The Ghost and the Dead Deb

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.