by Sara Rosett
I couldn’t find a slot near Angela’s building and had to park on the far side of the complex near the pool. There were several parallel parking slots running along the tall stucco wall that enclosed the property. My parallel parking skills were a little rusty, but I managed to pull into a space on my first attempt. I picked up the purse and hopped out of the van, feeling accomplished as I walked by the vine-covered wall that enclosed the pool. Through the wrought iron gate, I could see a slice of blue water sparkling in the sun. It looked like the pool was only slightly larger than a hot tub, but I suppose if you were only a couple of steps from the beach, you wouldn’t need a big pool. I saw Ben under the residents’ carport near a silver convertible BWM. The convertible’s top was up and he was peering in the driver’s side window. I looked at the number painted on the ground: 29B. “Angela’s car?”
Ben straightened. “Hey, Ellie. What are you doing here?”
I held up the purse. “Angela called me and asked me to bring this by her apartment.”
Ben closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out. “She’s okay? What happened? Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me anything. All she wanted to talk about was this purse. She said I had to get it here right away and leave it.”
“Is she here?” Ben asked, starting toward the apartment building.
“No. She said she wasn’t home.”
He took a step closer to me. It was already shady with all the palm trees and it was even dimmer under the carport. “She wouldn’t tell me where she was and she sounded . . .” I paused, trying to think how to sum up Angela’s state. “Distraught” and “afraid” came to mind, but I didn’t want to voice those words. “She was . . . upset,” I said, knowing it was a pretty mild description, but I couldn’t quite overcome those sheltering, big sister habits. Ben was already worried and I didn’t want to add to his concern.
“Upset, how? Crying? Angry?”
I sighed, realizing that he wasn’t going to let me gloss over her reaction. “I don’t know her that well. Today, she sounded . . . scared.” I watched his face and said, “You’re really worried about her . . . that she’s in trouble?”
He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the car as he said, “Angela’s kind of like this car—you can’t drive it slow, you know what I mean? She’s crazy and fun and wild . . . I’m worried she got herself into something . . . over her head.”
He nodded to the empty slot next to the car. “The neighbor just left, and she told me the car has been here all night—at least, it was here when she walked her dog late last night and early this morning.”
“It’s a nice car,” I said, taking in the leather trim and sleek lines. “Are you sure Angela had money problems?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t think she’s making payments on this. It was a gift from her dad.”
“I guess she could always sell her car if things got really rough,” I said as we walked to the apartment. “Her brother isn’t here yet?”
“I don’t think so, but let’s check.” We walked up the curvy path and followed the little signs pointing us around the corner to Angela’s building. “How did you get here so fast?” he asked.
“I didn’t take the beach road.”
Angela’s apartment was a secluded ground-floor apartment on the end of the building, a prime spot. It shared a concrete patio with the opposite apartment, which had a pot of petunias beside its front door and a mat that read, WIPE YOUR PAWS. Angela’s door, with only a dry, crinkled palm frond caught under the threshold, looked bare in comparison.
Ben raised his hand to knock on the door, but paused and leaned closer. “That’s odd,” he said, pointing to several deep gouges between the doorframe and the handle of the door. He rapped on the door, and it swung open.
Chapter Four
“Is Angela messy?” I asked.
“Not like this,” Ben said, carefully edging the door open with the back of his hand, revealing tumbled couch cushions and a lamp on the floor.
“Angela?” Ben called, and stepped slowly through the door.
“We shouldn’t go in,” I said. “We should call the police.”
“What if she’s in there? She might be hurt,” Ben said.
“She said she wasn’t home—”
He shook my restraining hand off of his arm. “Chase?” he called.
I followed him inside the small entry area. Ben stepped over a large leather cushion from the couch and moved toward the kitchen. From the entry, I could see through an open door to a bedroom decorated with a feminine flare in shades ranging from pale yellow to deep gold. It was in even worse shape than the living room. Clothing hung from gaping drawers and was strewn across the floor. An overturned nightstand lay in the middle of the room, and fashion magazines rested on top of everything as if they’d been flung into the air like oversized, glossy confetti.
