“What are you doing about it?”
“Not much yet. If she’d been under eighteen and we had more information, we could issue an Amber Alert right away. But the girl’s over eighteen and she hasn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours, so Chief Ciders wants to wait it out before getting the Staties involved, which is more or less standard procedure. We’re trying to contact her parents right now to see if she’s tried to get in touch with them in any way. Once we’ve confirmed she hasn’t called them—or shown up at any of her known addresses—then we’ll ask the State Police to issue an All Points Bulletin. Till then, I’ve been showing the woman’s picture to every gas station attendant and restaurant worker in the area to see if anyone remembers seeing her . . . No luck yet.”
Eddie reached into his pocket and drew out a photograph. “Maybe you’ll recognize her.”
I took the picture from Eddie’s hand. I recognized the girl instantly—the young woman who’d caused the disruption at Angel’s reading the night before.
“The missing woman’s name is Banks . . . Victoria Banks,” Eddie informed me.
In a rush, some of the things the woman said came back to me . . . accusations the girl made about Angel “ruining her family.” It seemed Dana’s guess that she was a member of the Banks family was true.
Eddie was watching me, and I suspected that he suspected that I recognized the girl.
“Yes,” I told him. “This woman was in our store last night. Attended the author reading. She and her friends left . . . early.”
“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “Her friends said that they attended a reading . . . I forgot they said that.”
Which was, in the parlance of Jack Shepard, raw baloney. If anything, Eddie Franzetti was sharper than Chief Ciders, and he never forgot anything, including the fact that I’d once led him astray in a criminal matter—at least for a little while—during my own investigation of the mysterious death of author Timothy Brennan in my own store.
Brennan’s death, which started out looking accidental, turned out to be a homicide. In the end, I’d brought Eddie in. But since that time, I feared that Eddie hasn’t quite trusted me the way he used to. I also suspected that he was wise to the fact that I was on the trail of yet more trouble right now—and his little “forgetful” act with me had been a test to see if I’d actually come clean with him.
“About your missing person,” Eddie said. “The one who’s not officially missing . . . I think you said her name was Angel Stark?”
I was suddenly at a loss for words.
“Oh, Penelope, dear,” Aunt Sadie called. “Come along. We haven’t got all day.”
My jaws snapped shut. Saved!
“Have to bolt,” I cried, silently thanking my aunt for wanting a little excitement this a.m. “Sorry, Eddie, another time. You heard my aunt. Gotta go.”
As I rushed to Sadie’s side, I called over my shoulder, “Drop by anytime, Eddie.”
“Oh, I will, Pen,” Eddie replied. “I will.”
As I hurried down the sidewalk, I felt Officer Franzetti’s eyes suspiciously watching my back. I fought the urge to turn around again. After walking several blocks in silence, Sadie halted and began to scold me.
“I told you not to talk to the police, Penelope,” she cried. “Eddie may be an old friend, but you can’t always trust the law.”
Though I was too far away from the bookshop to hear Jack’s voice, I was sure the ghost would have whole-heartedly agreed.
CHAPTER 10
No Clue
“I got a hot tip,” said Pete mysteriously. “Look out it don’t burn your fingers.”
—“Kansas City Flash” by Norbert Davis, Black Mask magazine, 1933
AFTER SADIE AND I walked up the shady drive, lined with century-old weeping willows, I studied the cars in the Finch Inn’s small paved parking lot, half expecting to see a black Jaguar with a blue and white sticker on the trunk—the same one I’d seen speeding away from the knocked-down Angel Stark the night before.
I surveyed a number of upscale vehicles—a few silver BMWs, a dark blue Mercedes, and one red Porsche—but there was no black Jag among them.
“Hard to be believe they’re finally getting somewhere with that gourmet restaurant of theirs,” said Sadie, eyeing the skeletal wooden structure by the Quindicott Pond, surrounded by a barricade of yellow construction rope. “Wonder how pricey she’s gonna make it.”
