The Big Dirt Nap (11 page)

Twenty-four

With her iPod on, the housekeeper hadn’t heard a thing. She’d been shaking out the bedspread I’d yanked off the bed and when she let out her scream, it flew back over her head, temporarily blinding her. I stood there naked, dripping wet, with a lamp in my right hand, ready to bludgeon a short Guatemalan woman struggling to remove a coverlet from her head. It was absurd. She was more frightened than I was.

I covered myself with a towel and we both apologized profusely. At least I think she was apologizing; half of it was in Spanish and, as noted, my Spanish still sucks. She was happy to be shuttled out of the room and promised to come back later, although I wouldn’t have blamed her it she didn’t. I scooped a handful of chocolates from her cart and put the privacy sign on the door handle. Then I threw the long bolt just to make sure I didn’t have another Janet Leigh/
Psycho
moment in the shower.

Replaying the last sixteen hours, it seemed insane that I would tear ass back to the hotel to save Lucy from . . . what? Worse than death? She hadn’t texted or e-mailed
Help,
thank god, so what was I worried about? Maybe the break-in at my home had shaken me up more than I realized.

I dressed and went downstairs to the lobby, starting to feel like I lived there—a pretty depressing thought.

Hector was cruising the bar, keeping a watchful eye on three seniors in pastel track suits; it was a toss-up who would win if they had to go mano a mano. Amanda was hauling her gear into the corpse flower’s enclosure. When she saw me she gave me a thumbs-up and sprinted over to tell me she was ninety percent sure tomorrow was the big day. I was hoping she’d be right. I cared less about the flower appearing than I did about Lucy appearing but with any luck, both would happen.

Hector joined us by the corpse flower.

“I thought you left,” he said, folding his chubby hands in front of himself, eyeing Amanda and rocking back and forth.

“I came back. Is that unprecedented at Titans?”

He shook his head and wagged his finger at me. “I told you, this place is going to be happening.” Amanda went back to her work and Hector stuck around to watch her climb the ladder in her snug Juicy sweatpants. He tilted his head to the right to get a better view.

“I didn’t know you were such a plant lover,” I said.

“Pretty little flower like that, you bet your ass. Oh, excuse me,
mamí
.” I wondered if Hector had ever heard the term
jailbait
.

“Why are you so sure that Titans is going to be such a happening place this time? Bernie’s had investors before, right?”

“Not like this.” As he said it, he raised his chin slightly and motioned to a woman pushing through the revolving doors. She and I briefly made eye contact; I thought I recognized her.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the Queen Mother,” he said. I didn’t get the reference.

“Shows what you know. That’s Jackie Connelly, she’s the grandmother of Sean Crawford.”

“Very nice, is there more to it than she gets to go cootchy-coo and babysit? Wait a minute, Crawford?”

Sean Crawford was the only child of Jackie’s daughter, Chantel, and the late Bobby Crawford, one of the three brothers. At the time of his death Bobby was tribal chief of the Quepochas. And his son and his widow were the only two people still officially living on the reservation.

“How can that be? Aren’t there a lot of them? I mean, if they’re lobbying for recognition?”

Once again, Hector was astounded by my ignorance. Amanda was gone and without her tiny butt on display alongside the corpse flower it no longer held any interest for him, so we walked to the raised lounge area near the bar. According to Hector the Quepochas had split into two factions—those supporting the Crawfords and the others aligning themselves with another family. The Crawford ranks were dwindling.

“Oksana told me the other Crawford brothers aren’t allowed here anymore.”

“They’re not allowed on the reservation any longer either.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Hey, they had their turn, now it’s someone else’s chance to be in charge. Like the Democrats and the Republicans.” I was beginning to appreciate Hector’s simplified view of the world.

“They can’t come here because the Mishkins got a restraining order against them. Crawfords are anti-gaming. They think if Bernie gets this loan . . .” He didn’t need to finish. If Bernie got the loan he could pay off his debts and still fund the Quepochas’ recognition suit. Presumably if the suit was successful and Congress officially recognized the tribe Bernie and the Crawfords would profit.

“Wouldn’t they stand to make a lot of money if it happened?”

“I know,” he said. “They’re some crazy dudes.” It was inconceivable to him that anyone would not be motivated by money. And, in truth, the amount of money being made by casinos in Connecticut was astronomical. Mother Teresa would have had a hard time turning it down.

