An Uninvited Ghost (24 page)

The little guy perked up at that. “Yeah? You think a TV star is here?” He looked around at the “lobby” and looked puzzled.

“Absolutely!” Trent said, playing to the guy’s perceived weakness. “We think she’s right here, in hiding, and we want to film her in the motel and bring her back to the set of the show. Can you help us find her?”

“How can I do that?” the little guy asked. “I didn’t see no TV stars walking around here.”

“Well, we know she used her credit card when she paid for the room,” Trent said. “It’s Tiffney Warburton.”

“That’s no TV star,” the guy said. “A TV star is, like, David Caruso or Paula Abdul.
That’s
a TV star.”

Trent’s voice lost most of its patience. “Could you just please look and see what room Miss Tiffney Warburton is registered in?” he asked.

The little guy banged on the keys of a grimy computer first used by Marconi in nineteen twenty-six, and green copy finally appeared on the foot-thick monitor screen. “The card was used for room eighteen D,” he said. “Do I get a credit when the episode airs?”

The camera operators and sound guys kicked into gear as we headed up the outdoor stairs to the room where Tiffney was staying. And as Trent and I led the charge, something occurred to me that hadn’t before.

“How come the cops haven’t been here yet?” I asked. “The locals would have had a huge head start on us; even McElone should have beaten us here. Why didn’t the guy at the desk say anything about cops, other than the TV show?”

Trent shrugged. “Maybe he just came on duty and missed them,” he said.

“And the previous guy didn’t tell him?”

Trent looked annoyed. “How am I supposed to know why the cops haven’t been here yet?” he asked. “It just makes it that much more important that we get this done quickly.” He gestured to one of the camera operators, who rushed to a room door and set up the camera on his shoulder.

“Hey, I don’t want to be on screen for this,” I told Trent. “I don’t want people to see the crazy ghost lady running up to a sleazy hotel room in pursuit of a girl who doesn’t wear much on a good day.”

“But it’s great publicity for your guesthouse,” he said.

“How?”

“Anything that gets you on national television is a plus,” Trent answered. “It’s like free advertising in every state and a number of foreign countries.”

We stopped at the top of the stairs, which annoyed the tech crew. They were in full adrenaline rush and didn’t want to pause for any reason. “I’m already going to be seen on nationwide TV in a white terry cloth bathrobe trying to conjure up spirits of the dead while a lovely old woman in the room with me is murdered,” I told him. “How much more great publicity could I want?”

“You’re sure? You don’t want to be seen at all?” Trent seemed truly stumped by this weird character trait I was exhibiting.

“I’m completely sure.”

He tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Okay.” He turned to the crew. “No shots of Alison,” he told them. “Keep her off camera at all times.”

They nodded. They got paid the same whether I was on screen or not.

Trent nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t hard to find room 18D; it was three doors to the left of the stairway, and there was a sign that would have been easy to read if most of the letters hadn’t fallen off during the Reagan Administration. We were in front of Tiffney’s door in roughly fifteen seconds.

Once again Trent turned toward the crew, but this time he spoke in hushed tones. I found myself wishing the female camera operator I’d seen at the séance was along; I liked to think she’d have had some compassion for the ambush Tiffney was about to suffer.

“Keep the camera on Tiff, wherever she is,” Trent said. “If there’s anyone else in there, get shots of them after we’re in the door.” The camera operator nodded. Trent looked at the sound engineer. “Keep the mike on Tiff, no matter what. We’ll add subtitles for anybody else if we have to.”

“I think I’ll wait in the car,” I said in a slightly louder-than-usual tone, hoping to alert Tiffney. “You don’t need me here.”

“You’re the investigator,” Trent answered, motioning me to keep my voice down. “If there’s any . . . evidence we need to see in there, you’re the one I want to see it. You’re the professional. You need to stay.”

I didn’t have time to argue because Trent was banging his fist on the door before I could respond. “Tiff!” he shouted. “Let us in!” But he was already taking the key—a real key, not a swipe card—he’d wrangled from the desk clerk (thirty dollars bought a lot in this neighborhood, apparently) and turning it in the lock. I held my breath. I’m not sure why.