A breeze stirred the lemon curtains in the bedroom, catching my attention. No one leaves windows open in Florida in July. “The window is open in this bedroom,” I said as I stepped carefully around several throw pillows. Ben moved that way, too. I stopped on the threshold of the bedroom while Ben swept aside the curtains.
A pale gold comforter had covered the bed. It was piled on the floor, along with eyelet-edged sheets. It looked as if a small explosion had taken place inside the double-door closet, scattering clothes, shoes, bags, scarves, and hats across the floor. A Mac laptop had been knocked off the desk, shattering the screen. “I guess money wasn’t the motive,” I said, pointing to the computer. “I bet that would have been easy to sell online or in the paper.”
Ben examined the window. “The screen is outside on the ground.”
“But if the front door was already open, why . . . ,” I trailed off. “Do you think they were in here when we got here?” I whispered as I reached for my phone. “They could still be outside.”
Ben spoke softly, too. “You call 911. I’ll call Chase.” We both moved back to the living room. I pulled the purse off my shoulder, then stopped. “I don’t have my phone. It’s still in the van.” I’d been so wrapped up in what was going on, I’d forgotten I was carrying the imitation purse. I’d taken off the Fossil crossbody bag when I climbed in the van. It was still there. Ben waved a hand to stop me. “Let’s stay together. Chase didn’t pick up.” Ben left a terse message, then dialed the police.
There was a sharp knock on the door and a voice called, “Hello?”
I twirled around and saw a teenage guy in a T-shirt embroidered with the words COSTA BELLA FLOWER SHOP, holding a huge bouquet of mixed flowers. “Delivery for Angela Day,” he said, holding out the flowers to me. He glanced around. “Must have been a good party.”
The gorgeous arrangement of roses, lilies, lilacs, and gardenias wobbled in midair as he held it one-handed. I took them, but said, “I’m not Angela.”
He consulted a piece of paper. “But you are in twenty-nine B. Enjoy.” He gave a little salute before he left.
A trim man in a pale gray suit shoved past the delivery guy. “What the hell is going on here?” he barked as he surveyed the room.
“Chase,” Ben said, quickly crossing the room. “I tried to call you.”
Chase pulled off his Ray Ban sunglasses. “Oh. Ben, is it?”
While his sister had golden blond hair, Chase’s hair was paler, almost white, and was cut close to his head. A mustache and goatee framed his lower face and I wondered if he’d grown it to distract from his rather pointed nose. If he had, it didn’t work because the added facial hair only emphasized his nose, and with his small dark eyes, he reminded me of a mouse. He gave the flowers a curious glance.
“That’s right.” Ben quickly introduced me as his sister and explained we’d found the door unlocked and the apartment ransacked. As Ben explained, Chase made a quick circuit of the apartment, twirling his sunglasses by the earpiece.
“Ben called the police,” I said.
He twirled the glasses faster.
“Good. Good. That’s good.” His dark gaze darted around the room, and I got the feeling that he was anything but pleased about the call.
“Here’s Angela’s phone,” Ben said.
Chase took the phone, then tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “Thanks for bringing it over. Angela will turn up soon. She always does.” He walked toward us, obviously intending to usher us out the door, and I got a close look at his face. My initial thought had been that he was older than Angela, but up close I could tell he was closer to twenty than thirty. It must have been the suit that gave me the impression of his maturity.
Still holding the flowers with one hand, I pulled the purse off my shoulder. “Angela called me. She asked me to drop this off—” I broke off and turned to the front door, which was still open. A high-pitched voice was wailing, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Someone help! She’s dead.”
