The Ghost and the Dead Deb

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.

“Jack, that’s the one!”

Calm down, sister. Your heart’s beating like a bangtail’s hoofs. You’re giving me a gin mill concussion, and I haven’t even got a brain anymore.

“I recognize him, Jack, he’s—”

Stop ventilating your gums. Just read your book and act nonchalant. Let him make the first move.

I didn’t have to wait long. The young man glanced in my direction, caught the title of the book I had open in my hands, and our eyes met. Dropping all pretense, Henry ‘Hal’ McConnell—the man-boy with the lifelong unrequited crush on Bethany Banks—walked right up to me.

“You are the woman who phoned,” he said in his now-familiar voice. It was not a question.

I nervously adjusted my black-framed glasses and set the book aside. I felt Bud Napp’s eyes on me, saw Sadie trying hard not to stare. “Let’s find a secluded spot to talk,” I murmured.

His lanky frame followed me to the rear of the store, where an overstuffed armchair was mercifully vacant. I gestured for him to take the chair, but he shook his head. “You take it.”

I sat down myself and Hal McConnell sat across from me in a straight-backed wooden seat he dragged from under a lamp in the corner. After plunking down and arranging himself, he offered me a withering gaze.

“You’re Hal McConnell,” I began.

“As you no doubt know from that piece of tripe you were reading.” There was venom in his voice, a cold anger. The kind that didn’t climb out of his heart to reach his eyes, which were still as flat as a wall.

“Angel Stark’s book, you mean?”

He nodded. I estimated Hal McConnell to be in his early twenties. He was well-dressed for a summer Saturday, which suggested to me that I’d snagged him on his way to or from a formal appointment. His blue blazer was impeccably tailored and his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.

His features were regular, his teeth white, his brown, wavy hair worn longish. He’d changed its style since the published photo, in which he’d brushed it away from his face. It fell forward now, which was a more attractive and trendy style, making him look more appealingly rakish. His chin was a bit weak, but his hazel-green eyes were penetrating, and the intelligence behind them was palpable. Something about him reminded me of my late husband, Calvin, and the reminder made me more than a little uncomfortable.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.

I saw no point in playing it coy. “My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. This is my store. Angel Stark spoke here last night. Then she left with a friend of mine. And now they’re both . . . missing.”

Angel’s dental records were probably confirming her identity as I spoke those words, and the news of her death would likely hit the broadcast world any minute, but right now I thought the less said the better.

“I can imagine the kind of ‘friend’ you’re referring to,” replied Hal. “Young. Male. Buff and working-class. Not at all sophisticated—certainly not enough to see through Angel’s games, her manipulations. Angel always did like to slum—for a fling.”

My blood pressure rose with his insult to Johnny, or any kid like him—which is to say any kid who didn’t have a trust fund and a private school blazer. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t encountered this attitude before—among my in-laws it was practically genetic. Maybe that’s why my anger flared as abruptly as it did.

Take it easy, kid, Jack’s voice soothed. Stay in control. Don’t let him play with your reflexes. You play with his.

I cleared my throat. “That’s very interesting . . . that Angel liked to slum. I can only assume from what I’ve heard about her murder that Bethany Banks did, too.”

Hal McConnell winced at the remark—the first sign of vulnerability he’d exhibited since we’d met. But his reaction wasn’t anger as much as pained defeat. “What happened to Victoria?” he said, his concern sounding genuine. “You said she’s missing, too?”

“Victoria Banks came to this bookstore last night, with two of her friends. She confronted Ms. Stark in the middle of her lecture, caused a bit of a scene.”

He cursed—another crack in the shell. “I told Vicky to steer clear of Angel Stark. That Angel was a dangerous, unstable person—and no friend of her sister Bethany.”

I was surprised at his blunt admission.

Don’t be, baby, you’re cracking him like antique china, said Jack. Keep the heat under him.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked pointedly.

“I mean Angel was sleeping with Bethany’s fiance behind her back, that’s what I mean. Donald Easterbrook was playing Angel right up to Bethany’s murder and beyond, as far as I know.”

I’d skimmed enough of Angel’s book to know she’d never revealed such a relationship, never even hinted at it, either past or present. Interesting what Angel chose not to tell in that tell-all book of hers.

Hal McConnell cleared his throat impatiently. “You were saying that Vicky is missing?”

I nodded. “Apparently, sometime last night, after Angel’s appearance here at the bookstore, Victoria stepped out of her motel room for a soda and a little privacy, in order to make a phone call. She hasn’t been seen since. Her purse, her clothes were left behind. Her friends reported her missing this morning.”

“By ‘friends,’ do you mean Stephanie Usher and Courtney Peyton Taylor?”

I nodded. Hal sat back, scowling. “The dyke and the ditz.”

I frowned at his insults, and made a note he was no friend of Victoria’s friends. “Victoria was calling you,” I reminded him. “I believe she spoke with you last night.”

“No, she spoke with my voicemail,” Hal replied. “I was on the West Coast all week, interviewing for graduate school, and I took the red eye, so I was out of range for cell communication all night. When the plane landed, I checked my voicemail. She’d left a lot of long, rambling messages, asking me to call her. I tried to return her call, but she never picked up.”

“You called her ‘Vicky’? Just how well did you know Bethany’s sister?”

Hal placed his hands on his knees, leaned forward in his chair. “How is this any of your business Miss McClure—”

“Mrs. McClure”

“You haven’t answered my question, Ms. McClure.”

“I’m not asking about your relationship for the sake of gossip, Mr. McConnell. I co-own this bookstore. Victoria Banks caused a scene here and now she’s missing along with the author she threatened. The police aren’t yet taking Victoria’s disappearance seriously. She’s over eighteen and hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours yet. You might say I’m an ‘unofficial’ investigator.”

“I can’t help you.” The wall behind his eyes was up again. He lifted his chin.

He’s clamming up. Tenderize him. Just keep bumping gums till he yammers.

“Can you at least give me a sense of how much of Angel’s book is true? For instance, what she said about you and Bethany—was it all lies what she claimed? Didn’t you feel anything for Bethany?”

I expected my question to hit a wall and drop away. But Hal McConnell’s shoulders sagged. His tight scowl loosened into a sad frown. The expression, combined with the long hair falling forward around his face, made him look every bit the sensitive, intelligent man-boy Angel had described.

“I loved Bethany . . .” He swallowed. “But Bethany and I were never lovers . . . does that answer your question?”

So Angel was right about that one, noted Jack.

I nodded. “And why did Bethany’s sister call you last night?”