The Ghost and the Dead Deb (19 page)

I shook my head. “I find it hard to believe she dropped it by accident when the very reason she came outside was to get a soda and place a call. I’d say it’s starting to look like Angel Stark wasn’t the only one who met with foul play last night.”

I think you’re right about that, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that Victoria is an innocent. Who’s to say her call wasn’t to somebody who helped her do the dirty deed of offing Angel? She could have made the call as a signal to be picked up here and the cell got lost in a speedy departure. Or maybe she hired someone to give Angel that tight necktie and things went south after that
—
like maybe the hired gun snatched Victoria, hoping to bargain for a higher payday.

I nodded. Jack had laid out some interesting theories.

Okay, baby,
he purred.
You know the next question to ask?

“Who did she call?”

I considered that there might be fingerprints on the phone besides Victoria’s. If there were, I’d probably just smeared them while adding my own. And since the damage was done, I decided I might as well press on. I didn’t own a cell and I wasn’t sure how they operated. I opened the compact. A green glow illuminated the display screen, and a melodic warble told me there were messages waiting.

I attempted to check those first. The display panel told me that the last five calls all came from the same telephone number. I didn’t recognize the area code—and suspected it was a cell number. I wasn’t sure how to retrieve the voicemail messages. Fearing I might erase them if I did something wrong, I highlighted the phone number of the last message instead and pressed the GO option. Then I placed the cell to my ear. An answer came on the first ring.

“Jesus . . . Hello? . . . Who is this? . . .
Victoria?
—” The voice was male and ceased to speak when I did not reply.

“It’s not Victoria,” I said. “Ms. Banks has been reported missing by her college friends. What do you know about her disappearance?”

A long silence followed. I spoke again, softening my tone. “Since you didn’t hang up, I assume you are as anxious as I am to find her.”

“Who is this?” the man said again.

“I could very well ask you the same question.”

“Don’t get cute or I’ll hang up,” he threatened.

Hanging up won’t get you anywhere,
Jack whispered in my head.

“Hanging up won’t get you anywhere,” I repeated to the stranger.

“Jack, why?” I frantically asked the ghost.

“I . . . I have your phone number and I can easily find out who you are. Whereas you don’t have a clue who I am, only that I’m using Victoria’s phone . . .”

Good,
said Jack.

“What do you want? I don’t have all day here.” His pronunciations were perfect, not a Rhode Island dropped “r” in sight—and beneath it all, the sort of everyday, casual disdain that reminded me of my in-laws. Another member of the sheltered class, I deduced.

“I’m not the police, if that’s what you’re asking. The authorities are involved, however, though right now they think she might have run off for some reason, and they want more time to pass before they’ll initiate a major search. But I think Victoria may be in danger.”

“Just get to the point. What do you want from me?” demanded the voice on the phone.

Set up a meeting,
Jack advised.
The bookstore.

“But I don’t even know
where
this person is,” I told Jack. “He could be halfway around the world for all I know.”

I swallowed my nervousness, forced my voice to sound commanding. “Listen carefully. I want you to meet me in Quindicott. I’ll give you two hours. We’ll meet in a public place . . .”

“Where?”

“A place called Buy the Book. A specialty bookstore on Cranberry Street, in the middle of town.”

“I know the place.” An unhappy sigh followed. “All right. I’ll be there in two hours.”

I closed my eyes in relief.

“How will I know you?” asked the man on the cell.

“You’ll find me in the nonfiction section,” I told him quickly. “I’ll be reading a copy of Angel Stark’s
All My Pretty Friends
.”

I waited for a response, but the voice on the other end of the phone simply grunted in disgust, then the line went dead. With trembling hands I folded the cell phone and tucked it into my pocket.

But I didn’t feel good. I hadn’t realized how tense I felt until the phone call ended. Now my mouth was as parched as the Sahara. Mechanically, I drew the Moose Hill Spring Water I’d bought out of the soda machine dispenser and broke the seal. Then I took a long gulp, my gaze automatically wandering across the parking lot to the shadowy woods beyond.

Hmm,
said Jack.
I guess bottled water’s not a complete sham if you’re five miles from a hospitable tap.

“Why, Jack . . . I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.”

If it’s going to be a long story, let’s have a drink.

—Raymond Chandler, “Goldfish,”
Black Mask
magazine, 1936

 

 

 

“IT’S SO DIFFICULT, all this waiting,” I silently griped, pacing the nonfiction aisle of my bookstore.

“I never thought of it like that,” I said, suppressing a yawn.

The door opened and a young man entered.

“Look . . . here comes a likely candidate.”

When my aunt Sadie heard the sound of the bell over the door, she instinctively looked up at the new customer from behind the counter, caught herself, then abruptly looked away.

Not
too
obvious.

The newcomer was in his twenties, wore summer khakis and a loose shirt, and seemed like a suitable match for the voice I’d heard over the cell phone. Before I spoke again, I raised the hardcover of
All My Pretty Friends
to my face and turned my back on Bud Napp, who lingered at the new release section trying hard to look like a customer. I didn’t want Bud to think I was talking to myself—which I suppose some would say I was.

“Do you think that’s him?”

Don’t be a bunny, doll. That guy ain’t Jasper and you know it,
Jack replied, a tad impatiently I thought.

“But he’s the right age.”