Trent pushed the door open. He let the camera crew in first, but he was hot on their heels. “Tiffney!” he said on his way in. “You scared the migraine out of us!”

I stayed outside the room. For one thing, even if there was “evidence” inside, I had no idea what I’d do about it. For another, I really had no interest in seeing what was going on in the room. I already felt a little queasy.

In a few moments, the tumult died down, and I could hear some kind of grumbling noise in between Trent’s questions. I was mentally thanking my lucky stars when he called out to me, “Alison! Would you come in here, please?”

After considering the answer
no
, I exhaled and walked into the room.

It was small and dark, as the room-darkening drapes had been drawn, but even so I could tell this was not the Waldorf-Astoria. The room consisted of a bed and a bed stand with an analog alarm clock that had no radio. At the far end was a door to the bathroom I was hoping I’d never have to look at.

And sitting on the bed, naked from the waist up, blanket covering the areas I was least interested in seeing, was a very dirty looking, middle-aged, bearded, overweight man. He looked annoyed, confused and guilty.

Tiffney was nowhere to be seen. And as I mentioned, I was not about to look into the bathroom.

“I don’t know nuthin’,” he was saying as I forced myself through the door. “I don’t know nuthin’.”

“Oh, you know something,” Trent said. Facing me, he added, “Alison, can you question this man for us?”

“Question him? Question him about what?”

“If it were me, I’d start with why he’s in Tiffney’s motel room, and why Tiffney isn’t.” Trent looked at the camera operator, who pointed the camera directly at me.

I didn’t want to look like I was on a perp walk, so I didn’t put my hand over the lens, but I did tell Trent, in no uncertain terms, “I’m not questioning anyone about anything until I’m no longer on camera.”

Trent nodded, and the camera was pointed back at our less hygienic friend.

“All right,” I began. “What’s your name?”

“Darryl,” the man said. “I’m Darryl.”

“Okay, Darryl.” I wanted to make him feel safer, but the last thing I wanted to do was sit down on that bed or touch anything he had touched. “Tell me how you happened to be in this room.”

Trying to focus seemed to calm Darryl. Well, that and the two empty bottles of Johnnie Walker Red that my pupils were now dilated enough to notice on the shag-carpeted floor. “I just came in to get out of the sun,” he said. “I burn awful easy.”

Sure. “You’re not in any trouble, Darryl,” I breathed at him, talking as much like a TV therapist as I could imagine. “We’re not here to bother you or anything. We’re not the police.”

“This isn’t
COPS
?” he asked. I started to wonder if any of the
Down the Shore
crew worked on that show and were unusually memorable.

“No,” I assured him. “It’s a show called
Down the Shore
. And they’re looking for a girl who is on that show. Now, she’s supposed to be in this room.”

“Ain’t no girls here,” Darryl protested. “I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” I told him. “I’m positive of it.” In fact, the only thing I was certain of was that this was the kind of thing Paul would say to him. “But here’s the thing: That girl’s credit card paid for this room here at the motel. Now, how do you figure that?”

Trent was directly over my left shoulder; I could feel him there, leaning in. I wasn’t sure what the camera operator was focusing on, but I was willing to bet he was going in for a close-up on Darryl. At this point, as long as he wasn’t taking my picture, I had no problem. Darryl would probably sign a waiver form later in exchange for another bottle of Johnnie Walker.

He licked his lips now, possibly thinking about that. “Skinny little girl? Blonde hair?” he asked. “Great big . . .” He made a gesture, probably trying to think of an acceptable word to use.

“Yes,” I said, trying to head him off before he came up with one. “That’s her. Do you know her?”

“No,” Darryl shook his head with conviction, which was probably something he’d had once or twice before. “I just met her the one time.”

Trent couldn’t bear it anymore. “One time?” he asked. “What time did you meet Tiffney?”

Darryl blinked, confused by the change in questioner. “Why, the time she gave me the credit card,” he said.