“How crazy?” I thought of what Oksana had said about the brothers being seen at the hotel the night Lucy was to arrive.

“Crazy enough to set fire to a covered wagon on Titans property as a protest against what they called the exploitation of the tribe. They make enemies everywhere. I say live and let live, bro, you know what I mean? You know what else those crazy mo’fos did, oh, excuse me. They kidnapped a lawyer, to get her to take their case against their own tribe.”

“They couldn’t just call him?”

“It was a her. She was just as loco as them—she took the case. I think they call that Stockholm syndrome, or some shit like that.”

I told Hector what Oksana had said about their being at the hotel, but he shook his head. “They know better than to come here when I’m around.” He puffed out his chest.

“Oksana around?” I asked.

“No, and she’s in trouble. She didn’t show up today and she didn’t even call.”

Twenty-five

“Oksana’s very responsible. She doesn’t want to lose this job.” That’s what the dark-haired bartender said and she was probably right, especially if her only alternative was going back to Sergei Russianoff. So were there now two girls missing—or gone poof, to quote Stacy Winters?

I ordered a cranberry juice and club soda to make the girl stick around. Bartenders were great sources in the afternoon when there were few patrons and they had time to chat.

“Who would she have had to call,” I asked, “if she was going to be out sick?”

“Mrs. Page.”

Rachel Page was in charge of all of the employees at Titans. She hired, fired, and generally made life miserable for the entire staff. As Bernie’s sister she was half-owner of the property—he was the face of the hotel, but she wielded considerable influence over him, especially since his wife had died.

“How did Mrs. Mishkin die?”

“Car accident. Her brakes gave out.” She leaned in to elaborate. “She went over the edge on Route 293. Ugly.”

I doubted there were many pretty fatal car crashes but kept that observation to myself.

“That was about six months ago, before the whole casino thing came about. She would have been so happy. She loved this place. I think she and her parents used to vacation here when she was little. She was the one who ordered that thing.” The bartender chucked her chin in the direction of the corpse flower.

“Rachel wanted to cancel it, but Bernie wouldn’t let her.”

The corpse flower was dangerously close to the top of the enclosure. If it grew another six inches they’d have to remove the top of the enclosure and the strong smell of death would permeate the lobby.

Maybe it was time to talk to a Mishkin. I called Bernie’s office. With a grunt of annoyance, his sister informed me that he was in meetings all day. When she realized I wasn’t going away, she made the halfhearted suggestion that I call back in two hours—I guessed that Sveta was fully booked. I had the feeling Rachel was lying about Bernie’s schedule but there was nothing I could do, so I said I’d wait. I hung up and heard the first few notes to “Für Elise,” which told me I had a call coming in on my cell from someone I didn’t know.

Caller ID read Shaftsbury Police Department.

“Miss Holliday?”

“Yes?”

“This is Officer Bennett of the Shaftsbury Police Department.” I held my breath, waiting for him to tell me that Lucy’s rental car had been found in a ditch somewhere. “Did you by any chance have too much to drink last night?”

I hadn’t. Okay, maybe a small bottle of red wine from the minibar after the two drinks at the bar, but who was this guy, the party police?

“No. Why?”

“Because the car you reported stolen is currently sitting in the Titans parking lot where you said you last saw it.”

I didn’t have time to make up a good story—maybe I wasn’t as accomplished a liar as I thought I was. “Well, it wasn’t there when I called. Maybe some kids took it for a joyride and then returned it.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound like he believed me, and I wouldn’t have believed me either. We went back and forth like that for another five minutes, him chastising me for being too drunk to remember where I parked my own car and wasting the police department’s time. And me, finally, meekly agreeing. I ran outside to check.

The white Subaru was the lone vehicle at the farthest end of the lot, near employee parking. That was typical of Lucy. No valet parking for her. She counted steps and took every opportunity to walk, even if she was walking toward copious amounts of high-calorie drinks.

“It makes perfect sense to me,” she’d say, sucking down a guavatini. “Like diet groups have food exchanges?”

I peered inside the car and tried all the doors. There was no doubt in my mind that it was Lucy’s car. We shared a fondness for chocolate mint Zone bars and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and detritus from both was in evidence. So she got here, but never made it to the front door.

Now I was officially worried and actively rooting for the Vermont ski resort scenario.

