Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  Ben, first, I reminded myself, and moved to the balcony to make the call, but the room phone rang before I stepped onto the balcony. I picked it up quickly. Maybe it was Ben calling. His phone was broken, after all . . . but how would he have this number? In fact, who had this number? Most people called everyone’s cell phones now.

  “Your brother is here with me. Don’t go to the police.” The male voice was rough, deep. I didn’t recognize it.

  “What? Who is this?” I demanded, all the questions in my mind colliding.

  “Your brother is with me,” the man repeated. “Don’t call the police, and he’ll be fine. Just bring me the memory card, and I’ll let him go.”

  My palm felt sweaty on the handset. Was this the guy in the Hawaiian shirt? If it was, the voice didn’t match his appearance. This man’s deep voice suggested someone older, more mature. I glanced around the room, as if the memory card might suddenly appear.

  “Okay. I can do that,” I hedged, “but . . . it might take me a little while.”

  “You’re not going to be difficult, are you?” The rough voice sounded weary, as if he didn’t have time to convince me that this was important. “I do hope you’re smarter than Angela. She didn’t want to cooperate with me, either . . . at first. Your brother seems like a good kid, and I would hate to see him get messed up. He’s a pilot, right? They need good vision. Be a shame if something happened to his eyesight . . .”

  Was he saying he was responsible for Angela’s death? And how did this guy know that Ben was a pilot? Ben had only been gone a short time. Was this someone who knew Ben personally, not a stranger? “No. No, I want to give it to you. There’s just been a”—I drew in a breath because I felt light-headed—“a complication. Someone took it—”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Sandpaper Voice said almost conversationally. “I know Ben will be disappointed when I pass that news on to him. Too bad he’ll have to find a new line of work.”

  “No, wait. I can get it back,” I said, improvising wildly. “I just need some time.”

  “Midnight. I’ll give you until midnight.”

  Chapter Eight

  I sat there with the phone pressed to my ear, dial tone droning. What was I going to do? Why had I said that? I didn’t know where the memory card was or who had it. And the caller didn’t want me to go to the police.

  I checked my watch. One forty-five. I had less than twelve hours to find a tiny square of plastic. An urge to cry swept over me. This was beyond anything I could do—way beyond my abilities. Sure, I could sort out a closet, help organize paperwork so tax prep was a snap. I even had handy tips on how to schedule your day to save time and cut your gas bill in half. But I had no idea what to do when a scratchy-voiced man called and demanded I hand over a memory card that someone had stolen.

  I broke out in a cold sweat. The air conditioner clicked on, and I shivered as the frigid air hit me. Why hadn’t I asked where Ben was?

  Why hadn’t I asked to talk to Ben?

  I’m not exactly sure what I did for the next few minutes. I think I raced around the room, searching again for the memory card, panic my primary emotion.

  My phone rang, snapping me out of the fog of anxiety as abruptly as if someone had tossed a glass of water in my face. It was my cell phone, not the hotel phone, and I was filled with a mixture of relief that I didn’t have to talk to the rough-voiced guy again and despair that I didn’t have the chance to ask to talk to Ben.

  I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello,” I said cautiously. Did Mr. Scratchy Voice have my cell phone number, too?

  “Ellie, I don’t have a lot of time. I need you to listen—”

  “Ben,” I shrieked, my voice probably carrying to the rooms across the atrium. “What is going on?” I had my hand to my chest where my heart had suddenly jumped into high gear as the words came tumbling out. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did that guy really have a gun? What were you thinking?”

  “Ellie!” Ben said sharply, and I realized he was speaking very low, almost in a whisper. “Listen to me. I’m fine.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, trying to match his even tone. He sounded so calm. I saw my reflection in the mirror over the desk. My face was pale, my clothes rumpled from crawling around on the floor as I’d looked for the memory card, and my tangled hair was shoved back behind my ears. My eyes narrowed. Ben sounded awfully calm . . . maybe too calm? “This isn’t a prank, is it? You better not be punking me because—”

  “No, this is real. The gun was real.”

  “Where are you?” I asked again, edging over to the coffee table and lowering myself down. My legs felt wobbly.

  “Some plush hotel near the beach. I can see the beach from the window, but I’m not sure exactly where I am along it. They took the phone out of the room and everything else with a logo that would identify the place. Look, I don’t have long. He thinks I’m unconscious.”

  “Unconscious!”

  “Yeah, he clocked me pretty good in the car once he pulled away from the hotel.”

  “He hit you again?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah, I let my guard down. I wasn’t expecting it in the car. Knocked me out. I didn’t really come around completely until we were in a hotel corridor. He was dragging me into a suite when he tripped, and I went down. I let him think I hit my head on the table by the door. That’s why he thinks I’m unconscious again.”

  “Where is he now? Can you get out of there?” I asked, half rising. I realized I was whispering.

  “Of course I could get out of here, but I don’t want to. These people have something to do with Angela’s death. I can tell from what they said when I was dragged into the suite. I’m going to stay here and figure out what it is.”

  “What?” I was stunned that he would even think of staying there.

  “I don’t have time to go into it right now,” Ben said.

