Coco romped across the sand in full glory, chasing the ball as each participant passed it on to the next. After a few minutes following the triangular pattern, she settled down to watch, panting while her furry ears twitched above her head. Sadie excused herself from the game and walked over to where Coco sat, which only caused Coco to scamper off another ten feet and sit again, facing Sadie. The two repeated this pattern several times—Sadie almost catching up only to see Coco trot off again. Finally Coco tired of the game and sniffed around, plucking a seashell from the sand and presenting it to Sadie.
“We already have quite a collection, Coco,” Sadie said. She bent down and gently removed the shell, placing it back in the sand. “Let’s leave some shells for other visitors, okay?” She patted Coco on the head. “Let’s go back to the room and get you some water.”
As Sadie headed toward the hotel, Coco followed along, veering off in one direction or another along the way. On one side excursion, she returned with a cluster of seaweed, which Sadie politely declined. A different exploration brought an empty brown lunch bag, which Sadie kept, telling Coco they would take it to the hotel’s recycling area.
Sadie reached the suite’s patio, filled Coco’s china water dish, and then took a seat on the lounge chair, knowing Coco would soon follow. Just as she expected, the Yorkie sauntered in off the sand. This time she proudly presented a wet stick, undoubtedly expecting Sadie to issue a “leave it” command. Instead, Sadie just stared. Had anyone been watching, they might have thought Sadie had gone into a trance of some sort, which wouldn’t have been too far from the truth.
“You are so smart!” Sadie exclaimed, much to Coco’s surprise, as well as her own. “Thank you, Coco!” Taking the stick from the petite mouth, she dropped it on the patio. She pulled Coco up into a hug, causing Coco’s eyes to widen and scan the surrounding area in search of some reason for Sadie’s sudden exuberance.
Sadie rushed back into the suite, deposited a confused Coco on the bed, sandy paws and all—she would be sure to leave a good tip for housekeeping—and returned to the laptop. She flipped through the still shots she’d examined before, looking for one in particular. It only took a minute to find it and confirm her suspicions.
“Aha!” she shouted.
Coco shot her a look that seemed to be more concern now than surprise. She tilted her head to one side as if waiting for an explanation. Instead, she found herself scooped up again, this time into the tote bag as Sadie raced out the door.
The appetizer hour was just getting rolling when Sadie passed through the lobby. Myrtle, who had staked out a table, waved an invitation, but Sadie simply shook her head. She stopped in the hotel’s business center just long enough to print out a copy of the photo and then exited the hotel. She asked the valet parking attendant for her car and watched a text come in from Myrtle while she waited. She sent off a quick reply just as the vehicle arrived.
Can’t stay. Must see Detective Martin!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The police station wasn’t far from the hotel, but it was abuzz with activity when Sadie arrived. She’d certainly picked a bad day to have a breakthrough that Detective Martin needed to hear right away. There was no right away happening in the near future, not that Sadie could tell. The entry hall was filled with people waiting to submit requests, report problems, or dispute complaints. The officer at the counter faced a line of six people juggling papers and shifting weight impatiently from one leg to the other.
“Looks like we’re in for a wait, Coco.” Sadie took the last remaining unoccupied seat and placed her tote on her lap. She pulled her phone out of the bag’s side pocket and checked for messages. As she expected, she found a long string of texts from Myrtle.
What happened?
Are you coming back?
They have popcorn shrimp today.
Text me when you get this.
Did you get this yet?
Also half-priced wine.
What’s going on?
Text me!
Sadie started to text Myrtle back but then stopped. What was she going to say? That she had a new theory that sounded too outrageous to believe? That had more potential holes in it than her favorite blue kitchen colander? She settled for something short and nonspecific.
New theory.
There, that was easy. No explanation needed.
About the murder? New information?
Sadie sighed. Possibly. Now she was starting to wonder herself. A mere stick on the beach had started a domino effect of thoughts that led her straight to the police station. Maybe she was putting two and two together and getting three, not four. Things weren’t always what they seemed.
