Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  We hung up and I settled back in my chair. I alternated watching the parade of people on the street and the slices of the water I could see between the high-rise hotels across the street, but as the sun sank, I found my gaze drawn to the hotels. A checkerboard of lights glowed from the rooms, some with the curtains wide open despite the growing dusk. I felt a bit like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, peeking into the lives of people who either had forgotten to close the curtains or didn’t care. In one room, two kids jumped on the bed, their hair floating around their faces. In another, a woman paced back and forth from her suitcase to the closet, hanging up her clothes. Farther over, a couple stood on their balcony, sipping from wine glasses. Were they watching me, watching them?

  A movement above the couple drew my attention up to a balcony on one of the higher floors, where two figures were locked in a tight embrace. The single glowing lamp in the room behind them made their figures into silhouettes. Okay . . . enough voyeurism, I thought as I shifted my gaze away, but then the couple moved jerkily and I found myself watching them, despite the feeling that I should look away.

  There was something wrong. The couple broke apart and I could see their outlines clearly against the low light, a tall man with broad shoulders and a smaller woman with short hair. Their stiff arms locked together as they shuffled backward. He pinned the woman against the railing, shoved her shoulders back, then he upended her, and she went over the edge.

  Chapter Two

  I sucked in a breath, my hand instinctively covering my mouth as the woman plunged through the air, then disappeared into the mass of trees ringing the hotel grounds. The palm fronds rattled as she hit the tallest trees, the coconut palms, then I saw only a flicker of her body as she tumbled into the lower-growing trees and bushes.

  It happened so quickly I didn’t even scream or yell. I realized I was standing. I glanced around. The veranda was empty. I dashed into the lobby, yelling for the desk clerk to call an ambulance, then ran across the street where a small group of people was already gathering.

  A man, who seemed to have medical experience, knelt beside the sprawled body and wouldn’t let anyone move her. She was on her back, half suspended in a hedge of greenery. Her arms were flung out to the side, palms up. A sunburst tattoo on the inside of one wrist looked startlingly dark against her pale skin. Her legs dangled, one twisted in the branches of the plant at an unnatural angle. In the growing darkness, her short dark hair merged with the murky greenery of the bush, causing her face to stand out. She was young, probably no more than twenty-five.

  I stepped back, aware of a siren drawing closer. Several hotel employees stood in the group. I grabbed the arm of the man nearest me in a hotel uniform. “There was a man with her on the balcony,” I said. “I saw him push her.” He stared at me a moment, then said, “You’d better come with me.” Paramedics pushed by us as we went to the hotel lobby.

  I hadn’t been the only one who’d seen her being pushed over the railing. Along with two other witnesses, I waited in the dining area where the hotel served its free breakfast, the counters bare at this time of the evening. On the hotel food chain, this place was just above mid-range. Not bargain basement cheap, but not super luxurious, either. The manager was an overweight woman, with her flyaway blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, who kept tugging at her polo shirt with the embroidered hotel logo as she scurried in and out of the room, looking worried. Across the room, one of the responding police officers spoke to a woman in her forties who had been on her balcony above the couple. She had talked almost nonstop to me while we waited for the police to arrive, telling me how terrible the whole thing was and how awful she felt that she didn’t get a good look at the man’s face. “But how could I?” she asked. “I was on the floor above them and it was almost dark. I couldn’t really see anything, except that it was a man shoving her over. It was definitely a man, and she was fighting him.”

  A retiree, who I though had probably been in the military, was the other witness. He talked quietly with the hotel manager. His gray hair was clipped short and squared off at the back of his neck per regulation, and he had a military bearing in his stance and walk. He moved back to wait with me as a few police officers strode into the lobby, calling to each other about who was covering which door. The retiree shook his head. “I don’t know why they’re even bothering. The guy is gone.”

  “He could still be in the hotel,” I said.

