I knew Eddie and his fellow “Brothers in Blue” were feeling the heat as the result of new revenue-enhancing policies instituted by Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, the most frustrating woman in local politics. Sadie and Marjorie had been feuding since before I was born, it seemed, and it was my aunt who dubbed her “The Municipal Zoning Witch.” The councilwoman’s newest shakedown had most of the town’s business leaders buzzing, and not in a nice way. The strategy involved an insidious manipulation of perfectly reasonable trash laws.
“It’s not about the ticket, which I paid in full,” I replied. “Actually, it’s about a missing person, who, technically, may not be a missing person—at least not officially.”
Eddie reached under his cap and scratched his head. Then he put his hands on his hips. “Are you talking about the young woman who disappeared last night?” he asked.
Could it be that Dana Wu actually filed a missing report after all? I wondered. Only one way to find out.
“Do you mean Angel Stark?” I asked.
To my surprise, Eddie shook his head. “Never heard of anyone called Angel Stark. Our missing person is a woman, though . . . college kid who came to town for the weekend.”
It was my turn to scratch my head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“She’s a Brown University student, over from Providence,” Eddie continued. “She and her friends were staying at the new Comfy-Time Motel on the highway last night. Sometime after midnight—the roommates are not sure of the exact time—they claim the girl stepped outside to get a soda and never came back. Her car is still in the parking lot. Her purse with her ID and credit cards was still in the motel room. She was reported missing to us first thing in the morning.”
“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.