Twenty-six

Something in Stacy Winters’s demeanor prepared me for a tongue-lashing. Perhaps it was the dismissive little head shake. She joined me in the Titans lobby not long after I left her another message telling her that Lucy’s white Subaru had been parked in the Titans lot apparently for days. She eased into the chair opposite me and peeled the top off a well-gummed coffee cup. The look on her face told me how awful it tasted.

“I appreciate your concern for your friend, but we’re a small force here and we are working on a murder investigation.” She said it the way people say
I don’t disagree with you,
which of course means that they do. She didn’t appreciate my concern one bit.

“Yeah, how’s that going?” I asked, prepared to match her barb for barb.

“We’ve narrowed it down to some woman or her husband.” Clearly Winters wasn’t going to share any information with me.

“The stolen car thing was good. Very clever.” She rubbed her forehead but it did little to smooth away the deep furrows. “Show me where the car is.” She took a catlike stretch getting up and she looked as tired as I felt. I’d read somewhere that with every day that passes, crimes, particularly murders, get more difficult to solve. Maybe she was feeling the pressure.

When we reached the rental car Winters produced a long metal strip and with one quick move the door popped open.

“Now I know how the bad guys do it.”

“This is retro. Bad guys have master keys.”

I started to lean over to go through the papers on the passenger seat and she snapped at me, “Don’t touch anything.”

She realized she’d scared me and held her hands out wide as if to calm me down. “And don’t throw up on anything. In the unlikely event that there really is a problem here, those papers may be evidence.” For the first time I was afraid that Lucy may have been in real trouble. My chest tightened, then I burst into tears.

“Pull yourself together, you’re supposed to be the tough city girl, aren’t you?” She almost sounded sympathetic. She called in for a team to check the car for any evidence or fingerprints, and she and I went back into the hotel. My phone rang and I scrambled to get it out, hoping once again that it would be Lucy. It was Caroline Sturgis and I let her go to voice mail.

“I take it that wasn’t her.” Winters flipped through her notebook. “The Russian bartender may know something about the Crawford brothers. Let’s go talk to her,” Winters said.

“She’s not here. She didn’t come in today and didn’t call. I didn’t want to say it before, but there have been times when Lucy hasn’t called . . . when she was chasing a story or had a deadline.” Winters seemed more interested now.

“Your friend is a journalist?”

“Yeah, sort of. Reality television, true crime, that sort of thing. Why?”

“Forget it. Do you have a picture of her?”

My eyes started welling up again, but I refused to let them spill over. I took a deep breath. I told her I had a few pictures of Lucy on the computer and I’d send them via e-mail.

“Don’t e-mail, fax. My computer is on the blink.”

Winters took off and I promised to send pictures of Lucy as soon as I could. That meant getting into Bernie Mishkin’s office to use his fax machine whether he was there or not.

Twenty-seven

My plan was to e-mail a picture of Lucy to the Titans office and then have Rachel or Bernie print it out for me and fax it to the police station. It was a good plan as far as it went.

“I told you before, my brother is in meetings all day. He’s not even on the premises and I’m certainly not going to let you sit at his computer and go through his e-mails.” She gave a brittle laugh as if the very idea was insane.

Rachel Page would not be charmed. Or threatened. Or appealed to. Her better angels had flown off to help more responsive humans. She stood there looking as warm and fuzzy as Mrs. Danvers in
Rebecca
.

“I totally understand,” I said, smiling and using my best saleswoman’s voice. “I don’t want to go through my own e-mails, much less someone else’s. You do it. It’s an e-mail from me—if I sent it, I already know what’s in it, right?” I delivered this piece of logic with a jaunty smile, fully expecting a sheepish “Oh, why not.” For a moment I thought she was considering, but it was just a tease.

“Out of the question,” she said. Then she threw me a bone. “If you can print out your picture somewhere else I’ll let you fax it from here.”

Thanks. Chances are, if I could print it out somewhere else I wouldn’t need to come back here to fax it. I was running out of ideas. “How about if I just hook my computer up to your printer? That way I wouldn’t even accidentally see anything sensitive.” Sensitive, my foot, she was probably guarding her brother’s porn collection.

“You’d have to disconnect something and I couldn’t allow that. I’m sorry.”

Rachel Page wasn’t sorry at all. She wasn’t even giving a good imitation of sorry. She stood there with her arms folded, totally shut down, waiting for me to leave.

