The Ghost and the Dead Deb

chartreuse tank top.

“Had to delay the opening thirty minutes. We’re having a bit of a personal crisis,” I whispered, gesturing toward my aunt and Bud, seated across the store.

Dana frowned. “Sorry I bothered you. I wouldn’t have, except that I have a bit of a crisis, too.”

“What’s up?”

“I can’t find Angel Stark anywhere,” Dana said with a sigh. “Her car is still in the Finch Inn’s parking lot, but she’s not in her room or answering her cell—and Angel always answers her cell.”

My stomach lurched, but I tried to keep my emotions off my face.

Dana brushed her hair back in a worried gesture. “God, this is embarrassing. How many publicists do you know who’ve lost their client?”

CHAPTER 8

Miss Placed

The next best thing to knowing something is knowing where to find it.

—Samuel Johnson

“ARE YOU TELLING me that Angel Stark is missing?” I asked Dana. Almost immediately, I glanced over my shoulder. Fortunately my aunt and Bud Napp were locked in their own conversation, and not eavesdropping on me.

“Afraid so,” Dana replied. “But knowing Angel, she’s probably just run off with that kid she met last night for a wild weekend fling.”

“So that’s what happened?”

“I’d be willing to bet . . . heaven knows, I try not to judge, but Angel couldn’t have pulled her vanishing act at a worse time.”

“Trouble?”

Dana grinned. “Good news, actually. I just found out Charlie Rose wants to interview Angel on Wednesday. His people called me this morning! Of course, I have to let Angel know, ASAP. She needs to be prepped, too. A PBS interview is too important to wing it—and when her head isn’t in the right place, our gal Angel has been known to act more like Courtney Love than Anna Quindlen.

“She throws microphone stands?”

“No, just the occasional water glass . . . or coffee cup, depending on what the production assistant hands her.”

“Do you want to come to my office? Or are you going to look for Angel?”

“No time,” Dana replied, glancing at her watch. “I have to get back to New York by tonight. Contrary to what some of my clients think, I actually have a life. And I have a long drive ahead of me.”

“What can I do to help?” I asked, anticipating her reply.

“I need to know the name and phone number of that kid Angel was talking to last night . . . if you know him, that is. The kid looked like a local to me. I heard someone call him John or Jimmy or something . . .”

“I’ve . . . seen him around,” I replied. “Can I get back to you on that?”

“I guess so, but ASAP, okay? FYI, I’m going to file a missing persons report on that girl the next time she pulls this stunt—just to teach her a lesson. I’d like to see how she deals with headlines like ‘Little Girl Lost’ and ‘Angel Takes Wing.’ ”

I thought about the incident of the night before—the hit-and-run that wasn’t.

“So this kind of thing happens often? Angel running off with some guy, I mean?”

Dana shrugged. “Usually she takes off for a couple of days of hot sex with someone she meets on the road, like she’s a rock star or something. But Angel’s down with the program. She knows the importance of publicity. No matter what she’s doing or where she’s at, the girl always returns my calls . . . always, until now.”

Dana glanced at her watch once again. “Oh, man, I’ve got to go. Got tickets for the New York Philharmonic tonight—and a date.”

I unlocked the front door and let Dana out. “Have a great time.”

“Thanks, Pen . . .”

Then Dana paused halfway out the door. “You have my phone number. Please, do me a tremendous favor and ask around about that kid. And give me a call the moment you find out anything.”

With a wave, Dana was gone. I locked the door behind her. But before I faced Bud and my aunt again, I paused. Something told me we were headed for real trouble. And that something was Jack Shepard.

There’s a Chinese angle on these Houdini acts, that’s for square.

“Chinese angle? You mean you think Dana Wu is somehow involved?”

Catch the lingo, babe . . . Chinese angle. There’s a bend in the road . . . Something’s not on the level with the Angel broad and the working square taking it on the lam.

“You suspect foul play?”

You got it. But keep things clammed until the pipes man Auntie is jawing with spits out more facts. The more people talk, the more you hear.

“What do you think is going on, Jack?”

With the dame, it could be like your Miss Wu said—our loose-limbed Angel is pitching woo in some hot-sheets love-nest even as we speak. But then why not return calls? Could be someone—maybe someone with a beef against Angel—did her in or is doing the Lindbergh snatch—

“A kidnapping!”

It happens . . . The dame’s got cabbage and plenty of it. Or maybe your working-class square- john bumped this Angel for his own reasons. Maybe the loving went sour. Or maybe he’s the snatchster who put the grab on her. Otherwise this Johnny’s just a rube who took a powder and Angel doesn’t fit into this picture at all—but I don’t truck with that since she’s out of touch.

“Huh?”

I said maybe Johnny-boy killed the filly and skipped town, or he’s the kidnapper . . . or he’s just a patsy who took the bus for another reason that’s not connected with Angel, which I don’t buy and neither do you.

“You’re jumping to some pretty drastic conclusions, Jack,” I scolded. “No doubt due to too many years among the riffraff of the New York streets. Don’t be an alarmist.”

Alarmist? Me? Ha! You just turn those sweet cheeks of yours around, plant them in a chair, and ask Bud why his nephew’s on parole, and we’ll just see who’s the alarmist.

“Well . . . I’ll grant you that I didn’t know Johnny had been in trouble with the law . . . and Dana does seem worried . . . so what should I do?”

Like I said, ankle over to Auntie and find out what the old geezer is bumping ivory about. You’ll learn more from a peepster than you will from this graveyard gumshoe.

“Peeper? Bud’s a nice old guy. He’s no peeper.”

PeepSTER. A witness. Someone who knows the score. Geeze, babe, you read enough of Tim Brennan’s Jack Shield dime novels based on my life. The least you could do is glom on to the natural flow of my discourse.

“I guess I should tell Bud about Angel’s disappearance . . . Maybe it would calm his fears a little to know that Johnny probably just ran off for a wild weekend of fun with a literary celebrity.”

Nix to that.

“Why?”

Because you don’t know that’s what happened. Even if you don’t truck with my dark scenario, I