The Ghost and the Dead Deb

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?