“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.