Adopting Jack’s technique now, I tried to put myself into the mind of Victoria Banks—a young college coed, sheltered most of her life, who was forced to face the harshest of realities when her beloved older sister was murdered, the perpetrator still unknown, or, if it was Johnny, set free on legal technicalities. As if that weren’t enough misery, along comes a Kitty Kelly clone in Betsy Johnson chic, revealing her sister’s skeletons.
Under the stress of grief and anger, a person could easily make many missteps and bad decisions—like confronting Angel Stark in a very public setting. As the bad incidents mount up, petty annoyances take on global significance. A hangnail can reduce the person to tears, focus becomes difficult, the person gets clumsy—maybe drops a quarter under the machine instead of in the slot, or even . . .
I dipped my hand into my right-hand pocket (my lefthand pocket held the buffalo nickel, and I wasn’t parting with that for anything). After drawing out the proper amount of change, I began dropping coins into the vending machine slot.
Now you’re thinking like a shamus, babe, said Jack.
“Thanks . . .” I smiled and pressed the button for a bottled water CHOOSE ANOTHER SELECTION appeared in red letters on the digital display. I pressed another button, then all the buttons—with the same result. The machine was empty. I punched the coin return and my change spilled with such force that a quarter popped out of the return chute, bounced onto the rubber mat, and rolled under the machine—taking its place right next to the gleaming quarter I’d spied a minute earlier.
“This vending machine is empty,” I told Jack. “Victoria Banks had to find another!”
I hurried up the stairs to the second level, then followed the signs along the second-floor walkway until I found another ice machine and soda dispenser. A hand-scrawled Out OF ORDER sign was taped to the beverage machine, the coin slot sealed with a strip of duct tape.
Any more machines?
“Let’s see . . .”
I went back down the steps to the ground floor and found a third vending area all the way around the facility, on the opposite wing of the motel. The motel was mostly empty and just one car was parked on this side of the building. I dropped coins into the slot of the soda machine and out tumbled an ice-cold bottle of Moose Hill Spring Water.
Okay, so we know the vanished vixen likely ended up here, said Jack.
“I think you’re right.”
I bent low and stared under the machine. In the far corner I spied a silver oval the size of a makeup compact.
“Jack, I see something!”
Beautiful, doll.
“I can’t get it . . .” I searched for something to extend my reach. In the end, I had to cross the narrow strip of parking lot and head along a dirt path that led into a wooded area beyond.
Under the canopy of trees, it was shady, quiet, and at least ten degrees cooler. Bugs buzzed in front of my face as I glanced around. The single path I was on stopped at the juncture of a tall oak where a metal “Private Property” sign, white with rusted edges, hung lopsided on one nail. The path split into a Y at that point, and the two trails veered off among the trees and brush. None seemed well-trodden, but then vegetation and rocks were strewn across the dirt paths. I found a long, sturdy twig and picked it up.
Stick in hand, I emerged from the woods into the sunlight. I crossed the parking lot and, without much trouble, snagged the oval-shaped silver object under the soda machine and dragged it into the daylight. The letters VB were engraved on the top of the oval.
“This must be Victoria Banks’s.”
What is that thing—a girly compact?
“It’s a cell, Jack.”
A what?
“You must have seen them advertised on TV by now. It’s a wireless transmitter, kind of a non-cosmic version of your buffalo nickel.”
You mean a two-way radio? We used them in Germany during the war, only that one’s a helluvalot smaller. Is it military equipment?
“No, no, it’s not military. It’s a mobile private phone. Everyone has a cell now.”
You don’t.
I shrugged. “I’ll get around to it, when Spencer is older and I want to keep track of him. I’ll get him one, too.”
So . . . Victoria Banks dropped her, uh, ‘cell’ without realizing it, and it somehow got innocently kicked under the soda machine. Or she struggled with someone and in the tussle it was knocked under there.
I shook my head. “I find it hard to believe she dropped it by accident when the very reason she came outside was to get a soda and place a call. I’d say it’s starting to look like Angel Stark wasn’t the only one who met with foul play last night.”
I think you’re right about that, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that Victoria is an innocent. Who’s to say her call wasn’t to somebody who helped her do the dirty deed of offing Angel? She could have made the call as a signal to be picked up here and the cell got lost in a speedy departure. Or maybe she hired someone to give Angel that tight necktie and things went south after that—like maybe the hired gun snatched Victoria, hoping to bargain for a higher payday.
I nodded. Jack had laid out some interesting theories.
Okay, baby, he purred. You know the next question to ask?
“Who did she call?”
You got it. Whoever she called will have some answers.
I considered that there might be fingerprints on the phone besides Victoria’s. If there were, I’d probably just smeared them while adding my own. And since the damage was done, I decided I might as well press on. I didn’t own a cell and I wasn’t sure how they operated. I opened the compact. A green glow illuminated the display screen, and a melodic warble told me there were messages waiting.
I attempted to check those first. The display panel told me that the last five calls all came from the same telephone number. I didn’t recognize the area code—and suspected it was a cell number. I wasn’t sure how to retrieve the voicemail messages. Fearing I might erase them if I did something wrong, I highlighted the phone number of the last message instead and pressed the GO option. Then I placed the cell to my ear. An answer came on the first ring.
“Jesus . . . Hello? . . . Who is this? . . . Victoria?—” The voice was male and ceased to speak when I did not reply.
“It’s not Victoria,” I said. “Ms. Banks has been reported missing by her college friends. What do you know about her disappearance?”
A long silence followed. I spoke again, softening my tone. “Since you didn’t hang up, I assume you are as anxious as I am to find her.”
“Who is this?” the man said again.
“I could very well ask you the same question.”
“Don’t get cute or I’ll hang up,” he threatened.
Hanging up won’t get you anywhere, Jack whispered in my head.
“Hanging up won’t get you anywhere,” I repeated to the stranger.
“Jack, why?” I frantically asked the ghost.
You have his number. He doesn’t have yours.
“I . . . I have your phone number and I can easily find out who you are. Whereas you don’t have a clue who I am, only that I’m using Victoria’s phone . . .”