CHAPTER FOUR
Later that afternoon, Veronica pulled up in front of the regal brick-and-sandstone entrance of the Neptune Grand. She handed the BMW’s keys to a valet in a pillbox hat and pushed through the enormous revolving door.
The lobby glinted with brass and brocade, the low trill of a jazz piano wafting from the speakers overhead. The Neptune Grand had undergone some changes in the past few years—Petra Landros had built a gleaming tower on the north side of the courtyard, ten stories higher than the original structure, with a glass-sided elevator looking down over the luxurious gardens below. But here, in the “Old Grand,” the lobby looked the same as it ever had, with cream-colored walls and marble surfaces. Veronica had spent the better part of her senior year in this place, first visiting her old boyfriend Duncan Kane in his penthouse suite and, later, Logan.
Reception wasn’t nearly as busy as she would have expected for the Monday of spring break. A few girls with silk caftans draped over their swimsuits bounced out of the elevators, and a bored-looking boy wearing Gucci shades and a UCLA sweatshirt leaned against the reception desk, waiting for his key. The Neptune Grand wasn’t generally spring break central—only the trust-funded would be able to afford a room there during peak season—but true to Petra’s word, it felt strangely quiet.
Veronica took the elevator to the ninth floor, then followed the red-and-gold chevron-print carpet to room 902 and knocked softly. From the other side of the door she could just make out a female voice, low and muffled. After a moment the door swung open, and a woman stood in the doorway.
She was short and plump, wearing a UC Berkeley sweatshirt that was two sizes too big. Her hair had been dyed a brassy blond, but the roots—dull brown with a few threads of gray—were starting to peek out. Ruddy bags were stamped underneath her eyes, and her face had the moist, crumpled look of someone who had been crying too much. She gave Veronica a weak, tentative smile as she stepped back from the door.
“You’re the private investigator?” Her voice was high-pitched, a little bit girlish. “I’m Margie, Hayley’s mom.”
“Yes. Veronica Mars. I’m so sorry for all you’re going through, Mrs. Dewalt.” Veronica stuck out her hand.
Margie looked at Veronica’s fingers with a distant, wondering expression. Veronica was just about to let her hand fall awkwardly back to her side when Hayley’s mother grasped it and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m exhausted. Come on in.”
The suite was laid out like a small luxury apartment, decorated in tones of gray and red. The central room was a combination living room and kitchenette, separated by a small round dining table. A tall, bearded man in a flannel shirt sat at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. He barely looked up when Margie led Veronica into the room, his eyes distant and red rimmed. Veronica recognized him as Mike Dewalt, Hayley’s dad, from the press conference they’d held last week.
A young man, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, slouched on the scarlet sofa staring at a plasma screen TV on the wall. He was thickset, with wide, muscular shoulders and the beginnings of a beer gut, his premature jowls bristling with unshaven growth. He held the remote against one knee but seemed engrossed in a nature program where a wiry British man stood hip deep in a muddy river describing the way a tigerfish stripped its prey of flesh. On the other side of the couch sat a gangly-limbed teenager, her mousy brown hair long and limp around her face. She seemed intent on a hole in the knee of her blue jeans, probing it carefully with her fingertips.
“The investigator is here,” Margie said. Only her husband looked up and nodded briefly at her. “Miss … March, did you say?”
“Mars.” Veronica stood next to the kitchenette island, taking in the room. “But please, call me Veronica.”
She noticed a large digital picture frame plugged in at one end of the island. It cycled slowly through a number of pictures, one fading into the next. Small Hayley Dewalt, riding a pink bike up a driveway. A preteen version with braces on her teeth and greasy bangs flattened across her forehead. One of her playing flute in what looked like a church. Another of her, older, in a cap and gown for graduation. She’d turned into a pretty girl, with dark hair and a sunny, easy smile that struck Veronica as unguarded, vulnerable. You’ve got to put up your dukes, kid, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if the advice was for Hayley—or herself.
“The investigator is here,” Margie repeated more loudly. The girl looked up from the couch, then back down at her jeans. The young man on the couch didn’t respond.
“Turn off the goddamn TV!” Mike Dewalt exploded, his voice furious and booming.
Silently, slowly, the boy lifted the remote and turned off the TV just as the nature program cut to a clip of muscular fish thrashing around in a feeding frenzy. The screen went dark.
For a moment the silence in the room had weight. Margie covered her face with her hands. Veronica noticed that her fingernails were painted Easter-egg blue, the polish chipped and cracked. Veronica pegged her as a classic, self-proclaimed “fun” mom, the kind who thinks of herself as her daughter’s best friend. Just like dear old Mom. Veronica’s alcoholic mother, Lianne, had been the same way before she walked out on their family.
When Margie pulled her hands away from her face, she seemed calmer, her breath slow and careful. She pointed to the couch. “That’s Ella—she’s Hayley’s little sister—and my stepson, Crane.”
Ella pulled her knees up to her chin. Crane straightened up and looked at Veronica, his dark hazel eyes taking her in.
Veronica placed her bag on the floor and sat on a small upholstered armchair facing both of them. “How are you guys holding up?”
“You know. We’re worried about our sister.” Crane’s eyes darted toward Margie as she sat down in another chair catty-corner from Veronica. It might just have been his way of dealing with stress, but Crane’s body was taut with pent-up energy. His knee jiggled up and down, and while he clasped his hands politely in his lap, the knuckles were white. “Well, she’s only my half sister,” he continued, “but I’m just as upset as everyone else.”
Veronica pulled her notebook out of her purse and flipped it to a blank page. She clicked her pen a few times and then wrote: If you have to say it out loud …
She didn’t really need to take notes—she had a memory for details that was at best useful and at worst obsessive—but the little notebook was a good smoke screen during an interview. Too much direct eye contact made people nervous, cagey. This way they didn’t feel overly scrutinized, which loosened up their tongues. Now she glanced up and tapped the tip of her pen on her pad.
“What can you tell me about Hayley? Anything you can share about her habits, her plans, and her personality might be helpful. I’m going to try to retrace her steps in the next few days, so the more I know about her, the easier that will be.”
Margie Dewalt rubbed her arms as if to warm them, though the room was actually quite stuffy.
“She … she’s a sweet girl.” A small, fluttering smile lit her mouth and then was gone. “Friendly. Really social—she makes friends everywhere she goes. She’s always been so easygoing, especially compared with her siblings.” She glanced at Ella with a look that was more sad than accusatory. “Ella won’t go to the mall with me anymore, says only losers do that.” Ella drew in her breath audibly but didn’t otherwise move.
Veronica jotted out of touch in her notebook. “Did she have a lot of friends?”
“Oh, yes. In high school she did. In college, I think she’s had a harder time.” She pressed her lips together. “I’ve met a few of the so-called friends that she came down here with. Two of them are always hovering around the conference room pretending they’re torn up about Hayley. But they didn’t even realize she was gone until two days after they’d last seen her. If those were the best friends she had …” She shook her head.