  “If he’s smart, he left during the confusion,” the man said, tilting his chin toward the entrance where people were still gathered even though the ambulance was already gone. “There’s at least three exits to the parking lot, besides the lobby, where he could slip out,” the man continued as he wrapped his arms across his chest. “He may not have even been staying here, either. It’s not that hard to get into a room. He’d only have to keep an eye out for someone leaving for dinner, then tell the front desk he forgot his keycard, and they’d make him another one. Happened to me last night, and the clerk on duty didn’t even ask to see my identification.”

  No wonder the manager looked worried. When my turn with the police officer came, I told him what I saw, but I wasn’t any more helpful than the chatty woman. “Which floor were they on?” he asked. The officer had ginger-colored hair and a ruddy face. He looked up from his notes, his eyebrows raised.

  “Um, well, there was a couple on a balcony—a different couple—I saw them first. The woman who was pushed . . . ,” I paused, closing my eyes, trying to re-create the scene in my mind. Were they one floor up or two? About two rooms away . . . or had it been three? I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember exactly. Could I borrow your paper?” He looked surprised, but turned his small notebook to a fresh page and handed it over. I sketched a rough outline of the hotel and marked an “X” where I thought the couple had been. “Somewhere around here,” I said, handing it back. “It’s very general, but I didn’t really count floors or notice anything, except when she went over.” I got a sick feeling in my stomach. “Any word on how she is?”

  The officer shrugged. “She survived the fall, that’s all I know. Describe the man you saw who pushed her. You’re sure it was a man?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, but that’s about all I can say.” I described the lighting. “He was taller than her by several inches and bigger, too. Not husky, more . . . athletic. Broad shouldered.”

  “Hair color? Tattoos? Clothing?” the officer pressed.

  “Sorry. I don’t know. It was almost dark.” When the officer dismissed us, I went back across the street to my hotel and paused in the lobby, feeling shaken and dazed. There was something else I was supposed to do . . . what was it? My foggy thoughts cleared. Angela! Had she come while I was across the street? I reached for my phone and realized I didn’t have it with me. I didn’t have the imitation purse, either. I hurried to the veranda and found my phone on the side table exactly where I’d left it beside the fake Leah Marshall purse.

  I dropped into the chair and reclined against the wooden slats as I checked my messages. One missed call from Angela. I really wanted to go upstairs and curl up in bed, maybe lose myself in one of the books I’d packed or flip through channels mindlessly, but I called Angela back instead.

  “Oh good, you called,” she said. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll call you back.”

  I waited, watching the activity across the street. Some police officers left. Media trucks arrived.

  My phone rang again, and Angela said, “I have the real purse on my arm, and I’m walking down the beach road right now.”

  “I’ll look for you. I’m on the hotel veranda. Which direction are you coming from?”

  “From Costa Bella. I’ll see you—”

  After a few seconds, I said, “Angela? Are you there?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw that the call had dropped. I called the number, but after several rings it went to her voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. I would see her in a few minutes anyway.

  The sun set and
the scene changed. The families departed and a younger crowd—teenagers and college kids—took their place. Costa Bella was only a few miles down the road, and it was a hot spot for college kids on spring break. I was sure it was still popular during the height of summer. I watched the steady parade of young people stroll by, the girls dressed in tank tops or short sundresses, the guys in Tshirts, shorts, and boat shoes or thick sandals. It seemed almost everyone held an ice cream cone or had a shopping bag hooked in their elbow. Some people paused to stare at the hotel across the street. Others gathered around the news reporters giving their stand-up reports. A few people separated themselves from the crowd and came up the steps to the hotel, but none of them was a young woman carrying a Leah Marshall purse on her arm.

  I realized I probably wouldn’t be able to recognize Angela from her fuzzy online profile picture. The only thing it revealed about her was that she had long blond hair and a deep tan. I’d probably spot the purse before I spotted Angela. After forty-five minutes or so, I called her back and said I’d be upstairs in my room. She could ask for me at the front desk. Seeing the woman fall from the balcony had shaken me. I wanted to stop looking at the hotel, stop replaying the scene of her body dropping through the air.