You can’t be sure of the guy’s age
—

“He sounded young—”

As the man passed by, my eyes lingered on his footwear. Jack was right, his shoes were worn, the heels rounded. And the cuffs of his pants were frayed, too. “Good eyes,” I marveled.

I sighed. Whatever the identity of my mysterious stranger, he was certainly not punctual. Almost thirty minutes had passed since the scheduled rendezvous time and there was no sign of him. I made good use of the extra minutes by skimming Angel Stark’s book, skipping the self-obsessed, self-indulgent passages about her feelings and her anguish in an effort to get to the meat-and-potatoes facts about the Bethany Banks murder and its aftermath.

The doorbell tinkled again and a tall, preppie young man entered, conspicuously overdressed for the weather. I knew at once he was our man.

“Jack, that’s the one!”

“I recognize him, Jack, he’s—”

I didn’t have to wait long. The young man glanced in my direction, caught the title of the book I had open in my hands, and our eyes met. Dropping all pretense, Henry ‘Hal’ McConnell—the man-boy with the lifelong unrequited crush on Bethany Banks—walked right up to me.

“You are the woman who phoned,” he said in his now-familiar voice. It was not a question.

I nervously adjusted my black-framed glasses and set the book aside. I felt Bud Napp’s eyes on me, saw Sadie trying hard not to stare. “Let’s find a secluded spot to talk,” I murmured.

His lanky frame followed me to the rear of the store, where an overstuffed armchair was mercifully vacant. I gestured for him to take the chair, but he shook his head. “You take it.”

I sat down myself and Hal McConnell sat across from me in a straight-backed wooden seat he dragged from under a lamp in the corner. After plunking down and arranging himself, he offered me a withering gaze.

“You’re Hal McConnell,” I began.

“As you no doubt know from that piece of tripe you were reading.” There was venom in his voice, a cold anger. The kind that didn’t climb out of his heart to reach his eyes, which were still as flat as a wall.

“Angel Stark’s book, you mean?”

He nodded. I estimated Hal McConnell to be in his early twenties. He was well-dressed for a summer Saturday, which suggested to me that I’d snagged him on his way to or from a formal appointment. His blue blazer was impeccably tailored and his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.

His features were regular, his teeth white, his brown, wavy hair worn longish. He’d changed its style since the published photo, in which he’d brushed it away from his face. It fell forward now, which was a more attractive and trendy style, making him look more appealingly rakish. His chin was a bit weak, but his hazel-green eyes were penetrating, and the intelligence behind them was palpable. Something about him reminded me of my late husband, Calvin, and the reminder made me more than a little uncomfortable.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.

I saw no point in playing it coy. “My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. This is my store. Angel Stark spoke here last night. Then she left with a friend of mine. And now they’re both . . . missing.”

Angel’s dental records were probably confirming her identity as I spoke those words, and the news of her death would likely hit the broadcast world any minute, but right now I thought the less said the better.

“I can imagine the kind of ‘friend’ you’re referring to,” replied Hal. “Young. Male. Buff and working-class. Not at all sophisticated—certainly not enough to see through Angel’s games, her manipulations. Angel always did like to slum—for a fling.”

My blood pressure rose with his insult to Johnny, or any kid like him—which is to say any kid who didn’t have a trust fund and a private school blazer. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t encountered this attitude before—among my in-laws it was practically genetic. Maybe that’s why my anger flared as abruptly as it did.

Take it easy, kid,
Jack’s voice soothed.
Stay in control. Don’t let him play with your reflexes. You play with his.

I cleared my throat. “That’s very interesting . . . that Angel liked to slum. I can only assume from what I’ve heard about her murder that Bethany Banks did, too.”

Hal McConnell winced at the remark—the first sign of vulnerability he’d exhibited since we’d met. But his reaction wasn’t anger as much as pained defeat. “What happened to Victoria?” he said, his concern sounding genuine. “You said she’s missing, too?”

“Victoria Banks came to this bookstore last night, with two of her friends. She confronted Ms. Stark in the middle of her lecture, caused a bit of a scene.”

He cursed—another crack in the shell. “I told Vicky to steer clear of Angel Stark. That Angel was a dangerous, unstable person—and no friend of her sister Bethany.”

I was surprised at his blunt admission.

Don’t be, baby, you’re cracking him like antique china,
said Jack.
Keep the heat under him.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked pointedly.

“I mean Angel was sleeping with Bethany’s fiancé behind her back, that’s what I mean. Donald Easterbrook was playing Angel right up to Bethany’s murder and beyond, as far as I know.”

I’d skimmed enough of Angel’s book to know she’d never revealed such a relationship, never even hinted at it, either past or present. Interesting what Angel chose
not
to tell in that tell-all book of hers.

Hal McConnell cleared his throat impatiently. “You were saying that Vicky is missing?”

I nodded. “Apparently, sometime last night, after Angel’s appearance here at the bookstore, Victoria stepped out of her motel room for a soda and a little privacy, in order to make a phone call. She hasn’t been seen since. Her purse, her clothes were left behind. Her friends reported her missing this morning.”

“By ‘friends,’ do you mean Stephanie Usher and Courtney Peyton Taylor?”

I nodded. Hal sat back, scowling. “The dyke and the ditz.”

I frowned at his insults, and made a note he was no friend of Victoria’s friends. “Victoria was calling
you
,” I reminded him. “I believe she spoke with you last night.”