 

 

Darryl’s story was simple: He’d been living on the streets in Sea Bright, a town that doesn’t really take kindly to people living on its streets. And earlier that day, he’d run into this “skinny blonde girl” who had come up and spoken to
him
, not the other way around. He’d figured she was a prostitute, based on the way she was dressed, but he’d never seen a working girl in this town before, so when she explained that she just wanted to help him, he accepted the gesture in the altruistic spirit in which it was offered.

Or words to that effect.

The girl had suggested he needed a shower and a long nap, and pointed out the Sandy Side, a mere half-block away. When Darryl had protested that he had no money for such luxurious digs, the skinny girl (whom he identified as Tiffney from a photograph Trent carried with him of the
Down the Shore
cast) had helpfully handed over a credit card. She had kissed him on the cheek, he said, and then hopped into a car, whose make and model he could not identify, and driven away.

So after a quick trip to the Liquor Mart, he’d booked himself a swanky room at the motel the girl had so graciously pointed out, had himself a drink or thirty, and passed out cold on the bed. Cut to Trent pretty much breaking the door down, and we had the whole complex narrative completed.

Trent took back the credit card, but assured Darryl he could spend the rest of the week at the motel. I’m relatively sure a certain amount of cash changed hands as well, since Darryl stopped asking if he could also go back to the Liquor Mart. And we headed back down to the waiting van and my Volvo wagon.

“Well, at least we know she’s still alive,” Trent said as he hopped into the passenger seat of the Volvo, never even considering driving back with his crew.

“We know nothing of the sort,” I told him. Hell, if he wanted a professional investigator, I could pretend to be one.

“What do you mean? Darryl identified Tiff from the picture of the cast I showed him.” Trent seemed personally offended that I would question the credibility of a homeless man with two quarts of whiskey flowing through his veins.

“Did you see him clearly? Or, for that matter, smell him clearly?” I asked. “He would have identified her if you’d shown him a picture of Mary, Queen of Scots. All we know is a blonde girl with large breasts talked to him on the street and gave him Tiffney’s credit card. Assuming he’s even telling us that much of the truth. I’ve never seen such a blatant setup in my life. Someone wanted us here. I only hope it’s not because they wanted us away from the house.”

I drove a little faster on the way back home. Trent didn’t say much.

Paul found the whole motel gambit fascinating, as I knew he would, and agreed with me that it was meant to attract Trent’s attention and lead him (and, by extension, me) to the motel. But he was dismayed by the fact that we hadn’t found anything there other than evidence that someone wanted us to go to the motel.

“And you let the guy go?” he continued. “How do you know he didn’t kill Tiffney and just tell you some crazy story?”

“There was no body,” I countered, though it sounded lame even to me.

“You need to alert the police in Sea Bright, at the very least,” he scolded. “Since we discovered that mannequin, Lieutenant McElone is treating this seriously. She thinks Tiffney might really be a suspect in Arlice Crosby’s murder. Let McElone know about this, and she can act upon it.”

I hate it when he’s right.

We didn’t have time to argue the point, however. Since I’d left, things around the house had gotten a little bit more interesting. Maxie, at no one’s suggestion, had followed Linda Jane around the house all afternoon, and had reported no suspicious behavior of any kind. That in and of itself was not interesting.

But it had left Paul to his own devices, and he had been busy. He’d been floating through every room of the house, stopping to listen to conversations when he could, and checking in on the filming going on in the backyard. Among his reports were that Jim and Warren appeared to have had a falling out (to the point that Warren had been packing his bags at one point) and were drinking beer in separate rooms, but they had recently reconciled; H-Bomb was “going ballistic” over Trent’s absence while he was searching for Tiffney in Sea Bright, complaining that she never got that kind of attention and maybe she should disappear, too, just to show Trent what going without a star was
really
like; Mr. and Mrs. Jones had still not been seen outside their room, although a pizza delivery boy did show up at their door at one point, and money changed hands.

But most enticing of all, Paul told me with a crooked grin, was that Bernice Antwerp had been spending the afternoon complaining about the babbling coming from Linda Jane and Dolores’s room.