She hesitated before answering. “Yeah.”
“I was actually planning to stop there to speak to the owner. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
She shook her head quickly, the ponytail bouncing. “Like I said, I’m fine.... But thanks anyway.”
She spun back around and broke into a run again, pumping her arms in rhythm with her legs. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing reflective gear, so she seemed to be at risk in more ways than one. But she’d made it clear she didn’t want me butting into her business.
I retreated to the Jeep and took off again, giving the jogger a wide berth as I passed. I caught a brief, final glimpse of her in the rearview mirror before she was swallowed into the gloaming.
I reached the Lake Shore a few minutes later. It wasn’t hard to see why the owner was able to keep tabs on Shannon’s runs. The front office, I noticed, was at the end of the one-story white clapboard building, facing Route 9N, and its front wall was taken up almost entirely by a window. Though there were a few cars in the parking lot, a blue fluorescent sign announced vacancy, and my guess was that the motel, like the one where I was staying, wasn’t even half full. I’d read that business slowed drastically in the Lake George area after Labor Day, but that there was always another burst of tourism in October, people taking in the peak of the jaw-dropping fall foliage.
The counter in the small reception area was being manned by a skinny guy in his early twenties, dressed in a white short-sleeved button-down. I guessed that he wasn’t the owner, who was probably off duty now if he usually had the morning shift, but the desk clerk could at least direct me to him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a tired smile. A TV droned behind the half-closed door to his right, and I wondered if he’d been watching the tube in there before I arrived.
“Is the owner around? I’m a reporter, and I’d love to interview him about Shannon Blaine.”
Since the guy had already given at least one interview, I was pretty sure he would be game for another. What I’d discovered when I first started on the crime beat was that people on the fringes of a story—and sometimes even those in the thick of it—were almost always eager to get their faces on camera or their names in print. Unless, that is, they hadgood reason to stay on the down low. And even then, people who should have kept their mouths shut sometimes made the mistake of talking their asses off.
“Uh, you’ll have to come back in the morning,” the clerk said quickly. “He works the desk seven to two.”
“Oh, gosh, I have to file the story tonight—and it would be great to have a few quotes from him. Could you call him and ask if I could possibly swing by his home?”
His mouth dropped open, as if I’d just asked him to strip to his tighty-whities.
“He doesn’t like me to bother him after hours.”
“It’s really important. We’re trying to help the police find this woman.”
“Um, okay. Give me a minute, will you?”
He slipped quietly into the room behind him and shut the door. The wait at least gave me a chance to glance out the plate-glass window, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the jogger I’d encountered.
The desk clerk finally reemerged along with a pale, beefy man, probably in his late forties.
“Terry Dobbs,” he announced, letting his eyes sneak briefly up and down the length of my body. He was wearing khaki pants paired with a light flannel shirt, and his gray hair stood up in small tufts on his head, as if he’d been roused from a nap in front of the TV when the clerk popped in. “What can I do for you?”
I thanked him for his time and explained the purpose of my visit, giving my spiel aboutCrimeBeatand our desire to assist in the search for Shannon.
“Happy to help,” he said. “We’re all hoping for the best.” The way he puffed his chest up suggested he was as eager for the attention as he was to assist, but hey, after being ditched by Cody Blaine, I didn’t really care about his motives as long as he didn’t go making shit up.
He cocked his head toward the clerk. “Gary, why don’t you grab your smoke break now so I can chat with this nice young lady. I’ll keep an eye on the desk.”
Gary beat it, and after producing my notebook and pen, I sat in one of the straight-backed chairs in the reception area, gesturing for Dobbs to take a seat in the other one.
“I read in thePost Starthat you often see Shannon running by the motel,” I said. “But not Monday morning. Is that correct?”
“Yup, that’s right. No sign of her on Monday.”
He’d crossed one leg over the other, casual-like, but I sensed he was on alert, as if he was being careful with his words.
“Is it possible that you were dealing with a customer at the same time Shannon ran by and you didn’t catch a glimpse of her for that reason? Or maybe you were on a call? Or a bathroom break?”
“Mondays are quiet as a tomb this time of year. I pretty much had my eye on this window the whole morning.”
“Of course, she could have taken another route that day.”
“Coulda. But it would have been the first time. Never seen her miss a day. Except Sundays. Church day.”