But sometimes they are…
Are what?
Sadie glanced at Myrtle’s unexpected reply, startled. Had she really typed her thoughts into a text when she thought she was just thinking them? She was losing her mind now.
Sometimes they’re complicated, she typed. Theories, I mean. I’ll explain later. Sadie hit Send and hoped that would appease Myrtle for the time being. That and the popcorn shrimp, which was starting to sound inviting in view of the wait. Maybe she should have grabbed some before heading to the station. But then she would have gotten sidetracked talking, and this was too important. She needed to reach Detective Martin as soon as possible.
Sadie watched the line move along, eavesdropping just to pass the time. A scraggly man in his thirties was filing a report for a stolen surfboard. The officer at the counter was trying to explain that he had already filed the report three times over the past month and that there was no need to file another. The man insisted he would keep filing new reports until the surfboard was found and returned. Sadie suspected the station would be seeing the man for quite some time.
“Ms. Kramer?”
Sadie looked up, surprised to hear her name. This wasn’t a restaurant with a waitlist. No one had taken her name, so there was no reason for anyone to know she was there. Yet Detective Martin stood behind the officer at the counter, calling to her. She gathered her purse, dog, and miscellaneous items she’d brought in order to present her theory and stepped up to the counter.
“Yes, Detective,” Sadie said. “How did you know I was out here?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I brought paperwork out to the front desk and saw you sitting there. Can I help you with something?”
“Actually,” Sadie said, leaning across the counter. “I think I can help you.”
“How is that?” Detective Martin maintained a polite tone, but if Sadie were a betting woman, she’d put her money on patronizing as a better description.
“I have a new theory about…” Sadie lowered her voice. “…about Garrison Quinlan.”
The detective’s eyebrows shot up, whether out of surprise or curiosity Sadie had no idea. But she had his attention, and that was what counted.
“I brought evidence.” She glanced briefly down at her purse, then back up, and then shifted her eyes from side to side, doing her best impression of a covert op. Just when she thought she had the seriously mysterious persona down pat, Coco stuck her head of the tote and yipped.
“I really don’t see undercover work in your future,” Martin said. He frowned as Coco leaned out of the bag and licked his wrist. “No!” he said, eyeing the Yorkie, who pulled back and returned an equally stern look. “Why don’t we go back to my office, Ms. Kramer, so you can tell me what this is about. Minus the theatrics.”
Sadie nudged Coco back in the tote and crossed the lobby to a side door the detective had indicated. A buzzer beeped, and the door opened. Sadie stepped through and followed Martin down a narrow hallway. Once they were settled in a back office, Sadie pulled the sheet she’d printed at the hotel business center out of an interior pocket in her tote. Coco shuffled around at the disturbance but stayed inside, apparently not wanting to risk another run-in with Martin.
“What is this?” Martin said as he lifted the printed photo off the desk.
“A p
hoto,” Sadie said. She never could resist answering a simple question with a simple answer.
“Yes, I can see that. A photo of what, Ms. Kramer?”
Sadie drummed her fingertips on the detective’s desk, impatient.
“Obviously, it’s a photo taken during the filming of Garrison Quinlan’s last movie.”
Detective Martin nodded. “I can see that. So what?”
“So this,” Sadie said as she unzipped a pocket and pulled out the St. Christopher medal that Coco had found on the beach.
“A common pendant,” Martin said. “How is this related to Garrison Quinlan’s death?”
Sadie stabbed the photo with her forefinger, dolphin bangles clattering along with the motion. “Look closely at the photo. Do you see a similar necklace?”
The detective lifted the photo and inspected it more closely. “I see someone wearing something similar, but I have no way of knowing if it’s this particular pendant or not.”
“Don’t you have one of those computer programs that can enlarge and clarify details in photos? They have them in all the television shows.”