We all froze for a second, then moved to the door. I jerked to a stop, put the flowers on an end table, then hurried after Ben and Chase out the door. Ben sprinted across the patio to a woman who stood, her arms and legs visibly trembling, in the parking area near the pool, a beach bag discarded on the asphalt behind her. She was wearing a bikini under an open-weave cover-up. She was probably about eighteen and looked as if she were about to throw up.
“In the pool.” She paused and swallowed hard. “There’s somebody dead in the pool.” Chase and Ben both took off to the pool, leaving the poor girl shivering and alone.
I put a hand on her shoulder and steered her to the curb beside the residents’ parking spaces. “Sit down here,” I said, and she collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “Would you like some water or something?” I asked. She shook her head and buried her face in her shaking hands. I picked up the beach towel that had spilled out of her bag, but left everything else exactly as it was. I shook the towel out and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was at least ninety-five degrees and humid, but she was shivering with shock.
“The police will be here soon,” I said, thinking of the call Ben had made and wondering if we should make another call. Somehow I thought a call about a breakin might not get as quick a response as a call about a dead body, but I couldn’t make the call unless I knew for sure what I was reporting, and then I’d have to get my phone out of the van.
I squared my shoulders and hurried across the parking lot to the pool. As soon as I stepped through the wrought iron gate that yawned open, I saw Ben standing fully clothed and completely soaked. At his feet, two bodies huddled at the rim of the pool. Ben was panting. Water trailed down from his hair into his face and dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t wipe it away. I stepped around a lounge chair and saw that Chase had the limp form of a woman gathered to his chest, her blond hair sagging over his arm as he swayed back and forth. She was fully clothed but wet, as well. Little rivulets of water were snaking across the bumpy pool deck. My gaze locked with Ben’s, and he shook his head. I closed my eyes and dropped down onto the end of a lounge chair. Ben gave Chase’s hunched back a long look, then came over and sat down on the lounge chair next to me.
“I had to pull her out. In case . . . just in case,” he said, his tone dazed and, although he was staring at the far side of the pool, I knew he wasn’t seeing Chase. He shook his head. “She was so light . . . so easy to move through the water.”
I pressed my hand to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ben.”
He looked up at me like he was surprised to find me there.
I said, “I’m going to get some blankets and my phone.” He nodded and wiped his hand down over his face. I met the apartment manager, a woman with inflated gilt-colored hair, on my way to the van. She was horrified when I told her what had happened and looked like she wanted to sprint back to her office near the front of the complex. “Call 911 and tell them what’s happened, then keep an eye on that woman over there,” I said, pointing to the woman huddled on the curb. I hurried to the van and grabbed my phone along with a thick Mexican blanket we kept in the back for days at the playground or picnics.
I slipped back inside the pool gate and went directly to Ben, who was sitting with his head in his hands. I wrapped the blanket around him and rubbed his shoulder. What could you say in a situation like this? There weren’t any words that seemed adequate, so I stayed silent. Chase was weeping on the other side of the pool, and I felt awkward, witnessing his grief. I heard sirens and breathed an internal sigh of relief. I perched on the end of the lounge chair and tried to look anywhere but at Chase. That’s when I saw the purse. It was on a little end table positioned between a pair of lounge chairs a few feet away. I knew, even at a distance, that it was a gray Chloe shoulder bag with a long, thin strap. It was just the sort of bag I’d expect Angela to carry. The mouth gapped open, revealing the hot pink lining. It looked rather like a beached trout. The contents were scattered over the table. I stood and walked over.
A pair of sunglasses, a long, thin cream-colored wallet, several bits of paper, hair clips, breath mints, a movie ticket stub, and a small prescription bottle had tumbled out. I didn’t touch anything. I’d barely sat down at the foot of the chaise lounge when a police officer arrived, took one look around, and spoke into his radio.
The police officer escorted Chase out of the pool area, took my name and Ben’s name, and then told us not to move. It was only about ten minutes later that a fortyish sandy-haired man wearing a cream-colored guayabera shirt with black pants strode into the pool area. “Hey, Austin, how’s fatherhood? Getting any sleep at all?” he said to the young police officer with shoulders so broad that I wondered how they found a uniform to fit him. With his build, he looked like he should be stepping into a cage match.
