Grinning, Spencer deposited his bowl and spoon in the sink. “I’m going to watch Crime Town on the Intrigue Channel,” he announced.
“But didn’t you see that same show last night?”
“I fell asleep before the end and I didn’t see who the bad guy was. Lucky for me, they’re repeating the same show this morning.”
“All right, but you better be ready to go in an hour when your ride to day camp gets here.”
“I know!”
His feet bare, he stomped through the hall to the living room. A few moments later, I heard the television.
With a sigh, I dumped the rest of the old coffee down the sink and brewed a new batch. The stress of Angel Stark’s volatile author appearance, not to mention Jack’s strange, unfinished case of a dream, drained me, and I didn’t have enough sleep—or coffee—to function properly. Then there was the reminder of having to attend that damn McClure family soiree—not exactly a mood lifter.
If you don’t like the tune, don’t get on the dance floor.
“Good morning, Jack,” I silently replied. “And it’s not that easy. . . . Just because I have a problem with the McClure family, that doesn’t mean my son should suffer. Spencer has every right to see his cousins, and participate in family events. Besides, he loves these family reunions, and he’ll have a great time.”
So you’re just gonna put on a happy face and go? Sounds like you are dancing—like a puppet on a string. Sounds like you are dancing—like a puppet on a string.
“Listen, Jack. No one knows the McClures better than I do. They are master manipulators. My husband controlled me for years with his passive-aggressive assaults on my self-respect, along with his ‘mood swings’ and ‘emotional problems.’ But the days when Ashley or any of the McClure clan can manipulate yours truly ended with my husband’s suicide—”
Turn down the heat, baby, your soup’s boiling.
“—I have refused their considerable bribes, even if their money would make my life a whole lot easier. I removed my son from the obscenely expensive private primary school where generations of McClures traditionally matriculated into class-A snobs. And I broke out of that East Side apartment owned by my in-laws—a gilded trap if ever I saw one—whose plans for Spencer, after Calvin’s suicide, suddenly included English boarding school.”
Although I was wiser now, I was still angry with myself for having allowed them to push me around for longer than they should have. I slammed the coffee cup down on the counter harder than I realized. Hot coffee sloshed on my hand and drenched the counter. Inside my head, I could feel Jack recede.
“I’m sorry about my tone,” I told him. “This just isn’t the best time for a conversation, any conversation, about the McClures.”
But Jack was already gone, his cooling presence on this already too warm summer day dissipated into the upstairs air. “Damn,” I whispered. I hadn’t wanted to talk about my past again. After that dream, I’d wanted to talk about his.
“Fine, leave then,” I muttered as I sopped up the mess with a paper towel. “But once in a while it would be nice to get a little sympathy and acknowledgment for my parental sacrifices from someone in this world—even if it’s only a disembodied voice inside my head.”
Of course, that voice inside my head was another reason I dreaded the coming reunion. I knew full well that the McClures blamed me for the death of their oldest male heir, and that they would love to get sole custody of my son, just so they could turn my beautiful, brilliant boy into a surrogate for my neurotic and spoiled late husband.
If Ashley McClure-Sutherland ever found out that I was “talking” on a regular basis to the ghost haunting my bookstore, she would surely have me committed for life—the McClures had the money and the clout to do it, too. Building an entire wing of the St. Francis Psychiatric Hospital pays for a lot of influence.
Suddenly glum, I dumped the remainder of the coffee into my cup and switched off the coffeemaker. After a quick shower, I threw on khaki pants and a white sleeveless cotton blouse, then trudged downstairs to help my aunt open the bookstore. As I descended the stairs, I saw Sadie eyeing me over her spectacles.
“Late night, dear?”
“Mina came back to the store. Johnny Napp was supposed to take her home last night but something happened. So she called her roommate and I waited up with her until her ride came.”
Sadie frowned and removed the spectacles, letting them dangle from a red beaded chain. “I think we both saw that train wreck coming. The way that Angel Stark flirted with Johnny—and right in front of Mina. Shameless . . .”
I set my coffee down next to the cash register. “I only hope Mina doesn’t blame me for what happened.”
“Goodness! Whatever could she blame you for?”
“I was the one who invited Angel to appear in our store.”
“Oh, pooh,” Sadie said with a dismissive wave. “Who in their right mind would blame you for Angel Stark’s behavior?”
As she spoke, Sadie drew the key out of the pocket of her beige slacks. It was already time to open. Sadie unlocked the front door, and within minutes, the bell above it chimed, signaling the entrance of our first visitor of the day. It was Bud Napp.
“Good morning,” I chirped from across the room.
Bud did not reply. I don’t think he even heard me. Instead, he stared hard at Sadie, focusing entirely on her. His face was tight with worry, and his eyes were grave.
“Bud!” she cried, instantly alarmed. “What’s the matter?”
“Johnny, my nephew, didn’t come home last night. He’s disappeared, and so has my pickup truck . . .”
“Oh, no,” I murmured.
Sadie pulled Bud all the way inside the store. She checked the sidewalk in front of the shop. It was empty, so she locked the front door and flipped the Closed sign around again.
