Chapter 36
THE DRIVER OF THE WONDER Bus is Barb’s next call.
The man, who sounds like he’s originally from New York, confirms that a young woman matching Syndey’s description did get on his bus in Seattle that Friday evening. However, he isn’t certain whether Sydney actually got off the bus in Seaside.
“As I told the officer, it’s possible she could have gotten off at the rest stop and then not gotten back on,” the driver tells Barb.
“You don’t do a head count?” Barb asks him. “What if someone loses track of time or gets stuck in a bathroom stall? You just leave them behind at the rest stop and drive away?”
“All due respect, ma’am, this isn’t middle school,” the driver says.
“The rest stop is the only scheduled stop we make, and everyone is informed that they have fifteen minutes to get off, do their business, and get back on. Mind you, I tell them fifteen, but I always give it twenty. And they’re instructed to take all their belongings with them because we drivers aren’t responsible for things getting stolen. But no, I don’t take attendance.”
“But what if someone that didn’t buy a ticket sneaks onto the bus?” Barb presses. “You don’t check that the passengers getting on at the rest stop are the same ones you started with in Seattle?”
A heavy sigh. “Have you ever been to this rest stop? It’s in the middle of nowhere.
If someone gets on the bus for the first time there, they either got left behind by the previous Wonder Bus, or they had car trouble.
But the buses that go directly to Wonderland are owned by Wonderland.
The park doesn’t actually care if the passengers pay for the bus.
The more people that come to Wonderland, the more money they make. ”
Barb has to admit that makes sense. “Then can you at least tell me if Sydney actually got off the bus at the rest stop?”
“As I told that police officer before, everybody got off at the rest stop,” he says.
“Because everybody always does. It’s actually a nice spot, lots of trees, a fenced-in area for dogs to run around, picnic tables, vending machines, a place to charge your phone, and lots of clean bathroom stalls.
The state maintains it really well. Okay, maybe the wooded area behind the buildings is a bit dark at night, I don’t know.
But there are worse places to pee, trust me. ”
Barb thanks him for his time, and sifts through the file.
In it is a screen-shot of the transcribed voicemail message that Sydney left on Jasmine’s iPhone while at the rest stop.
Transcribed voicemails are a nice feature if you’re a person who hates listening to people talk.
The only challenge is that sometimes the transcribed words are incorrect or skipped altogether, and the punctuation—if there even is any—is abysmal.
Hey babe we’re at a rest stop ninety minutes from Seaside taxi from there don’t pick me up.
Motel by nine thirty I need to shower see you guys later tonight at the bar.
Um yes I am thanks thank you um thank you apologize holy shit that rude was fall okay people are getting back on the bus. See you soon babe bye.
Barb takes a pen and underlines the parts of the voicemail that don’t make sense. Who was Sydney thanking, and then apologizing to? Was she speaking to someone while leaving her message? In the file, Officer Evans noted the same thing.
Sydney’s friend, Jasmine Hugo, is Barb’s next call.
“Oh, she definitely disappeared at the rest stop,” Jasmine Hugo tells Barb.
It sounds like she’s eating something. “She called me from there, but I missed it because I was in the damned shower, ugh. Did you listen to the voicemail? I texted the recording to the police officer and also sent her the transcription.”
“Yes, I have the screenshot here,” Barb says. “But it’s hard to understand some of it. I’m wondering if you could send me a copy of the actual voice-mail as well. I can give you my cell.”
A few seconds later, the audio file arrives in Barb’s text messages.
“Got it,” she says to Jasmine. “Other than her calling you from the rest stop, did you to speak to Sydney at any time that evening? Maybe while she was on the bus?”
“No, I absolutely despise talking on the phone,” Jasmine says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she is, in fact, currently talking on the phone. “I’d have texted with her if she still had her iPhone, but she got rid of it after Showgirls.”
There’s a loud crunch in Barb’s ear and she winces. Potato chips, has to be.
“I already told the officer this, but I think she went missing right after she called me. You can hear someone talking in the background while she’s leaving her message.
” Jasmine swallows. “Never thought I’d say this, but I wish she’d listened to her mom and stayed on the bus.
Sandra’s a little—well, you talked to her, so you know—but she’s right about being careful.
I’m a digital content creator, and let me tell you, there are a lot of crazies out there. ”
Barb hears the chip bag crumple, followed by the thud of a garbage bin lid.
“I’ve been an influencer for five years now,” Jasmine says.
“Hell, that’s the whole reason we were going to Seaside in the first place.
The motel offered me a free room for the weekend in exchange for posting about them.
But you have to be safe, you know? I never travel alone, and I never post where I am until I’m no longer there. ”
Barb had looked up Sydney’s friend earlier.
Jasmine Hugo is a body-positive social media influencer who posts photos and videos of her “real woman’s body” in bathing suits and lingerie with no filtering or photoshopping.
She has over one million followers on Instagram—not quite Kylie Kahl territory, but Instagram is a tougher nut to crack, which makes Jasmine’s numbers pretty impressive.
After she thanks Jasmine for her time and disconnects, Barb hits play on the voicemail recording. It’s much easier to understand Sydney with all the missing words filled in, even though there’s a bit of static throughout the audio, which didn’t help the transcription.
“Hey, babe! We’re at a rest stop about ninety minutes from Seaside,” voicemail Sydney says.
“Driver says it’s easy to take a taxi from there, so don’t pick me up.
I should be at the motel by nine thirty, and I’ll need to shower, so I’ll just see you guys later tonight at the bar.
