“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.
I saw no point in playing it coy. “My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. This is my store. Angel Stark spoke here last night. Then she left with a friend of mine. And now they’re both . . . missing.”
Angel’s dental records were probably confirming her identity as I spoke those words, and the news of her death would likely hit the broadcast world any minute, but right now I thought the less said the better.
“I can imagine the kind of ‘friend’ you’re referring to,” replied Hal. “Young. Male. Buff and working-class. Not at all sophisticated—certainly not enough to see through Angel’s games, her manipulations. Angel always did like to slum—for a fling.”
My blood pressure rose with his insult to Johnny, or any kid like him—which is to say any kid who didn’t have a trust fund and a private school blazer. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t encountered this attitude before—among my in-laws it was practically genetic. Maybe that’s why my anger flared as abruptly as it did.
Take it easy, kid, Jack’s voice soothed. Stay in control. Don’t let him play with your reflexes. You play with his.
I cleared my throat. “That’s very interesting . . . that Angel liked to slum. I can only assume from what I’ve heard about her murder that Bethany Banks did, too.”
Hal McConnell winced at the remark—the first sign of vulnerability he’d exhibited since we’d met. But his reaction wasn’t anger as much as pained defeat. “What happened to Victoria?” he said, his concern sounding genuine. “You said she’s missing, too?”
“Victoria Banks came to this bookstore last night, with two of her friends. She confronted Ms. Stark in the middle of her lecture, caused a bit of a scene.”
He cursed—another crack in the shell. “I told Vicky to steer clear of Angel Stark. That Angel was a dangerous, unstable person—and no friend of her sister Bethany.”
I was surprised at his blunt admission.
Don’t be, baby, you’re cracking him like antique china, said Jack. Keep the heat under him.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked pointedly.
“I mean Angel was sleeping with Bethany’s fiancé behind her back, that’s what I mean. Donald Easterbrook was playing Angel right up to Bethany’s murder and beyond, as far as I know.”
I’d skimmed enough of Angel’s book to know she’d never revealed such a relationship, never even hinted at it, either past or present. Interesting what Angel chose not to tell in that tell-all book of hers.
Hal McConnell cleared his throat impatiently. “You were saying that Vicky is missing?”
I nodded. “Apparently, sometime last night, after Angel’s appearance here at the bookstore, Victoria stepped out of her motel room for a soda and a little privacy, in order to make a phone call. She hasn’t been seen since. Her purse, her clothes were left behind. Her friends reported her missing this morning.”
“By ‘friends,’ do you mean Stephanie Usher and Courtney Peyton Taylor?”
I nodded. Hal sat back, scowling. “The dyke and the ditz.”
I frowned at his insults, and made a note he was no friend of Victoria’s friends. “Victoria was calling you,” I reminded him. “I believe she spoke with you last night.”
“No, she spoke with my voicemail,” Hal replied. “I was on the West Coast all week, interviewing for graduate school, and I took the red eye, so I was out of range for cell communication all night. When the plane landed, I checked my voicemail. She’d left a lot of long, rambling messages, asking me to call her. I tried to return her call, but she never picked up.”
“You called her ‘Vicky’? Just how well did you know Bethany’s sister?”
Hal placed his hands on his knees, leaned forward in his chair. “How is this any of your business Miss McClure—”
“Mrs. McClure”
“You haven’t answered my question, Ms. McClure.”
“I’m not asking about your relationship for the sake of gossip, Mr. McConnell. I co-own this bookstore. Victoria Banks caused a scene here and now she’s missing along with the author she threatened. The police aren’t yet taking Victoria’s disappearance seriously. She’s over eighteen and hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours yet. You might say I’m an ‘unofficial’ investigator.”
“I can’t help you.” The wall behind his eyes was up again. He lifted his chin.
He’s clamming up. Tenderize him. Just keep bumping gums till he yammers.
“Can you at least give me a sense of how much of Angel’s book is true? For instance, what she said about you and Bethany—was it all lies what she claimed? Didn’t you feel anything for Bethany?”
I expected my question to hit a wall and drop away. But Hal McConnell’s shoulders sagged. His tight scowl loosened into a sad frown. The expression, combined with the long hair falling forward around his face, made him look every bit the sensitive, intelligent man-boy Angel had described.
“I loved Bethany . . .” He swallowed. “But Bethany and I were never lovers . . . does that answer your question?”
So Angel was right about that one, noted Jack.
I nodded. “And why did Bethany’s sister call you last night?”
“Vicky and I were friends. I tried to help her through the worst of it.” He sat up straighter, met my eyes. “We both took her death very hard. After the funeral, we began to talk. E-mails, phone calls at first. Soon we became closer.”
“But you were never lovers?”
Hal’s eyes narrowed. “Whether or not we were lovers is not your business, and I refuse to discuss the issue. Especially since Victoria is missing and, as you obviously presume, foul play was involved.”
“You sound as though you know something you’re not telling me.”
“I know nothing. You’re the one informing me. I just know that Vicky hasn’t been ‘all right’ since her sister’s murder—and things became much worse after the publication of Angel Stark’s book, which dragged the whole tawdry affair into the limelight once again. I knew it was possible that Vicky would confront Angel. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to prevent it. But at least . . .”
Hal paused. I waited for that wall to come up again. But, once again, the sad boy seemed to overwhelm the cautious man. He leaned forward in his chair. So did I.
“Look, a few weeks ago, around the time Angel’s book was first being hyped, Vicky called me from her parents’ home in Newport. I was surprised to hear she was back at the family’s place because she had been excited about immersing herself in a special film studies program she’d signed up for during the university’s summer session. Then she told me she’d come home for only one reason—to steal a gun from her father’s trophy room. She claimed she’d read excerpts from All My Pretty Friends and was going to get even with Angel at one of her book signings.”
“What did she mean by ‘get even’? Did she want to kill her?”
“Vicky wanted to kill Angel; we all did. But I think she just wanted to scare Angel witless by pointing the weapon at her. I told Vicky she was crazy, of course. I tried to make light of her plan, and I also offered to conspire with her to make a better one. She told me to come over, and I went.”
Hal tightened his already tight tie, looked around.
“It was pathetic, really. She’d hauled down some antique from World War One, probably didn’t even have the proper ammunition—as if either of us would know. Vicky begged me to help get even with Angel. After hours of letting her cry on my shoulder, I returned the Mauser to its display case.” Hal shook his head. “The next morning, I drove her back to Providence. I left for California not long after that. I hadn’t spoken with Vicky for over a week, hadn’t even heard from her until last night . . . and that’s really all I know, all right?”