  “I didn’t mean what did they say. I meant what are you thinking? That’s crazy. You should get out of there now. A man called me, said you were with him, and threatened to hurt you. He said Angela didn’t want to cooperate with him, so he’s got something to do with her disappearance, if not her death.”

  “He called you?”

  “Yes. He’s dangerous. He wants me to give him Angela’s photos, but I can’t. They’re gone. Someone stole them. Wait, did you say people, as in there’s more than one?”

  “There are at least three people in the next room.”

  I dropped my head into my free hand. “Ben, please, if they’re not watching you right now, get out. They have a gun.”

  “Can’t, at the moment,” he said, and I felt an urge to giggle bubble up inside me. He said he couldn’t leave, as if he were in the middle of a television program and didn’t want to miss the end. I clamped down on a feeling of panic. “Ellie,” Ben said patiently, “I’m not running. This might be the only chance to find out who killed Angela. The police don’t even think she was murdered. Don’t worry about the photos. I’m going to find out what I can here. Then I’ll leave.”

  “You’ll leave? Just like that? If they did kill Angela, they probably won’t let you leave. They’re killers. They’ll kill you, too, to keep you quiet.”

  “Do you really think they could keep me here if I wanted to leave? I’ve been through SERE. This guy is a total amateur.”

  SERE was the acronym for the military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training. Pilots and other military members went through the course. I bit my lip. I’d heard about the course in a general way, but Mitch and the guys he worked with were careful not to get into specifics about what it involved. I think they were bound by some sort of confidentiality clause or agreement, but I did know one thing about the course: it was tough. It tested and prepared them, in case the enemy captured them.

  “He didn’t sound like an amateur on the phone. He pulled a gun on you and knocked you out. That doesn’t sound amateurish to me. It sounds dangerous.”

&
nbsp; “I wasn’t expecting either attack, but I’m on my guard now. I won’t underestimate anyone from now on. It’s no worse than Camp Sunshine,” Ben said, referring to the summer camp in the mountains of New Mexico that we’d both attended for a few years when we were in our early teens. It had the usual array of swimming, horseback riding, crafts, and campfires, along with a few more interesting options, including a zip line. “Ellie? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I replied, weighing the odds. One young, fit military-trained guy against Mr. Sandpaper Voice, who apparently wore Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. Yeah, my money was on Ben, and I really didn’t have much to tell the police. I didn’t know who Mr. Sandpaper Voice was or where Ben was. I had no license number for the sports car or even a make or model. Those things could be found out, though. They probably had video surveillance in the hotel and this call could be traced, but how long would that take? How many hours would it take to sort out that I was telling the truth and that Ben really was missing? Better to find the missing memory card and ensure I had a bargaining chip, in case I needed it. Because, no matter what Ben said, they had a gun and he didn’t. “Okay,” I said, my voice shaking. “I won’t call the police, but you’re on a deadline. If you haven’t found anything by tonight, I’m calling Detective Jenson.”

  “Fine. I won’t call you back on this line. I’m not even sure whose phone this is, so don’t go all crazy and try and trace the call. There are at least three people in there. It could belong to someone who’s not involved in the situation with Angela.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “It was on the table I hit when I collapsed. I palmed it on the way down.”

  “They’re going to realize it’s missing at some point,” I said, my voice rising.

  “Calm down. I’ll delete the call in the outgoing call log and then put it under the door. There’s at least a half an inch between the door and the carpet. I’ll give it a good shove and send it back to where it would have landed if it fell off the table.”

  “Sounds risky,” I said.

  “Got to go. I’ll figure out a way to stay in touch. I doubt it will be by phone.”

  “This is crazy,” I said, suddenly gripped with second thoughts. “If anything happens to you, Mom is going to kill me.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Ben said, and I heard a hint of . . . what? Excitement in his tone? He was actually enjoying this.

  “Sit tight. Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Stupid!” I said, but he’d already hung up. “Don’t do anything stupid? You’re the one who got kidnapped,” I shouted at the phone. Sit tight! The gall of him to tell me to stay put when he was the one in danger—whether he admitted it or not.

  I paced around the room huffily, doing a good imitation of the big bad wolf. I couldn’t sit around and wait. Ben might think he had everything under control, but they had at least one gun, and, while I knew Ben was competent and well trained by the military, I wasn’t going to leave everything to him. I had to do something. I grabbed the tattered fake Leah Marshall purse and headed out the door.

  Digital Organizing Tips

  Backing Up Files

  Few things are more frustrating than a computer crash. Take the time to set up a back-up system and you won’t be devastated when you get that awful “blue screen of death.” Backing up now will also eliminate worry and expense later.

  Back up manually—Use an external hard drive to back up your files. As long as you do it, this system works, but few of us are as consistent as we’d like to be. Computer backups can get pushed down the to-do list or forgotten altogether.

  Back up online—Pay a small fee per month or annually and have all your files backed up when you are online. The advantage to this system is that you don’t have to remember to do the backup and if there is a catastrophic situation like a hurricane, tornado, or fire, you don’t have to worry, because your backup is off-site.