[pause] Babe, hang on . . . some dude is trying to low-key take my photo.
I’m going to look right at him so he knows I see him .
. . [muffled voice in background] Yes, I am.
[muffled voice] Thanks. [muffled voice] Aw, thanks.
[muffled voice] Thank you so much. [laughs] Holy shit, I just got recognized by some really tall dude with a Polaroid.
Okay, people are getting back on the bus. See you soon, babe. Bye.”
She listens to the voicemail three more times, turning the volume all the way up.
Sydney didn’t say apologize; she said recognized.
Someone at the rest stop had recognized Sydney from her show.
Whoever it was must have been very complimentary.
Also, the person was male. Someone tall enough that it was worth mentioning, who had a Polaroid.
The back of Barb’s neck tingles. Ingrid Larsen’s father had said “Nathan Shelley” was tall. And a long time ago, she once knew a tall person with a Polaroid.
For the second time in as many weeks, she googles Marty Kieswetter.
The same archived bio for his father shows up, but further down, there’s another link.
It takes her to a photo posted on the Oak Meadows Assisted Living website, a facility located in Yakima, Washington.
The photo shows four men playing cards, and the caption reads: Burton Kieswetter and son Marty play a competitive game of canasta with Gary Felton and son Christopher on Family Day, which takes place the last Sunday of every month.
It’s dated seven years earlier. Barb must have missed it the last time she searched.
Even sitting down, Marty is clearly the tallest one at the table.
It’s nothing. Of course it’s nothing. But the tingle persists. She reaches for her phone and calls the second number in her favorites list.
“Chronicle,” a voice answers.
“Hey, Stanny Stan, is Greg in today? I just tried his cell, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“Hey, Barbie Barb,” Stan says. “The boss in his office on a call, but I can put you on hold. Transferring you now.”
A minute later, they’re connected.
“Hey, Greg—”
“Oh, hello, Barb,” Greg says. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you? So nice of you to check in with me here, at the office, where we work.”
Barb rolls her eyes. She can picture her editor-in-chief sitting at his desk, drinking his seventh Diet Dr Pepper of the day, and having all the time in the world to give her shit. Things are never busy at the Chronicle office, which is why Barb never bothers to go in.
“I’m actually working, Greg,” Barb tells him. “You still have your investigator on the payroll? The one in Seattle?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I need him to find someone for me.”
“Who?”
“Martin Kieswetter,” she says. “Everyone called him Marty. His father’s name is Burton. I don’t know his date of birth, but he graduated from Seaside High back in 2001. I just need an address. Or, if by chance he’s deceased, information about where and when he died.”
“And you need this because . . .”
“I’m working on something.”
“For the Chronicle?”
“Yes.”
“Which case?”
“It’s cases, plural. I think Marty might be tied into the disappearances of Ingrid Larsen, Sydney Carlisle, and maybe even Kylie Kahl.”
She doesn’t mention that Marty is Lorelei Glass’s stepbrother. Greg would ask too many questions about why Barb’s digging into an old murder that’s already been solved because a serial killer confessed.
“Wait, who’s Sydney Carlisle?” her boss asks.
“The third missing reality star that Chief Burrows somehow never told us about that morning at the press conference.”
“Oh. Wow. Is this Marty a witness?”
“Um, maybe,” Barb says. “He fits the description of a man who was seen at the trail where Ingrid disappeared, and also at the rest stop where Sydney disappeared.” She doesn’t bother to mention she’s taking a total shot in the dark, and that the odds that it was Marty at that rest stop are probably a million to one.
“PD know about this?”
“Not yet,” Barb says. “I don’t want to bother them with it until I know more.”
“Okay, I’ll call my guy,” Greg says. “Spell Marty’s last name for me?”
She spells it out. “Can you tell your investigator that it’s urgent?”
“I can,” Greg says. “But how fast Jerry works is up to Jerry. He only works when he feels like it now, but he’s still one of the best in the biz. I’ll tell him to contact you directly if he finds anything.”
After they disconnect, Barb takes another look at the videos that Jasmine Hugo posted on Instagram in the days leading up to their weekend in Seaside.
Is Jasmine really as cautious with her content as she says she is?
Because while Syndey had no social media of her own anymore, she and another friend show up in Jasmine’s Instagram reels a lot.
She clicks on the reel the influencer uploaded the day before heading to Seaside.
In it, Jasmine and another young woman are sitting unselfconsciously on the bed wearing only their cotton bras and matching underwear.
The underwear brand is, of course, tagged in the post, as is the friend, also a body-positive influencer, who goes by the name Bunny.
Barb can’t help but envy their confidence.
“So where we’re headed this weekend is the most adorable little place—think the Rosebud Motel, for you Schitt’s Creek fans, but way more elevated,” onscreen Jasmine says, tossing her hair.
“There’s a little diner, a giant pool . .
. it’s going to be amazing. I can’t tell you where it is yet, but here’s a little hint. ”
The video flashes to a professional-looking photo for one second, which shows a three-story 1950s-style motel. The name on the sign has been blurred out. The video then cuts back to Jasmine. “Cute, right? Later, lovelies.”
Barb sighs.
While the name of the motel is hidden, anyone who’s ever lived in Seaside would immediately recognize it. Done in retro pastel pinks and pale green, the Inn-on-the-Beach is one of the oldest establishments on Beach Road.
Whoever took Sydney Carlisle knew exactly where she was headed.