Martin opened his mouth and closed it again, undoubtedly resisting the impulse to distinguish actual police work from that on television. “Tell you what. Just to amuse you, if nothing else, I will go have our tech department take a brief look at this through one of our television-worthy machines.”
While Martin left the room with both photo and necklace in hand, Sadie stroked Coco’s head, more to calm herself than for Coco’s enjoyment. Had she jumped to conclusions? Was she simply wasting the detective’s valuable time? She had her answer when he returned, this time with Detective Sloan in tow.
“Where did you get this pendant,” Martin said, reclaiming his seat across the table from Sadie. He placed the photo and necklace, now enclosed in a plastic bag, on the table. Detective Sloan stood beside him but did not sit. He nodded a greeting of recognition.
“Coco found it.”
“Coco?” Sloan asked.
As if on cue, the petite Yorkie popped out of the tote and looked at Sloan.
“Ah, I see,” Sloan said. Whether or not he did was uncertain.
“Coco has a habit of fetching things,” Sadie explained. “We have quite a collection of seashells and kelp on our patio at the hotel. You should see the basket of goodies we have in a basket at home—twigs, discarded Christmas ornaments, empty cereal boxes—though I suppose that’s a bit off-topic.”
“Indeed it is, Ms. Kramer,” Martin said.
“Well, then. This St. Christopher medal was wrapped around a piece of driftwood that Coco brought in after the storm the other night. I didn’t think anything of it. I’m sure people lose things on the beach all the time.”
“True,” Sloan said.
“But…” She reached for the necklace, only to have Detective Martin pull it back, which struck her as pointless since it was already enclosed in plastic.
“Continue,” Martin prodded.
“When I started searching for photos of Garrison Quinlan online, I noticed this.” She tapped the section of the photo that showed the person wearing the pendant. “This is the same one Coco found on the beach, isn’t it?”
Detective Martin nodded and shrugged his shoulders at the same time, a combination of gestures that oddly resembled a tic of some sort.
Sloan spoke up this time. “We enlarged the photo and clarified the necklace. It does appear to be the same. But this is a common design, so it’s impossible to know if it’s the same exact one.”
“I realize that,” Sadie said. “But look at the photo carefully. What do you see?”
Both detectives inspected the photo, puzzled.
I’m really in the wrong business, Sadie thought to herself. Maybe these two should run my fashion boutique and I should actually take up detective work.
“It’s obviously a filming scene,” Martin said. “Cameraman and all, crew or extras on the side.”
“And who’s being filmed?” Sadie pointed to those in the center of the scene.
“Garrison Quinlan, obviously,” Martin replied. “He’s standing in front of the camera.”
“And who’s wearing the necklace?”
“One of the men on the side,” Sloan said. He leaned closer. “Unless that is Mr. Quinlan. He does resemble him somewhat. Dark hair, same build.”
Detective Martin shook his head. “No. Quinlan is the one in front of the camera. See the tattoo?”
“Yes,” Sadie said. “Garrison Quinlan is the man standing, being filmed. But he’s not the one wearing the St. Christopher medal.” She sat back and waited for the two detectives to catch up.
“So, what exactly are you saying, Ms. Kramer?” Martin asked.
Sadie leaned forward and clasped her hands. “The body that washed up on the beach is not Garrison Quinlan.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You should have seen their faces.” Sadie dipped a popcorn shrimp in cocktail sauce and tossed it in her mouth. “Thanks for saving me some of these, by the way.”
“No problem,” Myrtle said. “I didn’t know if you’d make it back before the end of the appetizer hour or not. Especially when you said you were at the police station.”
Sadie had almost forgotten she’d sent Myrtle a quick text amid the chaos in the station’s lobby.
“I don’t understand,” Myrtle mused. “If GQ is the one with the tattoo in the photo, then I’d think he was the body on the beach.”
