The Ghost and the Dead Deb (18 page)

“I think it was closer to one a.m.,” said Stephanie.

“So she stepped out for a soda and you think to place a private call and then you never saw her again?”

Both women silently nodded their heads.

“Have the police searched the area?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Courtney replied. “That one policeman—the cute one, Officer Falconetti—”

Franzetti, I thought, but didn’t correct her.

“—he searched the whole place, the swimming pool, the laundry room, looked around the parking lot and the woods, talked to the people in the motel office and all the guests. He even had the motel people let him search every empty room, but he didn’t find anything he said looked out of the ordinary.”

“The cop also said that because she was an adult, they still had to follow up on all known addresses and confirm she was really a missing person,” added Stephanie.

“Officer Falconetti did say he’d take a photo of her and send it to the State Police,” noted Courtney, “so they could put out a bulletin . . . I gave him one I took of Victoria last week . . . I’m sorry I don’t have another to give you for the flyers.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “We can talk to the police and work something out.” Then I rose. “Well, thank you for all of your help . . . Will you be staying in town much longer?”

Stephanie’s face was set. “I’m not leaving without Victoria.”

I walked to the door, then paused. “One more thing. Is it possible Victoria simply went back home to Newport or somewhere else without telling either of you?”

“Not unless she hitchhiked,” Stephanie said. “She left her purse here, along with her wallet—the police took them, though.”

Courtney nodded in agreement. “Victoria can’t drive, and Stephanie’s license is suspended. I’m the only one with a valid driver’s license. We came up together, in my Audi. It’s still parked outside.”

I peered through the window. “The black one?”

Courtney nodded.

“Well, thank you for your time . . . We’ll be in touch,” I said as I slipped out the door. I left Stephanie with her perpetual sneer in place, and Courtney’s doe-eyes imploring me to use all of my resources to find her friend.

And I would. Not just for their sakes, or Victoria’s, but for Johnny’s, Bud’s, and Mina’s.

Where you going, doll?
said Jack as I began walking toward my car.

“I’m leaving,” I replied.

“The what?”

“Cased the joint? You’ve got to be kidding. The police already searched the area.”

Jack laughed.

“Why are you laughing? What do you expect me to find?”

Some time ago I read in a New York paper that fifty or sixty college graduates had been appointed to the metropolitan police force. . . . The news astonished me, for in my reportorial days, there was simply no such thing in America as a book-learned cop. . . .

—H. L. Mencken, 1942

 

 

 

I FOUND THE vending area easily enough. A short stroll past a dozen motel room doors took me to a recessed area under a wide orange-and-white striped awning that reminded me of the sherbet swirl bars Seymour sold out of his ice cream truck. I heard a humming before I turned the corner—but I rounded it so quickly, I walked right into seven feet of metal.

“Dammit!”

Whoa, baby, are you all right? What is that thing you just head-butted?
asked Jack in my head.

“An ice machine.”

“You’ve never heard of an ice machine? You just press the handle and freshly made ice comes tumbling out of a chute.”

Next to the ice machine was a soft drink dispenser. “Five varieties,” I murmured, “Coke, diet Coke, iced tea, apple juice, and bottled water.”

Jack made a sigh of disgust.
Bottled water,
he muttered.

“Not again, Jack.” We’d had this discussion more times than I could count.

“Let’s see . . . a dollar twenty-five.”

Ignoring Jack, I continued to glance around. No food dispenser, no change machine, just a sign warning that the vending area was only for use by guests of the Comfy-Time Motel.

There wasn’t much to see beyond that. Smooth concrete floor mostly covered by a thick rubber mat so the customers didn’t call any slip-and-fall lawyers. There were also blobs of half-melted ice on the ground.

“The ice must come tumbling out so fast it sometimes misses the bucket,” I guessed.

“There’s nothing to case, but whatever you say,” I muttered, then bent low, trying to avoid contact with the melting ice on the rubber matting as I searched under the equipment for . . . what? I didn’t know.

A grill blocked any object larger than a dust mote from tumbling under the ice machine, but the soda dispenser was jacked up on three-inch legs. I saw dirt, gum wrappers, and bottle caps underneath. Far, far in the back, almost to the wall, a quarter twinkled. From its silvery gleam amid the filth, I deduced it had rolled there recently.

I rose and crossed the sidewalk. There was a three-inch drop from the paved concrete to a narrow swath of earth. On the ground I saw an outline of what looked to me like Eddie Franzetti’s size-twelve boot .

“If there was anything to be found here, Officer Franzetti found it,” I told Jack.

“But there’s nothing here, Jack. Absolutely nothing.”

After a long silence, Jack spoke.

I was hot, and not a little exasperated when I snapped back. “You make a lot of suggestions, Jack. Which one are you talking about?”

“I remember.”

A few months before, I was convinced our bookstore was being ripped off by a persistent and selective shoplifter. At that time, titles I should have had on hand kept disappearing, even though their ISBNs never turned up on daily sales summaries. Once in a while a missing book would magically reappear.

Think like a derrick, doll-face,
Jack had advised.
Ask yourself what kind of mug would snatch-and-grab, and why. Then put yourself into the grifter’s head.