  Chapter Nine

  My computer was gone, but I still had my phone. Sitting in the van in the hotel parking lot, I made a quick call to Summer, asking if she could possibly keep the kids for another day. “Something’s come up . . . ,” I said, and she jumped into the pause.

  “Oh, good. I was going to ask if they could stay an extra day, anyway. Livvy and Nathan are playing with my neighbor’s kids and they’re having a great time.”

  I didn’t want to impose, but I certainly didn’t want to drag the kids into this situation. They were safe where they were, and I wanted them to stay that way. I thanked her profusely and disconnected the call, feeling relieved that the kids were fine, and Summer sounded as if she really was having fun with them.

  Next, I listened to Mitch’s voice mail. The part for the repair had arrived, and they were “going to step,” as soon as they could, which meant they were leaving base ops for the plane. I dialed his number, got his voice mail, and left a message for him to call me when he could.

  With my obligations taken care of, I used my phone to search for information on Chase Day. Even though Chase hadn’t been the person waiting for the purse in the hotel lobby, I still wondered if he had some connection to the incident. He was Angela’s closest relative, and he shared an apartment with her. She might have mentioned the photos, or he might have overheard a phone conversation about them. His proximity to her made it more likely he’d know about the photos. He and Angela probably shared an Internet connection, so it was possible he could access her e-mail account through their Internet provider. He could have sent the e-mails suggesting we meet to exchange purses, then sent the young Magnum look-alike kid to pick up the purse from me so I wouldn’t connect Chase with the request. It made sense to start with Chase.

  Social networks can be slightly frightening. Well, actually, that’s not true. It’s not the networks themselves that are scary, but the amount of information people put on the Internet about themselves and their friends. I found Chase listed on Angela’s Facebook account. I clicked on his profile and, within a few seconds, I knew he currently worked at The Hideaway, a seafood restaurant. His previous employer was Sandy Beach Sports Medicine Clinic, where he’d been the office manager. He liked movies based on comic book characters, his favorite ice cream came from Cold Stone Creamery, and he’d visited a club the previous night in Tampa, which had been “rocking.”

  He’d “checked-in,” using a mapping feature, which showed his current location was at The Hideaway. There were already a few messages of sympathy about Angela on his news feed, the list of current interactions with all the people in his network.

  Even though Honey had said Chase was only going to work to get someone to cover for him, his update on where he was located was sent fifteen minutes ago. I plugged the address of the restaurant into my GPS and turned the minivan in that direction. I stopped at a drug store and bought a tiny sewing kit. Crafts aren’t really my thing, but I know the basics of sewing, and I did a passable job of stitching up the lining of the purse.

  Five minutes later, I was standing in the cool, dark entry to the restaurant. I’d seen a black BMW with a specialized vanity plate with the name Chase, so I figured he was still there. The restaurant’s interior was a strange mix of Gilligan’s Island and Captain Jack Sparrow. Thatched awnings hung over the booths, which ringed the two large rooms. Nautical prints decorated the walls. Nets hung from the bamboo ceiling, draping around antique lanterns. Sailing kitsch ranged along the walls: maps, circular life preservers, compasses, telescopes, and even a ship’s wheel. A life-size pirate, complete with dreadlocks, loomed beside me in the entry as I scanned the restaurant looking for Chase.

  A prickle of discomfort ran down my spine. I was doing exactly the same thing I hadn’t wanted Ben to do—seeking out info on the pictures. I straightened my shoulders and pushed those thoughts away. I had to do this. I didn’t have any choice, not with Ben in the situation he was in now. Besides, I was in a busy restaurant. What could happen? I certainly
wouldn’t chase suspicious people into the parking lot.

  The entry opened into a waiting area with long, padded benches. It was crowded with several families with small children, college-age kids, and a few people waiting by themselves. A smiling coed with long mahogany hair and a clipboard took my name and gave me a square pager that would light up when my table was ready.

  I didn’t really want to eat lunch—I didn’t think I had the time. Every minute was another minute that Ben spent with Mr. Sandpaper Voice, but the pager gave me an excuse to watch for Chase and get my thoughts together.

  I moved to a corner of the waiting area and took up a position by an Ichabod Crane–like man with scraggly brown hair trailing out of his Phineas and Ferb baseball cap. I scanned the restaurant but didn’t see Chase.

  A hefty woman with curly black hair pulled back into a long braid fidgeted in front of me, shifting her pager from hand to hand. She wore booty shorts with a tight yellow tank top and kept cutting into my line of sight as I watched for Chase.

  After about ten minutes of waiting, I still hadn’t spotted him, so I stepped up to the podium. “I need to talk to your manager,” I said to the hostess.

  “I’m really sorry about the wait, but it’s lunch. We’ll get you a table as soon—”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “It’s about his sister.”

  “Oh. My. Gosh,” she said, emphasizing each syllable and leaning closer. “Isn’t that terrible? And he’s such a nice guy. He’s not a total jerk like the last manager. I mean, he even came in today—after everything that’s happened. He’s great,” she said with a little stolen glance over her shoulder. “Did you know her? His sister?” she asked.