“Not much,” the officer said. “I’ve got a cigar with your name on it.”
“Terrific.” The guy in the casual clothes had a badge clipped to the hem of his shirt and from the way the police officer quickly got down to business, outlining the situation as they walked around the pool to the body, I figured he was a detective.
Voices carry over water, something both guys must not have thought of as they stood over Angela’s body. I could clearly hear their conversation despite their lowered voices. “Body was removed from the pool by a Ben Evanworth,” the police officer said, consulting his notes. “Says he came running after being alerted by the woman in the parking lot, a Carrie Sanchez. She says she doesn’t know the woman, only saw the body in the pool and screamed for help.”
The detective squatted on his haunches to look at Angela’s body. I glanced at Ben, but if he could hear the conversation, he didn’t seem to be taking it in. He’d moved only slightly. He was still hunched over, staring at the ground, his hands clasped between his knees. Now that Chase wasn’t bending over her, I could see more of Angela’s body. A tangled mass of blond hair covered most of her face. A few strands of it trailed over the edge of the pool, the ends still moving slightly with each ripple of the water. She was wearing a sky blue dress shirt, with a long gold chain that would have fallen almost to the waist of her black trousers, and two-inch open-toed gray heels. Work clothes, I thought.
“Do we know who she is?”
“According to the man who pulled her from the pool, this is Angela Day. Her brother, Chase Day, was also on the scene when she was found. He’s waiting in the apartment they shared, twenty-nine B. They had a breakin.”
“Busy place.” The detective stood up. “We have confirmation on the identity from the brother?”
“Yes. He’s distraught. There’s also a purse over there,” the police officer said, and they both glanced across the pool. I lowered my gaze to my hands.
“Who’s the woman?”
“Sister of the guy who pulled the woman out of the water. Ellie Avery. She says she got a call from the victim this morning. Told her to come here.”
“Good grief. Sounds like a family reunion. Okay, I’ll start with the brother. Got a place we can go?”
“Yes, the apartment manager says you can use her offic
e. And one more thing,” the police officer added as the detective moved to turn away. “I’ve seen her,” he said. “I work two clubs on weekends as a bouncer. She was a regular.”
“Party girl?”
He nodded and even across the pool I could see a shadow cross the officer’s face. “Shame when the lifestyle gets them this young.”
The detective tilted his head. “You think it was drugs?”
The police officer shrugged. “Seems likely. Who goes swimming fully clothed? And drowns in a three-foot splash pool?”
Thirty minutes later, Ben and I were waiting in the reception area of the apartment manager’s office. I couldn’t see the pool, but I could see the continual flow of people back and forth through the main entrance. I’d already called Summer and told her that I wouldn’t be at her apartment anytime soon.
The small reception area had a battered desk, three uncomfortable molded-plastic chairs, and a small coffee table with a dusty plant centered up between stacks of People, Us, and Celeb. The bulky police officer who had secured the scene was seated at the desk, watching Ben and me. He had escorted us into the office and informed us that we weren’t allowed to talk to one another while we waited.
I shifted on the seat and shot another glance at Ben. He was so still, his face pale, as he stared fixedly at the low-pile carpet. His clothes were damp and wrinkled, but with the high temperature, they were already partially dry. I gave him a long look, willing him to look up at me, but he was lost in his own thoughts. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it, more to give me something to do with my hands than because I wanted to catch up on celebrity news. I stared at a photo collage that claimed celebs were just like normal, nonfamous people: They shopped for yogurt! They pumped gas! They parallel parked!
The door to the manager’s office opened, and Carrie Sanchez stepped out. She still looked shaken, but she seemed more in control of herself than she had in the parking lot. She held the beach towel, now folded neatly, clasped to her chest. She raced out of the office, and the plastic plant trembled in her wake.
