The Ghost and the Dead Deb hb-2 Read online

  “An ice machine.”

  Excuse me?

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

  The hell you say? I know a few bartenders would have loved that in their joints.

  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.

  Really, baby, how much are they charging this time to resell you what’s free at every public drinking fountain?

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

  The biggest grift of your time yet.

  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.

  Well, don’t you miss the bucket. You’ve got plenty of swift, so start casing the area.

  “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.

  Don’t count on it. Buttons like him are aces when it comes to getting cats out of trees or grifting speeders, but as a rule, small-town copper’s don’t get enough action to stay sharp where the detection racket goes.

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

  After a long silence, Jack spoke.

  Have you forgotten my advice, back when you needed a wise head?

  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?”

  The one that netted you that goose who was wrecking your inventory list.

  “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.

  Any more machines?

  “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!”

  Beautiful, doll.

  “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.”

  A what?

  “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.”

  You mean a two-way radio? We used them in Germany during the war, only that one’s a helluvalot smaller. Is it military equipment?

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

  You don’t.

  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.”

  So . . . Victoria Banks dropped her, uh, ‘cell’ without realizing it, and it somehow got innocently kicked under the soda machine. Or she struggled with someone and in the tussle it was knocked under there.

  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?”

  You got it. Whoever she called will have some answers.

  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.

  You have his number. He doesn’t have yours.

  “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.”

  Don’t start hand-wringing now, baby. Take a chance.

  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.

  You did good, kid. I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Mystery Man

  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.

  Welcome to my world, sweetheart. When I was alive, waiting was the name of the P.I. game. Now that I’m dead, time is all I’ve got.

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

  Well, it was easier when I was breathing. If I were, I
’d be easing my pain with a belt about now.

  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—”

  The tenor of his pipes mean nothing, sister. A voice funneled through the Ameche doesn’t reveal as much as you think it does. Anyway, the square john who just walked in doesn’t have enough berries to live in a swanky burb like Newport. His shoes are from hunger, and the cuffs of his pants are showing threads.

  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 don’t have eyes anymore, baby, just . . . shall we say . . . awareness?

  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.