Sadie nodded. “That’s what they thought. And it does make sense, considering the tattoo. That’s how James Chalinder identified him.”
“Perhaps it was GQ.” Myrtle took a sip from a glass of wine.
“I don’t think so,” Sadie said. “I think it was the man sitting on the side in the photo, the one wearing the St. Christopher medal.” She pulled the photo out of her purse again and set it next to the dish of cocktail sauce. She pointed to the man in question.
Myrtle frowned. “He looks a lot like GQ. That’s kind of odd, don’t you think?”
“Not really. He could be a stunt double,” Sadie said. “Or just a fill-in actor. That’s not uncommon. Stars don’t always film every scene, especially those without any close-ups.”
“But he doesn’t have a tattoo,” Myrtle pointed out, examining the photo closely. “And the way they’re facing, you can clearly see the same arm on each man.”
“True,” Sadie said. “That part is puzzling, and it’s the reason I couldn’t convince the detectives my theory is correct.”
“The detectives didn’t keep the photo?”
“No, only the necklace. They printed a higher resolution image off the web. Apparently, their equipment is more sophisticated than the hotel’s copy machine. Go figure.” Sadie popped another tiny shrimp in her mouth, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Mmm, nothing better than something bread-battered and deep-fried. I’ll just have to take a walk along the boardwalk to work this off.” She patted one hip to emphasize her point.
“Around the area with the shops, no doubt,” Myrtle said, teasing her.
“Of course,” Sadie said. “You know, I’ve been thinking about getting one of those step-trackers to wear. Shopping would be one way to get steps in.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Myrtle said. “I could use—”
Sadie reached over and tapped Myrtle’s arm midsentence. “Look over there.” She pointed across the lobby, keeping her finger close to the table in order to avoid being obvious.
Myrtle followed Sadie’s gesture. “That’s James Chalinder leaning against the wall, isn’t it? GQ’s manager?”
“Yes, just outside the gift shop,” Sadie said. “And Kira Fairchild is in the store. This is exactly the way I last saw them there before, acting like they don’t know each other.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I’m not sure.” Sadie kept her eyes trained on the gift shop while reaching for another popcorn shrimp. Missing the appetizer tray, her hand dipped into th
e cocktail sauce instead. She pulled it back and licked the sauce off her fingers.
“I think they’re just playing it cool,” Myrtle said, unfazed by Sadie’s behavior as if finger-licking was perfectly normal etiquette in a luxury hotel. Still, she chose to eat the next popcorn shrimp without sauce. “We know they know each other. It could be they know each other really well—if you get what I mean—and they don’t want to broadcast it. After all, she is supposedly secretly married to GQ.”
“You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Sadie chuckled.
“He’s the one who identified the body, right?” Myrtle said. “The news reports said GQ was identified by his manager.”
“Yes, which strikes me as peculiar,” Sadie said. “He worked closely with GQ, so how could he misidentify him? Unless…” She took a closer look at the picture and pointed to GQ’s arm. “Unless he only looked at the tattoo.”
“That could be it,” Myrtle agreed. “If it’s an unusual tattoo, he might not have even looked at the face. He would have felt sure just seeing the design.”
“Perhaps,” Sadie said. “If he was emotionally distraught, he might have rushed to a conclusion without wanting to look more carefully. I’ve never had to personally identify a body, but I’m sure it’s disturbing. He could have misidentified him by accident.”
“It’s possible,” Myrtle said. “But that’s all the more reason to believe it really was GQ. That other man in the photo doesn’t have the tattoo. What is the tattoo of anyway?” She leaned close to the photo, trying to determine the design.
Sadie shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t tell. It’s not clear enough in the photo, and his sleeve covers part of it anyway. But… I bet I know someone who will.” She pulled her cell phone out of the tote and sent a quick text off to Amber.
Any idea what kind of tattoo GQ has?
Amber returned the text quickly. Has? Don’t you mean had?
A Flair for Flip-Flops Page 9