“Pricey is good,” I told my aunt. “Pricey is upscale. And the perception of ‘upscale’ means more urban-dwelling, book-buying tourists with wads of disposable income will be trolling through town.”
“Think so?”
“Sure. The elite have practically made it an axiom: The more you have to pay, the more it must be worth.”
Fiona had always said the Inn’s struggle for full bookings year-round was hampered by Quindicott’s lack of upscale dining—Franzetti’s Pizza and the Seafood Shack were as elegant as it got for twenty miles.
The Finch Inn itself was certainly charming enough to satisfy any couple looking for a romantic getaway. With brick chimneys, bay windows, shingle-topped gables, and a corner turret, the place was a classic Victorian-era mansion. The wood structure rested on a solid gray fieldstone foundation, and the exterior was characteristic of the Queen Anne style, which had made its debut in nearby Newport back in 1874. Barney and Fiona Finch even kept the place painted in its high Victorian colors—reddish-brown clapboards with a combination of olive-green and gold moldings.
Four floors held thirteen distinctly decorated guest rooms, each boasting a fireplace and views of Quindicott pond. Most unique was its proximity to the Pond, a sizeable body of salt water fed by a narrow inlet that raced in and out with the tides from the Atlantic shoreline many miles away. A nature trail, a favorite for local birders, circled the pond and stretched into the backwoods, following the inlet for about eight miles.
We climbed the six long steps and walked across the wide, wooden porch that wrapped around the entire building. I noticed several patrons lounging in wicker chairs. And one, I realized with a start, was the statuesque blonde with the Arctic eyes who’d stared at me the night of Angel’s appearance. She lounged in one of the chairs, reading today’s edition of the Providence Journal, which was delivered daily to all of Fiona’s guests.
Though I was seeing the woman in profile now, and with her eyes shaded by sunglasses, I was certain it was the same person. Today she wore a bright yellow sundress with a short hemline, her long, tanned legs stretched out in front of her, manicured feet in strappy, expensive-looking sandals crossed and resting on the wooden deck.
I quickly looked away before the young woman noticed my stare. Spotting Fiona inside the foyer, behind the counter at the front desk, I moved quickly through the beveled glass doors, which stood wide open.
Fiona saw us arriving, smiled warmly, and immediately waved us over. It was ten degrees cooler inside the rich, dark wood entranceway, where two mammoth potted palm trees flanked the door in a convincing illusion of a shady oasis.
The front desk in the foyer had been created by the Finches. Walls had been broken down around a cloak room adjacent to the entranceway. Then a solid oak counter was custom made and stained to match the Inn’s interior by Quindicott’s resident carpenter and interior restorer, Dan DeLothian, who also taught shop class at the local high school.
Fiona Finch looked resplendent today in a light-green pantsuit accented by an off-white lapel pin in the shape of a snow falcon in flight.
“What a treat to see you both,” Fiona said with a grin. “Come into the sitting room and I’ll serve up some mint iced tea.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I replied. “But we can’t stay long. Sadie and I have to get back to work soon.”
“By the way, Pen, Sadie . . . That was really a delightful event yesterday at the store,” Fiona gushed. “It was so thrilling to hear someone as controversial as Angel Stark read her work, and I can’t wait to finish her book.”
> Sadie and I exchanged glances. “Actually, Angel Stark is why we’re here.”
“Well, then, let’s all sit and you can tell me what’s so urgent it can’t wait until the Business Owners Association meeting this evening.” Fiona directed us to a cluster of leather chairs near a front window and we all sat in a tight semicircle.
“Dana Wu dropped by my store first thing this morning,” I began, tactfully leaving out the part about Bud’s visit, and Johnny’s disappearance. “Seems she couldn’t find her client, Angel Stark . . . So, has Angel been back to the Inn since the reading last night?”
Fiona frowned. “You know I don’t make it a habit to reveal the private activities of my guests,” she said in a clear voice.
Then she leaned close, speaking to us in tone barely above a whisper.