  “No, I don’t have any messages for you.” This morning’s desk clerk was a fiftyish woman with a deep southern drawl rolling through her words. “Sorry, darlin’,” she said after I thanked her. I made my way to the breakfast area, and sat down at the table with Ben.

  “Nothing. No word from Angela.” I put my cell phone on the table and nodded at the waiter, indicating that I’d like another glass of fresh orange juice. “The cell phone reception in my room is terrible. I’d hoped I’d missed Angela’s call and would have a message from her.”

  I’d already told Ben about seeing the woman pushed off the balcony. The local newscast, which was blaring from a television in the nearby bar area, aired a story on it and reported that the woman was in critical condition at a local hospital. Her name hadn’t been released, only the information that she wasn’t a hotel guest. Just as the retiree speculated, it appeared the man who’d pushed her was not a registered hotel guest either. Black and white security video showed the top of a man’s head at the front desk, which would have been helpful if he hadn’t been wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

  The reporter stated that the man told the desk clerk he lost his keycard. She made him a new one, but wasn’t able to give a good description of him. It had been a busy time at the desk, and she’d only glanced at him. I looked away from the television and gave myself a mental shake. That tragic story had nothing to do with me, except that I happened to see it. I had other things to focus on, like Ben, who I rarely saw. And, there was that loose end from last night, Angela. “I wonder what happened to Angela,” I said.

  Ben’s mouth was full. He shrugged one shoulder, then concentrated on cutting his Belgian waffles. I’d had pancakes and a bowl of chopped fruit while he had an omelet as an appetizer. Apparently, the waffles were the main course. I watched him work through his food, slightly amazed. “It’s so unfair you can still eat like a teenager.” His lanky frame didn’t show an ounce of flab.

  He swirled more syrup on his waffles and grinned. “It’s not every day that I get a free breakfast buffet. Got to take advantage. You should have one of these waffles. They’ve got something in them . . . cinnamon, maybe.”

  “No way. If I eat like you, I’ll be wearing a muumuu at the end of my vacation.”

  “Since when did you start counting calories?”

  “Since I had two kids. And the big three-o is coming up. So enjoy that food. You can’t eat like that forever,” I said, raising my glass in a mock toast.

  Ben wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and asked the waiter if he could have the recipe for the waffles. I blinked. “You’re cooking? With actual pots and pans?”

  “Of course,” Ben said, his forehead wrinkled. “You don’t think I live on take-out, do you?”

  “Ah—well, yes, I did. Do you even have a waffle iron?” I’d never seen his small apartment near the base. I’d pictured it as spartan.

  “Sure. The person who lived there before me liked to cook. Worked in one of the restaurants on the beach, but got a job in New York and couldn’t take all his stuff. The landlord was going to send it to Goodwill, but I said I’d take it. I did the ramen noodle and pizza thing in college, but I like to eat, you know? There’s nothing like a good steak or spaghetti Bolognese.”

  “Bolognese? You make spaghetti Bolognese?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said as the waiter returned with a printout of the recipe. Ben thanked him and tapped the page. “Cinnamon. I knew it. And vanilla sugar . . . interesting.”

  I sat back in my chair. “My brother, a foodie. Who knew? Aren’t you the same kid who refused to eat roast because Mom cooked it with a bay leaf?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Ben said, but he was smiling.

  “I know.” I leaned forward. “It’s for a girl, isn’t it? You want to impress someone.”

  “No, I like to eat good food.” Ben folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket. “So how are the kids?”

  I noted the obvious conversational dodge, but went with it. I figured I’d already ribbed him enough over the cooking issue. “We’ve already talked about the kids and about Mitch. I want to hear about you. What’s going on with you?”

  “Flying. I had a TDY to Japan last month. That was cool. I got Mom a tea set.”