As things turned out, Jack’s advice was sound. By thinking like the “grifter” I tried to figure out what logic there was behind stealing a book, then returning it—thereby risking getting caught twice. Finally it occurred to me that I might not be getting robbed at all. Instead, I began to suspect that some financially strapped reader was hiding a particular title among the stacks until he or she could return to the store and finish reading it. When they were done, they replaced the title right where it belonged—which explained why the title would reappear as mysteriously as it had vanished.

A close review of the shelves one evening revealed the guilty party’s hiding place: I’d discovered a new John Grisham hardcover tucked between the Yankee cookbooks, of which I kept a small collection, right next to the regional travel books I stocked for tourists passing through the area. Inside the book, the page was marked with a folded scrap of paper.

I placed the book back—with a small note written on the paper, telling the reader that he or she was causing me to worry about inventory and I would consider a solution to his or her book-buying difficulties if he or she would just step forward and identify him or herself.

A few days later, a widow from Pendleton Street approached me with red cheeks. “I got your note, dear. I’m terribly sorry if I caused you any difficulties.”

Eighty-two-year-old Ellie Brewster quietly admitted she was reading our hot new bestsellers a little at a time, in our Shaker rockers, without buying them or removing them from the premises.

I quickly assured her that she had every right in the world to do that, considering the way we’d set up the store. But I’d much rather give her a chance to take the book home with her. Since she was on a fixed income, and our public library always had an endless waiting list for only two or three copies, we struck a bargain. She would buy the book, take it home with her, and bring it back whenever she liked, and I would buy it back from her when she was finished with it. If it was in good enough condition, I would pay her almost the entire cover price—if not, I’d pay her at least half. Then I’d resell the book as gently used.

We shook, and our problem—mine and hers—was solved that afternoon. Not only that, she came the following week with a proposal on setting up a revolving lending library at the Peddleton Street Assisted Community Living Home, where she now lived. After speaking with the management there, we came up with a financial plan that wouldn’t break their budget, but would still allow the elderly, especially those who couldn’t easily leave the premises, a chance to read the hot new books.

Adopting Jack’s technique now, I tried to put myself into the mind of Victoria Banks—a young college coed, sheltered most of her life, who was forced to face the harshest of realities when her beloved older sister was murdered, the perpetrator still unknown, or, if it was Johnny, set free on legal technicalities. As if that weren’t enough misery, along comes a Kitty Kelly clone in Betsy Johnson chic, revealing her sister’s skeletons.

Under the stress of grief and anger, a person could easily make many missteps and bad decisions—like confronting Angel Stark in a very public setting. As the bad incidents mount up, petty annoyances take on global significance. A hangnail can reduce the person to tears, focus becomes difficult, the person gets clumsy—maybe drops a quarter under the machine instead of in the slot, or even . . .

I dipped my hand into my right-hand pocket (my lefthand pocket held the buffalo nickel, and I wasn’t parting with that for anything). After drawing out the proper amount of change, I began dropping coins into the vending machine slot.

Now you’re thinking like a shamus, babe,
said Jack.

“Thanks . . .” I smiled and pressed the button for a bottled water CHOOSE ANOTHER SELECTION appeared in red letters on the digital display. I pressed another button, then
all
the buttons—with the same result. The machine was empty. I punched the coin return and my change spilled with such force that a quarter popped out of the return chute, bounced onto the rubber mat, and rolled under the machine—taking its place right next to the gleaming quarter I’d spied a minute earlier.

“This vending machine is empty,” I told Jack. “Victoria Banks had to find another!”

I hurried up the stairs to the second level, then followed the signs along the second-floor walkway until I found another ice machine and soda dispenser. A hand-scrawled Out OF ORDER sign was taped to the beverage machine, the coin slot sealed with a strip of duct tape.

“Let’s see . . .”

I went back down the steps to the ground floor and found a third vending area all the way around the facility, on the opposite wing of the motel. The motel was mostly empty and just one car was parked on this side of the building. I dropped coins into the slot of the soda machine and out tumbled an ice-cold bottle of Moose Hill Spring Water.

Okay, so we know the vanished vixen likely ended up here,
said Jack.

“I think you’re right.”

I bent low and stared under the machine. In the far corner I spied a silver oval the size of a makeup compact.

“Jack, I see something!”

“I can’t get it . . .” I searched for something to extend my reach. In the end, I had to cross the narrow strip of parking lot and head along a dirt path that led into a wooded area beyond.

Under the canopy of trees, it was shady, quiet, and at least ten degrees cooler. Bugs buzzed in front of my face as I glanced around. The single path I was on stopped at the juncture of a tall oak where a metal “Private Property” sign, white with rusted edges, hung lopsided on one nail. The path split into a Y at that point, and the two trails veered off among the trees and brush. None seemed well-trodden, but then vegetation and rocks were strewn across the dirt paths. I found a long, sturdy twig and picked it up.

Stick in hand, I emerged from the woods into the sunlight. I crossed the parking lot and, without much trouble, snagged the oval-shaped silver object under the soda machine and dragged it into the daylight. The letters
VB
were engraved on the top of the oval.

“This must be Victoria Banks’s.”

What is that thing
—
a girly compact?

“It’s a cell, Jack.”

“You must have seen them advertised on TV by now. It’s a wireless transmitter, kind of a non-cosmic version of your buffalo nickel.”

“No, no, it’s not military. It’s a mobile private phone. Everyone has a cell now.”

I shrugged. “I’ll get around to it, when Spencer is older and I want to keep track of him. I’ll get him one, too.”