“But since you ask, Ms. Stark did not return last night, or this morning. I turned down all the beds yesterday evening at about ten thirty. This morning when I brought the tea and coffee tray up to the second-floor sitting room, I noticed Angel was not up and about with the other lodgers.
“Then, about an hour ago, I went up to make the bed and noticed that it hadn’t been slept in. The sheets were undisturbed, the wrapped seashell Godiva chocolate still resting on the pillow.”
“Did you notice anything odd about the room?” I pressed. “Items missing or disturbed?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fiona cried. “The room wasn’t tossed or anything! Do you really think something suspicious is going on? Do you suspect foul play?”
“Let’s just say that any clue to where Angel Stark has gone would be a blessing. Can you remember anything else that happened last night? Anything odd?”
Fiona put her finger to her chin. “Let’s see . . .” She sat up straighter.
“Barney says he saw a couple heading out past the site, toward the bird trail at about ten o’clock. But that’s not really odd because it’s summer, the weather was nice, and lots of young couples like to walk along the trail on summer evenings for a little privacy.
“But Barney insisted that he thought the young lady was one of our lodgers. Trouble is, Barney’s no good at remembering names or people, so he wasn’t sure which guest it was. And we do have several young, single women staying with us. Your friend Dana Wu was one of them.”
“If it was Angel Stark, then that would mean she did return to the Inn last night—even if she never made it to her room.”
Aunt Sadie spoke up. “I don’t suppose Barney recognized the fellow?”
“I asked him that very question, but he said he only saw the man’s back, from a distance in the dark.”
“When was Angel Stark scheduled to check out?” I asked.
Fiona made a face. “Technically, she had the room until noon today,” she replied. “But Ms. Stark hasn’t checked out or settled her bill, and her luggage is still in the room.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I could hear the breeze rustling the elms on the other side of the window.
“Hmm,” said Fiona. “Perhaps we do have a mystery brewing. Shall we mention it to the Quibblers? They did help out during the Timothy Brennan mess.”
“I have a feeling that the Quibblers will have plenty to quibble over at tonight’s meeting,” Sadie predicted. “The littering fines alone have got them crazy.”
“True,” Fiona replied.
“But we need more information on Angel—on what may have happened to her,” I pressed.
We halted our conversation long enough to allow a middle-aged couple to pass through the foyer.
“Look,” Fiona whispered when we were alone again. “I can’t let you into Ms. Stark’s room—that just wouldn’t be ethical. But what I can do is go up there myself and have a good look around. And if I do come up with something . . . anything . . . I’ll let you both know. If it looks urgent, I’ll phone. Otherwise, I’ll bring any information I learn to the meeting tonight and we can discuss.”
I nodded, pleased with myself that I’d persuaded her—and wishing Jack could have seen it. “Also, Fiona, if you haven’t yet finished reading All My Pretty Friends . . .”
“Only two chapters left to go!”
“Oh, very good,” I said. “I’d like you to bring the book tonight. It may come in handy.”
Then the grandfather clock in the foyer bonged on the hour. Realizing the time, I quickly stood. “We better go,” I told Fiona. “Mina is holding the fort all by herself. If there’s an afternoon rush she’ll be overwhelmed.”
Fiona rose to show us out. At the double doors we paused under the drooping fronds of the potted palms.
“Just one last thing,” I said. “I saw another one of your guests outside. A young woman, long blonde hair and longer legs. Sort of a Paris Hilton clone who has that patrician-disdain thing down pat. Brainert was thumbing through Angel’s book and thought she looked like the photo of Kiki Langdon, Bethany Banks’s closest friend. Could that be true?”
Fiona opened her mouth to reply but didn’t. Instead, she gazed over my shoulders, eyes wide, pointing.
I whirled to find the woman in question right behind me. Even more surprising, my super-chic sister-in-law, “La Princessa” Ashley McClure-Sutherland, was standing next to her, resplendent in pristine white slacks and sleeveless shimmering pink silk blouse, her salon-highlighted blonde hair tamed into a slick yuppie ponytail and her French-manicured hand lazily fanning herself with the Providence Journal’s society page. It was obvious from their expressions that the two of them had overheard me. They both looked like they’d just sucked on a lemon.