The town of Shaftsbury was about three blocks long. I’d driven past its one highway exit on my way to Titans. Shaftsbury was my best shot at an Internet café, otherwise I’d have to drive farther to Storrs and the UConn campus. I took a chance.

Shaftsbury should have been doing better. As close as it was to the casino, they’d probably expected an influx of jobs and tax dollars when the casino opened, but Shaftsbury fell just outside of the county line and there was no public transportation. If you didn’t own a car it was impossible to get to the casino from there. And any tax revenues went to the state with just a pittance trickling down to the town. So Shaftsbury got the extra traffic and the guy who owned the gas station might have made a few extra bucks, but other than that, Shaftsbury got the shaft.

One-third of the stores were dotted with For Sale or For Rent signs. A large Goodwill store was there but closed for the day. In the doorway I saw a Big Y shopping cart. A bundle of rags seemed to be moving and I realized it was the homeless guy going through a paper bag filled with recent donations. For a moment I thought of stopping, but what would I have said? Remember that time we saw the dead guy? I moved on, crawling down the street looking for a computer store in a depressed area, with little chance of finding one.

Just a handful of shops were open—a laundry, a liquor store, a coffee shop, and a convenience store. Only the last showed any signs of life so I pulled into a spot right in front and went in.

The store was crammed with magazines, hair accessories, processed snack foods, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. The sales counter was fringed with them—all over the top and sides, making it look like a red and blue grass shack.

“Powerball?” the clerk asked.

I was probably the only person in the state who’d never bought a Powerball ticket, and decided to keep it that way.

“No thanks. I was looking for an Internet café.” Even as I said it, it sounded ridiculous in this downtrodden town, as if I’d asked for the Jaguar dealership.

“Nothing like that here. Gotta go to Storrs, where the students are.” He checked me out and must have decided I was reasonably trustworthy. “Betty’s got a computer though.”

“Who’s that?”

According to the stack of business cards on the counter, Betty Smallwood was an attorney-at-law and a notary public. And she had an office on top of the convenience store.

“She’s in. She might let you use it for a dollar or two.” He pointed toward the back of the store, on the left, where a glass door was labeled with black and gold stick-on letters, B. Smallwood, Esq., Notary, Tribal Genealogist.

I climbed the too-shallow stairs up to Smallwood’s third-floor office and knocked.

“Come on in.”

My first view of her was of her butt, pushed in the air while she was kneeling on the floor watering her plants. She stuck a finger in the potted palm to check its moisture level before giving it any more water.

“Good idea.” I said hello and she scrambled to her feet.

“I thought it was Georgie.” She laughed. “From downstairs.” She brushed her hands on her pants and we shook. Against the far wall were file cabinets of various colors and heights, giving it the appearance of a fake skyline, like something you’d see in an off-Broadway show. Above and on top of the cabinets were Native American memorabilia. There weren’t many office machines but she had a small combo printer/scanner/fax machine similar to the one I had at home. Bingo.

I told her why I’d come and without needing a moment to think about it she cleared off a space on her desk for me to set up my laptop. My battery was running low so I needed to plug the computer in and that meant she had to find one of the overworked extension cords in the office and swap something out.

“So, you’re a tribal genealogist?” I said, making small talk while she looked for something noncritical to unplug.

“Yeah. I know, everyone expects braids and lots of turquoise jewelry. I only wear it on special occasions, to please my family. Most of the time we just look like everyone else.”

She might not have looked like Pocahontas that day, but she certainly didn’t look like everyone else. She had thick dark hair that fell in sheets around her face and would have cost seven to eight hundred dollars for Japanese straightening if she hadn’t come by it naturally. Her skin was a perfect even caramel color and it made her teeth and the whites of her eyes seem even whiter than they were.

She plugged in my computer and we sat opposite each other at her desk waiting for my computer to power up; I sent her the e-mail attachment with Lucy’s photo. As it printed out she said, “So may I ask you what this is about?”

I told her about Lucy and debated whether or not to mention the Crawford brothers. As soon as I did the atmosphere in the room changed.

“Have I said something?”

“You know you did. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” She was upset, thinking I’d somehow tricked her.

“I’m here because I needed a fax machine and I didn’t think the Laundromat had one.” Then I got it. She was the attorney the Crawford brothers had kidnapped.