  “She’ll like that. What else?”

  “Not much. Same old thing.”

  I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Guys,” in exasperation. “Would it kill you to give a few details?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I go to work. I go out with the guys. I go to the gym. You know, normal stuff.”

  “And people think the life of a pilot is so exciting.”

  Ben snorted. “Yeah. It’s just like the movies. Top Gun all the time.”

  My phone chimed. It was the kids, but they didn’t have long to talk. They were simply calling to check in because Aunt Summer had insisted. Nathan informed me that Aunt Summer didn’t have a night-light, but it was okay because she’d left the bathroom light on all night. Livvy’s news involved a report on the status of the cookies (delicious) and their plans for the morning (beach, movies, and more cookies).

  I hung up and clicked through the various screens on my phone. “Still nothing from Angela,” I said.

  “Really? No texts?” Ben asked.

  “No. I think it’s odd that I haven’t heard from her at all.” I had bought several bags from her, and she had always been prompt in her replies to any questions I had. Lately, she’d sent me occasional e-mails, sometimes updating me if she had a new bag for sale, but more often than not, to share one of the funny stories or photos that make their way around the Internet. There had also been an uptick in the cute puppy photos she shared. She was seriously thinking of getting a dog and wanted my take on owning a big dog since we have a rottweiler. I’d advised her to get a smaller dog since she lived in an apartment, but she’d replied almost instantly, “Purse dogs are too clichéd for words, Ellie. No itty-bitty outfits or jeweled collars . . . if anyone’s wearing jewels, it will be me! What do you think about a Weimaraner?”

  “Do you know if she got a dog?” I asked.

  Ben checked his phone as he murmured, “Hmm?”

  “She wanted a puppy and mentioned Weimaraners.”

  “Weimaraners?” Ben looked up from his phone, perplexed.

  “The gray dogs with the blue eyes. Really pretty. That’s all I know about them, and that’s what I told Angela.”

  Ben nodded in a distracted way, then checked his watch. “Want to go for a walk down the beach road? You’re not getting the kids until later, are you?”

  “No, they’d run at the sight of me. Livvy informed me I’m not to arrive a minute before noon so I don’t cut into their time with Summer.”

  “Ok
ay then,” Ben stood up. “Angela works in a store about half a mile down the beach road. Why don’t we walk by and see if she’s there? She probably ran into friends or something and got distracted last night.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let me run upstairs and grab the purse she’s exchanging for me.”

  The sun was already hot when we emerged from the hotel, and I slipped on my sunglasses. The crowds were lighter than they had been last night, and we were able to walk side by side. Boogie boards, racks of Tshirts and postcards, along with all sorts of sea-related kitsch, like seashell wind chimes and plaques declaring MY OTHER HOUSE IS A BEACH HOUSE, spilled out of the stores onto the sidewalk. The smell of sunscreen permeated the air, except when we walked by the fudge shop. I breathed in deeply. “Got to come back here later,” I said as the aroma enveloped us.

  “You and your chocolate.”

  “At least it makes me easy to buy for,” I said, moving to the side as several kids trotted down the street, their flip-flops slapping the ground. Their parents followed at a slower pace, pulling a wagon loaded with a cooler, toys, folding chairs, and a huge furled beach umbrella.

  Ben said, “They look like they’re prepared for a siege.”

  “You wait. Soon, that will be you.”

  “God, I hope not. At least, not for a long time.” He gestured to a small store called The Sea Cottage. “We’re here.”

  The store had wide wooden floor planks in a pale blond wood. White walls and images of the gulf made the small space feel bigger than it was. Stacks of clothes in taupe, pink, gray, and cream sat atop tables of weathered white wood. Gauzy scarves and long necklaces dangled from driftwood displays on a glass counter at the back of the store. A light airy soundtrack, mostly flutes, played softly in the background. It was the kind of store that catered to wealthy middle-aged women, and it surprised me that Angela worked here.