Good, said Jack.
“What do you want? I don’t have all day here.” His pronunciations were perfect, not a Rhode Island dropped “r” in sight—and beneath it all, the sort of everyday, casual disdain that reminded me of my in-laws. Another member of the sheltered class, I deduced.
“I’m not the police, if that’s what you’re asking. The authorities are involved, however, though right now they think she might have run off for some reason, and they want more time to pass before they’ll initiate a major search. But I think Victoria may be in danger.”
“Just get to the point. What do you want from me?” demanded the voice on the phone.
Set up a meeting, Jack advised. The bookstore.
“But I don’t even know where this person is,” I told Jack. “He could be halfway around the world for all I know.”
Don’t start hand-wringing now, baby. Take a chance.
I swallowed my nervousness, forced my voice to sound commanding. “Listen carefully. I want you to meet me in Quindicott. I’ll give you two hours. We’ll meet in a public place . . .”
“Where?”
“A place called Buy the Book. A specialty bookstore on Cranberry Street, in the middle of town.”
“I know the place.” An unhappy sigh followed. “All right. I’ll be there in two hours.”
I closed my eyes in relief.
“How will I know you?” asked the man on the cell.
“You’ll find me in the nonfiction section,” I told him quickly. “I’ll be reading a copy of Angel Stark’s All My Pretty Friends.”
I waited for a response, but the voice on the other end of the phone simply grunted in disgust, then the line went dead. With trembling hands I folded the cell phone and tucked it into my pocket.
You did good, kid. I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.
But I didn’t feel good. I hadn’t realized how tense I felt until the phone call ended. Now my mouth was as parched as the Sahara. Mechanically, I drew the Moose Hill Spring Water I’d bought out of the soda machine dispenser and broke the seal. Then I took a long gulp, my gaze automatically wandering across the parking lot to the shadowy woods beyond.
Hmm, said Jack. I guess bottled water’s not a complete sham if you’re five miles from a hospitable tap.
“Why, Jack . . . I do believe you’re getting the drift of it.”
CHAPTER 16
Mystery Man
If it’s going to be a long story, let’s have a drink.
—Raymond Chandler, “Goldfish,” Black Mask magazine, 1936
“IT’S SO DIFFICULT, all this waiting,” I silently griped, pacing the nonfiction aisle of my bookstore.
Welcome to my world, sweetheart. When I was alive, waiting was the name of the P.I. game. Now that I’m dead, time is all I’ve got.
“I never thought of it like that,” I said, suppressing a yawn.
Well, it was easier when I was breathing. If I were, I’d be easing my pain with a belt about now.
The door opened and a young man entered.
“Look . . . here comes a likely candidate.”
When my aunt Sadie heard the sound of the bell over the door, she instinctively looked up at the new customer from behind the counter, caught herself, then abruptly looked away.
Not too obvious.
The newcomer was in his twenties, wore summer khakis and a loose shirt, and seemed like a suitable match for the voice I’d heard over the cell phone. Before I spoke again, I raised the hardcover of All My Pretty Friends to my face and turned my back on Bud Napp, who lingered at the new release section trying hard to look like a customer. I didn’t want Bud to think I was talking to myself—which I suppose some would say I was.
“Do you think that’s him?”
Don’t be a bunny, doll. That guy ain’t Jasper and you know it, Jack replied, a tad impatiently I thought.
“But he’s the right age.”
You can’t be sure of the guy’s age—
“He sounded young—”
The tenor of his pipes mean nothing, sister. A voice funneled through the Ameche doesn’t reveal as much as you think it does. Anyway, the square john who just walked in doesn’t have enough berries to live in a swanky burb like Newport. His shoes are from hunger, and the cuffs of his pants are showing threads.
As the man passed by, my eyes lingered on his footwear. Jack was right, his shoes were worn, the heels rounded. And the cuffs of his pants were frayed, too. “Good eyes,” I marveled.
I don’t have eyes anymore, baby, just . . . shall we say . . . awareness?
I sighed. Whatever the identity of my mysterious stranger, he was certainly not punctual. Almost thirty minutes had passed since the scheduled rendezvous time and there was no sign of him. I made good use of the extra minutes by skimming Angel Stark’s book, skipping the self-obsessed, self-indulgent passages about her feelings and her anguish in an effort to get to the meat-and-potatoes facts about the Bethany Banks murder and its aftermath.
The doorbell tinkled again and a tall, preppie young man entered, conspicuously overdressed for the weather. I knew at once he was our man.
“Jack, that’s the one!”
Calm down, sister. Your heart’s beating like a bangtail’s hoofs. You’re giving me a gin mill concussion, and I haven’t even got a brain anymore.
“I recognize him, Jack, he’s—”
Stop ventilating your gums. Just read your book and act nonchalant. Let him make the first move.
I didn’t have to wait long. The young man glanced in my direction, caught the title of the book I had open in my hands, and our eyes met. Dropping all pretense, Henry ‘Hal’ McConnell—the man-boy with the lifelong unrequited crush on Bethany Banks—walked right up to me.
“You are the woman who phoned,” he said in his now-familiar voice. It was not a question.
I nervously adjusted my black-framed glasses and set the book aside. I felt Bud Napp’s eyes on me, saw Sadie trying hard not to stare. “Let’s find a secluded spot to talk,” I murmured.
His lanky frame followed me to the rear of the store, where an overstuffed armchair was mercifully vacant. I gestured for him to take the chair, but he shook his head. “You take it.”
I sat down myself and Hal McConnell sat across from me in a straight-backed wooden seat he dragged from under a lamp in the corner. After plunking down and arranging himself, he offered me a withering gaze.
“You’re Hal McConnell,” I began.
“As you no doubt know from that piece of tripe you were reading.” There was venom in his voice, a cold anger. The kind that didn’t climb out of his heart to reach his eyes, which were still as flat as a wall.
“Angel Stark’s book, you mean?”
He nodded. I estimated Hal McConnell to be in his early twenties. He was well-dressed for a summer Saturday, which suggested to me that I’d snagged him on his way to or from a formal appointment. His blue blazer was impeccably tailored and his buttoned-down shirt crisp and white, his silver-and-blue striped tie perfectly knotted in a snug Windsor.
His features were regular, his teeth white, his brown, wavy hair worn longish. He’d changed its style since the published photo, in which he’d brushed it away from his face. It fell forward now, which was a more attractive and trendy style, making him look more appealingly rakish. His chin was a bit weak, but his hazel-green eyes were penetrating, and the intelligence behind them was palpable. Something about him reminded me of my late husband, Calvin, and the reminder made me more than a little uncomfortable.