“What the hell is this!” screeched the young woman, barreling toward me.
“Stephanie, will you take it easy!” cried Courtney.
“No!” She turned on her friend. “Why did you let her in?!”
“She’s not a reporter,” said Courtney.
Stephanie narrowed her black eyes. “What is she then? And why is she here?”
“The Quindicott Business Owners Association wants to help locate your missing friend,” I told her. “We feel terrible that this happened in our town, but we have all sorts of resources at our disposal.”
“Oh,” said Stephanie. A few seconds later, she seemed to physically deflate. With a sigh, she set the bucket of ice on a nightstand and fished into her pocked for an elastic hair band from her denim shorts. “What sort of resources?”
“Well, we can distribute flyers with Victoria’s picture, for instance,” I explained as Stephanie violently pulled her short black hair into a tight ponytail. “We can canvass the surrounding areas, contact other businesses in nearby communities. We can even mount a search party if necessary.”
I wasn’t lying to these women. Members of our Business Owners Association had done these very things last year, when Milner Logan’s rottweiler broke free of his leash and wandered off. Bruno was eventually located by sunbathers while chasing sea gulls along Ponsert Beach five miles away, and the happy couple was eventually reunited.
“I’m sure we can help, Ms . . . ?”
“Usher. Stephanie Usher.”
Courtney looked at me with hopeful eyes, while Stephanie sunk down on the unmade bed.
You got ’em, doll, good work. Now start the real questions. Just get ’em to spill whatever they’ve got—exactly when and how Victoria vanished. What her thinking was when she came to your store yesterday . . . anything and everything . . .
“What I need to know is when Victoria vanished, and under what circumstances—”
“We already told the police everything,” said Stephanie.
“I understand that,” I replied evenly. “But we can’t help you if we don’t know all the facts. Why were you in town, for instance?”
Stephanie flopped backward until she sprawled across the bed. “It wasn’t my idea,” she grunted.
I faced Courtney.
“We came to attend Angel Stark’s reading at the local bookstore,” Courtney explained, one eye on her friend.
“Oh,” I replied, feigning surprise. “So you’re fans of the author?”
“Ha!” Stephanie cried. “Not hardly. I’d like to kill that bitch.”
I silently queried Jack. “Did you hear that?!”
Cool your heels, doll. There’s a big difference between an expression and a confession.
“Angel Stark’s book . . . mentions Victoria’s family,” Courtney added. “Victoria was very upset by some of the things written in that book.”
“So Victoria came here to confront Ms. Stark?” I pressed.
“Oh, no,” Courtney replied.
“Hell, yeah!” said Stephanie, sitting up again. “You wouldn’t believe the things that money-grubbing hack bitch said about Victoria’s family, her dead sister. Hateful things. Libelous things. Vicky loved her big sister. That stuff made her sick.”
“But why confront the author in public like that?” I asked. “Aren’t there other ways—attorneys, lawsuits? The Banks are an influential family. Surely they have resources.”
Stephanie sneered again. “Her parents didn’t want to get involved. They’re in denial, like it’s just a bad dream. They think if they sue it will just give Angel more publicity. So they’re hiding in Europe for the summer, and probably the fall, too, assuming it will all just go away—blow over by Christmas.”
“Tell-all books like this usually do,” I pointed out.
“That’s what I said,” Courtney cried, looking not at me but at her friend. “But Victoria couldn’t sit still for it—”
“I don’t blame her,” Stephanie said. “Her parents might be too caught up in ‘how things look’ to fight Angel, but she isn’t.”
“Was Victoria upset enough to . . . try something . . . I don’t know . . . desperate?” I asked carefully.
“Like what?” asked Courtney.
I shrugged. “Like maybe hurt Angel in some way . . . physically.”
Keep your eyes open, baby, advised Jack.
Stephanie and Courtney exchanged a look.
“They know something,” I silently told Jack.
Or suspect something. You notice they haven’t denied the possibility.
“She’s been pretty upset since Angel’s book came out two weeks ago,” Courtney finally replied. “She got real secretive, too. Kept getting late-night phone calls on her cell—wouldn’t tell us who it was that was calling her though, and we usually shared everything. I also think she was e-mailing Angel . . . threatening her.”
Stephanie was frowning at Courtney, like she wasn’t too happy the girl was continuing to talk.
“Did Victoria receive any calls last night, before she vanished?” I asked, returning to the missing persons line of questioning.
“She got a few while we were at the bookstore,” said Courtney, “but she didn’t check her messages until we got back here. I don’t know who called her and she didn’t tell us.”
“Is her cell phone here in the room?” I asked hopefully, even though I was sure the police would have impounded it.
“It’s not,” said Stephanie. “Victoria took it with her when she went out last night. Said she wanted to get a soda from the vending machine and make a call.”
Courtney gave Stephanie a sidelong glance and added, “She probably wanted some privacy . . .”
“This was what time?” I asked.
“A little after midnight,” said Courtney.
“I think it was closer to one a.m.,” said Stephanie.
“So she stepped out for a soda and you think to place a private call and then you never saw her again?”
Both women silently nodded their heads.
“Have the police searched the area?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Courtney replied. “That one policeman—the cute one, Officer Falconetti—”
Franzetti, I thought, but didn’t correct her.
“—he searched the whole place, the swimming pool, the laundry room, looked around the parking lot and the woods, talked to the people in the motel office and all the guests. He even had the motel people let him search every empty room, but he didn’t find anything he said looked out of the ordinary.”
“The cop also said that because she was an adult, they still had to follow up on all known addresses and confirm she was really a missing person,” added Stephanie.
“Officer Falconetti did say he’d take a photo of her and send it to the State Police,” noted Courtney, “so they could put out a bulletin . . . I gave him one I took of Victoria last week . . . I’m sorry I don’t have another to give you for the flyers.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “We can talk to the police and work something out.” Then I rose. “Well, thank you for all of your help . . . Will you be staying in town much longer?”
Stephanie’s face was set. “I’m not leaving without Victoria.”
I walked to the door, then paused. “One more thing. Is it possible Victoria simply went back home to Newport or somewhere else without telling either of you?”
“Not unless she hitchhiked,” Stephanie said. “She left her purse here, along with her wallet—the police took them, though.”
Courtney nodded in agreement. “Victoria can’t drive, and Stephanie’s license is suspended. I’m the only one with a valid driver’s license. We came up together, in my Audi. It’s still parked outside.”