by Sara Rosett
“Yeah, but she says she can’t remember anything. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I hope she keeps saying it.”
“Why? What happened that night at Club Fifty-two?”
Cara pushed her bangs off her face, and I noticed her dark fingernail polish was now chipped. “That’s what’s so scary—I don’t know what happened.”
“What do you mean? You were there, too.”
“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t with them, like, the whole time. There was a really cute guy from Jacksonville. We danced a lot. Angela and Ruby hung out. That’s how it always was,” she said without a trace of bitterness. “They’re close. They’ve known each other for years. Angela invited me to go with them sometimes, you know, if she was heading out after work.”
“What exactly did you do that night? Maybe if you went over what happened . . .”
She looked down at her fingers as she picked at the dark polish. “Club Fifty-two is one of our favorites. It was a normal night—we had some drinks, danced, Angela took pictures. She always did that. She liked to post them on Facebook. Ruby usually took pictures, too, but her phone was dead, so she didn’t take any that night. Anyway,” she sighed heavily, “there was this pulse of excitement that went through the club, and everyone was whisper-yelling that Suzie Quinn was there. We saw her. Angela snapped a few pictures of them in the loft. Later, while I was dancing with the cute guy, Angela and Ruby went to the bathroom. They came back and said they were ready to leave. I wanted to stay, so they left without me.”
“So what happened after that? You saw Angela at work later, right?”
“Nothing,” she said, frustration vibrating through her voice. “She threw out that comment about getting some big money, but, except for bragging about what she’d buy, she didn’t say anything else.”
“What about Ruby? What did she say about the night the club?”
“Nothing during the last few days.” Cara looked off into the distant corner of the garage. “And now she’s not exactly up to talking, you know?”
“I can imagine. So there was nothing else Angela said or did that struck you as odd or out of place?”
“No, except for having a kind of excitement, like, simmering under the surface. I told that police detective who came to the store the same thing. He thought Angela overdosed,” she said, the corners of her mouth quirking down in a skeptical twist. “Like Angela ever touched drugs. She was, like, the poster child for ‘Say No To Drugs.’ Anyway, I told him no way would she do drugs and no way would she commit suicide.”
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. Ben had told Detective Jenson the same thing, and it sounded like Chase would have said the same thing about Angela’s firm avoidance of drugs. How long would it be before Jenson widened his investigation beyond accidental death or suicide to possible murder? Maybe he already had.
“Did you tell him about her big find?”
“Yeah, of course,” she said.
Her eyebrows shot up as she remembered something. “Oh! I didn’t tell him about Angela and Ruby’s argument.” She deflated again. “It was only something about a bidding war, so it was probably nothing important—something to do with her online auctions, I think.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t remember exactly, just that Angela was trying to convince Ruby that a bidding war was a good thing, and Ruby disagreed, I could tell by what Angela said. She was in the back room at work, but I could still hear her since she was, like, shouting into the phone. Do you think it’s important?”
“It might be. Did she say anything else?”
She scraped away another flake of dark polish as she said, “Not in exact words, but after she hung up she did mutter something about ‘going to the source’ like it was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.”
The door to the parking garage swung open with a bang, throwing a swath of blinding light over us. Cara sucked in a breath and grabbed my arm. A man stepped through the door, the long strands of his gray comb-over flittering around his face in the breeze. Cara relaxed and let go of my arm. The man nodded to us as he moved by, giving us a look. I’m sure we did look a bit strange, having a huddled conversation in a dark corner of a parking garage—very Deep Throat.
As his echoing footsteps faded, Cara said, “I’m so freaked right now. I swear, I jump at everything.”
“I can see how you’d be nervous.”
“I’m off work at both jobs until next week. I’m leaving town—going to see my dad in Charlotte. It’s the first time in my life I’ve actually looked forward to a ten-hour road trip.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said, wishing I could hit the road, too, and escape my troubles. Unfortunately, getting out of town wouldn’t help me. There was something I wanted to ask her, a vague thought that formed then slipped away while we were talking, and now I couldn’t remember it. I gave up trying to nail down the thought and, instead, got her phone number.
