The Ghost and the Dead Deb

toward the office.

Go, now, baby. Knock on that door and try your little spiel again. Curly’s inside and she’s the softer touch . . .

I knocked, expecting the girl inside to ignore me, but to my surprise, she slowly cracked the door.

“I’m here to help, please give me a chance to explain,” I quickly said. “I’m a member of the Quindicott Business Owners Association, and I’m here to express our community’s concern over the news that your friend is missing and to see if there’s anything at all we can do to help you find her.”

Through her small, frameless, rectangular glasses—which looked exactly like the two-thousand-dollar pair I saw in a Newport boutique window two months ago but could in no way afford—the redhead looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh . . . so, you’re not a reporter or anything?”

“No. I’m not. See no notebook, no recorder”—I spread my empty hands—“and I’m all alone.”

If you don’t count me.

“Jack,” I silently warned. “Stop cracking wise.”

The door slowly opened all the way, and I stepped through. Because of the strong sunlight, it took me a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room.

“My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure,” I said, reaching out.

Hearing my name, the young woman’s expression seemed to relax a bit. It made sense. The McClure name was well enough known among the well-heeled set. Likely as not, this girl had gone to boarding school with one of Calvin’s cousins.

She shook my proffered hand. “Courtney Peyton Taylor,” she said. She’d changed from her bikini into a small white T-shirt and paisley pink capri pants.

I smiled and she offered me a chair. The room was gloomy and untidy, one of the beds still unmade, as if someone had just gotten up. Courtney walked to the window and opened the blinds, dispelling some of the darkness. I was about to begin asking some questions when I heard the sound of approaching steps. Angry Girl had returned with a bucket of ice—and a vengeance.

“What the hell is this!” screeched the young woman, barreling toward me.

“Stephanie, will you take it easy!” cried Courtney.

“No!” She turned on her friend. “Why did you let her in?!”

“She’s not a reporter,” said Courtney.

Stephanie narrowed her black eyes. “What is she then? And why is she here?”

“The Quindicott Business Owners Association wants to help locate your missing friend,” I told her. “We feel terrible that this happened in our town, but we have all sorts of resources at our disposal.”

“Oh,” said Stephanie. A few seconds later, she seemed to physically deflate. With a sigh, she set the bucket of ice on a nightstand and fished into her pocked for an elastic hair band from her denim shorts. “What sort of resources?”

“Well, we can distribute flyers with Victoria’s picture, for instance,” I explained as Stephanie violently pulled her short black hair into a tight ponytail. “We can canvass the surrounding areas, contact other businesses in nearby communities. We can even mount a search party if necessary.”

I wasn’t lying to these women. Members of our Business Owners Association had done these very things last year, when Milner Logan’s rottweiler broke free of his leash and wandered off. Bruno was eventually located by sunbathers while chasing sea gulls along Ponsert Beach five miles away, and the happy couple was eventually reunited.

“I’m sure we can help, Ms . . . ?”

“Usher. Stephanie Usher.”

Courtney looked at me with hopeful eyes, while Stephanie sunk down on the unmade bed.

You got ’em, doll, good work. Now start the real questions. Just get ’em to spill whatever they’ve got—exactly when and how Victoria vanished. What her thinking was when she came to your store yesterday . . . anything and everything . . .

“What I need to know is when Victoria vanished, and under what circumstances—”

“We already told the police everything,” said Stephanie.

“I understand that,” I replied evenly. “But we can’t help you if we don’t know all the facts. Why were you in town, for instance?”

Stephanie flopped backward until she sprawled across the bed. “It wasn’t my idea,” she grunted.

I faced Courtney.

“We came to attend Angel Stark’s reading at the local bookstore,” Courtney explained, one eye on her friend.

“Oh,” I replied, feigning surprise. “So you’re fans of the author?”

“Ha!” Stephanie cried. “Not hardly. I’d like to kill that bitch.”

I silently queried Jack. “Did you hear that?!”

Cool your heels, doll. There’s a big difference between an expression and a confession.

“Angel Stark’s book . . . mentions Victoria’s family,” Courtney added. “Victoria was very upset by some of the things written in that book.”

“So Victoria came here to confront Ms. Stark?” I pressed.

“Oh, no,” Courtney replied.

“Hell, yeah!” said Stephanie, sitting up again. “You wouldn’t believe the things that money-grubbing hack bitch said about Victoria’s family, her dead sister. Hateful things. Libelous things. Vicky loved her big sister. That stuff made her sick.”

“But why confront the author in public like that?” I asked. “Aren’t there other ways—attorneys, lawsuits? The Banks are an influential family. Surely they have resources.”

Stephanie sneered again. “Her parents didn’t want to get involved. They’re in denial, like it’s just a bad dream. They think if they sue it will just give Angel more publicity. So they’re hiding in Europe for the summer, and probably the fall, too, assuming it will all just go away—blow over by Christmas.”

“Tell-all books like this usually do,” I pointed out.

“That’s what I said,” Courtney cried, looking not at me but at her friend. “But Victoria couldn’t sit still for it —”

“I don’t blame her,” Stephanie said. “Her parents might be too caught up in ‘how things look’ to fight Angel, but she isn’t.”

“Was Victoria upset enough to . . . try something . . . I don’t know . . . desperate?” I asked carefully.

“Like what?” asked Courtney.

I shrugged. “Like maybe hurt Angel in some way . . . physically.”

Keep your eyes open, baby, advised Jack.

Stephanie and Courtney exchanged a look.

“They know something,” I silently told Jack.

Or suspect something. You notice they haven’t denied the possibility.

“She’s been pretty upset since Angel’s book came out two weeks ago,” Courtney finally replied. “She got real secretive, too. Kept getting late-night phone calls on her cell—wouldn’t tell us who it was that was calling her though, and we usually shared everything. I also think she was e-mailing Angel . . . threatening her.”

Stephanie was frowning at Courtney, like she wasn’t too happy the girl was continuing to talk.

“Did Victoria receive any calls last night, before she vanished?” I asked, returning to the missing persons line of questioning.

“She got a few while we were at the bookstore,” said Courtney, “but she didn’t check her messages until we got back here. I don’t know who called her and she didn’t tell us.”

“Is her cell phone here in the room?” I asked hopefully, even though I was sure the police would have impounded it.

“It’s not,” said Stephanie. “Victoria took it with her when she went out last night. Said she wanted to get a soda from the vending machine and make a call.”

Courtney gave Stephanie a sidelong glance and added, “She probably wanted some privacy . . .”

“This was what time?” I asked.