“Are you gossiping about me again, Penelope?” said the Paris Hilton clone, her perfectly lined and expensively glossed lips forming the words with fashionably blasé haughtiness.
Meanwhile, my lips—coated with the current flavor of lip balm stocked by Koh’s grocery—refused to form a coherent word, let alone an entire sentence. I just stood there, dumb as a post.
“I’m surprised you don’t recognize me, cousin,” the woman continued, her eyes level with mine.
Desperately I searched my mind for a memory hook.
I got nothing.
Fiona attempted to break the Titanic-worthy glacial wall. “Oh, ah, Ms. Langdon,” she chirped. “How very nice to see you this afternoon. Did you enjoy your time on the sun porch?”
The freeze queen ignored Fiona’s query and fixed her shark-blue expression on me.
By now I’d recovered from my initial shock. First I greeted my sister-in-law, then I met Kiki Langdon’s disdainful gaze with a hard look of my own. “I’m sorry,” I said evenly. “Have we met before?”
Suddenly, Ashley cut loose.
“My God, Penelope,” she cried. “Don’t play innocent with me. Ever since you let—” She gritted her movie star teeth, a cool $50,000 in dental, according to my late husband. “Since Calvin died, I mean, you’ve done nothing but hurt my family.”
“What?!” I cried. The McClures cast as victims of my cruel and evil machinations was certainly a unique perspective. One I didn’t share.
“You poison Calvin’s only child against his relatives, you shun our offers of financial support. On top of that, you come back to this town—for what? To set up in some pathetic, barely break-even, small-time business!”
I was ready to protest, but Sadie leaped into the fray. “More honest than you lot of inside-traders.” Her veined hands clenched into fists as she moved menacingly toward Ashley.
You, go, Sadie, I thought, seeing Ashley step back, her sneer faltering. I wasn’t surprised. My elderly aunt’s temper had reached the level of local legend. There was that pick-pocket she’d spotted while reading on the Quindicott Commons and had beaned with a frontlist Anne Perry from two benches away. And, of course, everyone knew the story of the shoplifter whom she’d caught stuffing a Hammett first edition down his pants. She’d taken him out with a Patricia Cornwell to the head.
“I’m talking to Pen about a private family matter,” Ashley told Sadie, he
r disdainful tone turning almost whiny. “She deliberately hurt her own cousin on one of the most important weeks of her life.”
If this was a joke, I was waiting for the punchline. “Hurt my own cousin?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me. It won’t work. You invited that Stark creature to speak at your bookstore, didn’t you? ’Nuf said.” With that, Ashley’s French-manicured fingers shoved the Journal into my hands, then she grabbed Kiki’s arm, pushed past us, and swept up the stairs.
Aunt Sadie, Fiona, and I stood in stunned silence for a moment.
“What just happened?” I asked as Sadie took the paper from my hands.
“Oh, dear,” she said, skimming the newsprint. “I understand now.”
“What?”
She held it up, her finger pointing to the big, bold letters of a society page headline:
Engagements Announced
EASTERBROOK-LANGDON
Donald Easterbrook, Jr. of New York and London to Katherine “Kiki” McClure Langdon of Greenwich. Newport wedding planned . . .
“Oh, hell.” For the life of me, I didn’t remember Kiki Langdon. I did vaguely recall pretty, little blonde “cousin Katherine” from McClure family functions long past. From Ashley’s perspective, however, the sin was understandable—and her outrage, for once, truly justified.
Bethany Banks’s murder had come and gone with the usual glaringly intense then fading press coverage—yet never once had the names of Bethany’s prominent friends been bandied about on a national scale.
With Angel Stark’s new book, all that had changed. Without knowing it, I’d rolled out the red carpet to a woman whose brand-new instant best-seller had dragged the name of my late husband’s cousin—and her new fiancé—through mud higher than an L.L. Bean boot.
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