My phone buzzed with a call. It was Mitch. I told Cara I had to take the call, and she left quickly for her car, but by the time I’d said good-bye to her, my call had gone to voice mail. I listened to the message as I walked back to my hotel.
Mitch had landed in Georgia. One of the nice things about military flights is that they’re direct. No hubs, no changing planes, and Mitch flew the big jets, so they made great time. His phone was about to die because he’d forgotten his charger, but he’d go home, repack, and hit the road for Florida. He planned to drive straight through and arrive around nine or ten tonight. I had mixed feelings about the message. Mitch’s steady personality and levelheadedness were always assets, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to explaining the convoluted situation.
Outside my hotel, a man with a tool belt perched on a ladder, working on a camera mounted discreetly under the eaves of the veranda. “Cameras,” I breathed and picked up my pace. I’d thought about them before, but in all the craziness, they’d slipped my mind.
The lobby had the same hushed stillness and murmur of flowing water, but I barely noticed. There was only one couple at the front desk and as soon as they were finished, I asked the clerk if they had video monitoring of the parking lot or hallways.
It was the same woman with the rich southern drawl and she didn’t seem to think it was too strange of a request. “Oh sure, honey. We’re high tech. You’re safe with us here, although,” she rotated her torso and leaned one elbow on the counter like she was letting me in on a secret, “we’ve never had any problems.”
“So do you keep the recordings?” I asked, my heartbeat speeding up. If the sports car were on tape I would have a license number and a video of the attack on Ben.
“Recordings?” she said, her voice incredulous. “We don’t have any. We just run the cameras to monitor the halls and the parking lots. We don’t actually record anything.”
“Oh,” I said, dejection hitting me. “So no one saw anything . . . out of the ordinary lately? Earlier today?”
“No. Well, except for that kid throwing up in the koi pond,” she said with a shiver. “Don’t see that every day. And that guy in the exercise room who nearly passed out on the treadmill. Pretty normal day around here.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said, turning away from the desk.
I looked at my watch. Nearly two hours had gone by, and I had nothing productive to show for my running around. I had to find that memory card. My gaze fell on the poster about the upcoming Fourth of July community celebration. “Take it to the source,” I murmured.
Chapter Ten
Since Suzie Quinn began dating Nick Ryan, she had become a staple of the tabloid press. I hurried across the lobby and took a seat in the business center in front of a computer. A few minutes later, I was logged onto the celebrity news website, In The Know, which was usually shortened to just ITK. “Secret Beach Wedding Plans,” read one headline with an accompanying picture of Suzie and Nick walking on the beach. “Has Hollywood’s bad boy finally found true love with America’
s swimming sweetheart?” asked the first line of the story. “A friend close to the couple confirms they are both head over heels in love and a wedding isn’t far off.” Farther down the page, another story shouted, “Ring Shopping?” with a picture of Nick striding by a jewelry store.
I bit my lip. What would the tabloids—Internet and print—do if they had pictures of “America’s swimming sweetheart” doing drugs? The famous person who had it all, but crashes and burns, was a mainstay of the celebrity media. Coverage of Britney and Paris were proof of that. Add the fact that Suzie was seeing a genuine movie star . . . well, that made it a bigger story. I skimmed through the rest of the website, but couldn’t find anything specific, except that Suzie had stayed in the luxurious Park Palms Hotel on a previous visit to her hometown.
I shifted to the local paper, which had a short two-paragraph story in the entertainment section, confirming that Suzie had arrived in Sandy Beach and would headline the community fireworks event. The last sentence was exactly what I was looking for: “Today, the gold medal Olympian will talk with children at the Sea Grass YMCA where she learned to swim.”
After a quick Google search for an address, I was out the door.
