing the woman’s picture to every gas station attendant and restaurant worker in the area to see if anyone remembers seeing her . . . No luck yet.”

Eddie reached into his pocket and drew out a photograph. “Maybe you’ll recognize her.”

I took the picture from Eddie’s hand. I recognized the girl instantly—the young woman who’d caused the disruption at Angel’s reading the night before.

“The missing woman’s name is Banks . . . Victoria Banks,” Eddie informed me.

In a rush, some of the things the woman said came back to me . . . accusations the girl made about Angel “ruining her family.” It seemed Dana’s guess that she was a member of the Banks family was true.

Eddie was watching me, and I suspected that he suspected that I recognized the girl.

“Yes,” I told him. “This woman was in our store last night. Attended the author reading. She and her friends left . . . early.”

“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “Her friends said that they attended a reading . . . I forgot they said that.”

Which was, in the parlance of Jack Shepard,
raw baloney
. If anything, Eddie Franzetti was sharper than Chief Ciders, and he never forgot anything, including the fact that I’d once led him astray in a criminal matter—at least for a little while—during my own investigation of the mysterious death of author Timothy Brennan in my own store.

Brennan’s death, which started out looking accidental, turned out to be a homicide. In the end, I’d brought Eddie in. But since that time, I feared that Eddie hasn’t quite trusted me the way he used to. I also suspected that he was wise to the fact that I was on the trail of yet more trouble right now—and his little “forgetful” act with me had been a test to see if I’d actually come clean with him.

“About
your
missing person,” Eddie said. “The one who’s not officially missing . . . I think you said her name was Angel Stark?”

I was suddenly at a loss for words.

“Oh, Penelope, dear,” Aunt Sadie called. “Come along. We haven’t got all day.”

My jaws snapped shut. Saved!

“Have to bolt,” I cried, silently thanking my aunt for wanting a little excitement this a.m. “Sorry, Eddie, another time. You heard my aunt. Gotta go.”

As I rushed to Sadie’s side, I called over my shoulder, “Drop by anytime, Eddie.”

“Oh, I will, Pen,” Eddie replied. “I will.”

As I hurried down the sidewalk, I felt Officer Franzetti’s eyes suspiciously watching my back. I fought the urge to turn around again. After walking several blocks in silence, Sadie halted and began to scold me.