Jake Perkins stayed in the lobby of the Glen-Ridge, watching as, one after another, the employees who had been on duty Saturday night went into the small office behind the desk and talked to Sam Deegan. When they came out, he managed to buttonhole enough of them to learn that they got the impression that Deegan was also going down the list and phoning anyone who was off today but had been around last night.
The upshot from what he heard was that no one had seen Laura Wilcox leave the hotel. The doorman and the valet parkers were absolutely certain that she had not left by the front door.
He correctly guessed that the young woman in a maid’s uniform might be the one who cleaned Laura’s room. When she emerged from talking to Deegan, Jake followed her across the lobby, jumped in the elevator behind her, and got off at the fourth floor with her. “I’m a reporter for the Stonecroft newspaper,” he explained as he handed her his card, “and I’m also a stringer for the New York Post.” Close to the truth, he thought. Before much longer, I will be.
It wasn’t hard to get her talking. Her name was Myrna Robinson. She was a student at the community college and worked part-time at the hotel. She’s kind of naïve, Jake thought smugly as he observed her absolutely thrilled expression at the excitement of having been questioned by a detective.
He opened his notebook. “What exactly did Detective Deegan ask you, Myrna?”
“He wanted to know if I was sure that some of Laura Wilcox’s cosmetics were missing and I told him I was absolutely positive,” she confided breathlessly. “I said, ‘Mr. Deegan, you have no idea how much stuff she managed to get on top of that skinny vanity in the bathroom, and half of it’s gone. I mean, things like cleanser and moisturizer and a toothbrush and her cosmetic bag.’ ”
“The kind of stuff any woman carries when she goes away overnight,” Jake said helpfully. “What about clothes?”
“I didn’t talk about clothes to Mr. Deegan,” Myrna said hesitantly. Nervously she twisted the top button on her black uniform dress. “I mean, I told him I was sure one of her suitcases was missing, but I didn’t want him to think I was nosy or anything, so I didn’t mention that her blue cashmere jacket and slacks and ankle-top boots weren’t in the closet.”
Myrna was about Laura’s size. Dollars to doughnuts she had been trying on the clothes, Jake thought. A suit and slacks were missing—probably what Laura planned to wear to the memorial service and brunch. “You told Mr. Deegan about a suitcase that isn’t in her room?”
“Uh-huh. She brought a lot of luggage with her. Honest, you’d think she was on a round-the-world trip. Anyway, the smaller suitcase wasn’t there this morning. It was different from the others. It’s a Louis Vuitton—that’s how I noticed it wasn’t there. I love that pattern, don’t you? So distinctive. The two big ones she had are creamy-colored leather.”
Jake prided himself on his ear for French, so he winced inwardly at Myrna’s pronunciation of “Vuitton.” “Myrna, is there any chance I could get a look at Laura’s room?” he asked. “I swear I won’t touch a thing.”
He had gone too far. He could see an alarmed expression replace the excitement on her face. She looked past him down the corridor, and he could read her thoughts. If the housekeeper ever caught her bringing someone into a guest’s room, she’d be fired. Quickly he backtracked. “Myrna, I shouldn’t have asked you that. Forget it. Listen, you have my card. It would be worth twenty bucks to me if you take my number and give me a call if you hear anything about Laura. How about it? Want to be a girl reporter?”
Myrna bit her lip as she considered the offer. “It’s not the money,” she began.
“Of course not,” Jake agreed.
“If you put the story in the Post, I’d have to be an unnamed source.”
She’s smarter than she looks, Jake thought, as he nodded eagerly. They shook hands on the deal.
It was nearly six o’clock. When he went back to the lobby, it was almost deserted. Jake went up to the desk clerk and inquired if Mr. Deegan had left the hotel.
The clerk looked tired and distressed. “Look, sonny, he’s gone, and unless you want to rent a room, I’d suggest you go home, too.”
“I’m sure he asked you to let him know if Ms. Wilcox returns or if you hear from her,” Jake suggested. “May I give you my card? I became friendly with Ms. Wilcox during the course of the weekend, and I’m concerned about her, too.”
The clerk took the card and studied it. “Reporter for the Stonecroft Academy Gazette and writer-journalist-at-large, huh?” He tore the card in half. “You’re too big for your breeches, sonny. Do me a favor and get lost.”