“We can open a half hour later today,” she announced.
I helped her pull together a few armchairs that were scattered for customers throughout the stacks, and we sat down at the end of an aisle.
“Johnny told me he was coming over here to see Mina, and I told him he could use the truck after he finished his work at the site.”
“The site” was Quindicott shorthand for the still-under-construction Finch Restaurant, the wood-framed skeleton of which is located on the shore of an inlet the locals call the Pond. Because Fiona was using local artisans, work was progressing slowly, though the pace picked up ever since Bud and Johnny began working there a few weeks ago.
“Johnny was here last night,” I told Bud. “He was around for the reading, so I guess he arrived at seven thirty.”
“But he did leave with Mina, right? Johnny really likes the girl, but I think both of them are too young to get serious. Then again, if they did do something crazy like elope or something . . . Well, it’s bad, but not the end of the world . . . things could be worse.”
Sadie looked at me. I looked at Bud.
“Actually, Johnny promised to drive Mina home, but he stood her up. Her roommate drove over and took Mina home after midnight.”
Bud, usually the coolest head at the Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings, completely shocked me by exploding.
“Damn that stupid-ass knuckleheaded kid!” He rocked to his feet and started pacing the aisle. “I only hope he didn’t go off and do anything stupid, like get drunk and violate his parole.”
My lips moved but nothing came out. I’d never seen Bud like this. It was Sadie who calmed him down. She rose and touched Bud’s shoulder. He whirled to face her.
“We want to help you, Bud,” she said, “but Penelope and I don’t know enough yet. Maybe you better tell us why Johnny’s on probation.”
Bud nodded and sank back into the plush chair. Sadie and I sat on either side of him, waiting. But just as Bud opened his mouth to speak, an urgent pounding on Buy the Book’s front door interrupted him.
“Oh, damn,” said Sadie. “Who could that be?”
“
Don’t move.” I rushed to the door. “If it’s a delivery, I’ll take care of it. If it’s a customer I’ll just shoo them away.”
I went to the door, drawing my own key out of the pocket of my slacks. I peered through the glass and saw Dana Wu frantically waving at me. I unlocked the door and admitted her, locking it behind her again.
“Aren’t you open yet?” Dana asked. Like me, she was casually dressed—but in tailored yellow shorts and a 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 still think you ought to take my advice and keep your lips zipped and your wax bins open while Bud talks. Then we can both learn something.
Strategy set, I approached Sadie and Bud and cleared my throat.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I began. “There was some . . . business I had to take care of.”
“No, no . . . I should be apologizing,” Bud replied with something of his old demeanor. “Here I am costing you Saturday morning business, and I have to open my hardware store, too. Folks are depending on me . . .”
Bud started to rise, but I gently pushed him back into his seat. “Don’t be silly . . . We never see any real business on Saturdays until well past noon.”
Sadie spoke up. “Bud’s come over here to as
k for Mina’s address and phone number. I told him we’d gladly give it to him, but Mina will be here soon anyway, so I told him to wait around.”
“I was hoping Johnny was with her—Mina, I mean,” said Bud.
I sat down between them and folded my arms. “Bud . . . You mentioned something about Johnny violating his parole. But neither Sadie or I knew your nephew was in any kind of trouble.” I looked to my aunt for support. “Isn’t that right?”
Sadie nodded. “That’s right, Penelope. Bud, what can you tell us?”
“Johnny was in just about the worst trouble a kid can get into,” he began, then his voice faltered. “But it’s his business . . . maybe I better not say . . .”
Goose him, Jack advised in my head.
“What!” I silently replied. “How?”
Keep the play innocent. Don’t threaten, just throw this out there easy: Should we call Chief Ciders?
“Should we call Chief Ciders?” I repeated to Bud.
“Call the chief!?” cried Bud, now visibly alarmed. “Why?”
“Jack?” I silently pleaded.
So he can file a missing persons report on Johnny Napp.
“So he can file a missing persons report on Johnny Napp,” I told Bud. “If it turns out he isn’t with Mina, I mean.”
Bud’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that! . . . Oh, dang it . . . I better tell you the truth. The kid’s name isn’t Napp. Johnny’s my late sister Rita’s kid. I told Johnny when he came to Quindicott that it would be better for him if he just used my last name instead of his own . . . so he could fit in better, and avoid any nosy reporters snooping around.”
“Why would a reporter be looking for Johnny?” I asked.
Good, doll, I heard in my head—and bit my cheek to keep from smiling, even as I lectured myself that being giddy with pride over a possible figment of my imagination was patently ridiculous.
Don’t start that possible figment of your imagination stuff with me, baby. You need a reminder I’m real? I’ll scare gramps into next week.
“No, don’t!” I silently reversed. “Just behave, Jack . . . Please.”
Bud, who of course had no idea I had been carrying on a conversation in my head about him with a ghost, rubbed his eyes. “Johnny’s father—my late brother-in-law—was an Italian contractor in Providence. Johnny’s real name is Napoli . . . Giovanni Napoli.”
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