The Sea Grass Y was tucked into an older neighborhood with a worn and tired air, a few blocks inland from the gulf. Narrow driveways led to single car garages attached to modest one-story frame homes painted beige, powder blue, and a chalky yellow color. Mature stands of pines and palms ringed the houses, and mailboxes decorated with reflective circles teetered on unsteady supports near the roads. The sleek hotels and plush beach resorts seemed miles away.
I slowed down and coasted by the cinder block and stucco building that housed the YMCA. The parking lot was full, and cars had parked on both sides of the street. People lined the chain-link fence that enclosed the building. A police officer stationed in the street motioned for me to move on, so I accelerated by the satellite trucks with news logos. I parked several blocks away and walked back. I passed a news reporter standing in front of the crowd, reporting on how Suzie’s popular water safety campaign delighted both parents and kids. “Here’s a hero who kids—especially girls—can look up to,” the reporter gushed. I stopped at the fence beside a mom with a toddler on her hip and her iPhone in her hand.
“Is she in there now?” I asked, thinking about what Cara had said about Ruby and Angela’s argument. Had Ruby wanted to offer the pictures to Suzie, hoping that Suzie would be so anxious to keep them out of the tabloids that she would have paid more than the tabloids would? Apparently, Angela hadn’t liked the idea. Had Ruby contacted Suzie on her own? Was that why Ruby was pushed off the balcony? But it was a man who pushed Ruby. I thought back to the man on the balcony. He wasn’t the Hawaiian-shirted Magnum kid, I was sure of that. The silhouette of the man hadn’t shown unruly hair and his build was different, bulkier.
The woman nodded. “I saw her go in about thirty minutes ago.” She showed me a picture on her phone of a black Suburban. “That’s her. You can just see her head.”
“Er—right,” I said because the woman seemed to expect a response. All I could see was the back of a woman who was mostly hidden by the SUV.
“I got here an hour early, but it was already full inside,” the woman said, her voice swelling with satisfaction. “Of course, I can totally understand it. We’re all so pleased, her being from Sandy Beach and all. She’s done us proud.”
“You’re very interested in Suzie?” I asked.
“Oh my, yes. She’s just the sweetest thing. I do hope that Nick Ryan doesn’t break her heart. He’s never been what you’d call a steady one.” Her toddler popped her thumb out of her mouth and leaned to the fence.
The mom shifted the little girl to her other hip as I asked, “Did you know Suzie when she lived here?” She talked about Suzie as if she was an old family friend.
“No.” She breathed a sigh of regret. Then she brightened. “I do live six blocks from the house where she grew up, though. I’ve been following her ever since I saw her interviewed at the Olympics. She’s a down-to-earth Florida girl, even with all her fame and money.”
The woman turned to talk to someone else, and I checked my phone. No new voice mail, but I did have several e-mail messages. Thank goodness I’d had my e-mail sent to my phone. Even with my laptop gone, I could still read my mail. Most of the e-mails were either junk or things that could wait until I wasn’t in the middle of an emergency, but one caught my eye. It was an e-mail notification that I’d received a Facebook friend request.
My thumb hovered over the name, Evan Benworth, a mash-up of Ben’s name, Ben Evanworth. I pulled up the message then brought up Facebook. “Evan Benworth” didn’t have a profile picture, just an anonymous outline, and he had zero friends. I quickly hit CONFIRM and the page loaded; it was empty except for one status update. Everything fine here at Camp Sunshine, except food not so good—avoiding it. Deserted here. Knot tying course was a breeze. Having a look around the grounds.
I shook my head, amazed at my brother. The sick feeling in my gut eased a bit. He was okay. I checked the time of the status update. At least, as of nine minutes ago, he was okay. How in the world did he do this? I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to set up a fake Facebook account, but where did he get the computer to do it? He’d managed it somehow.
It wasn’t hard to translate his message. He was okay. “Camp Sunshine” was the hotel. He apparently wasn’t eating what they gave him, which seemed like a smart move. He’d used the word “deserted.” Did that mean they had left him there alone, and he was looking around the hotel suite? Did the reference to knot tying mean that he’d been tied up, but was able to free himself? I chewed on my lip. I wished he’d get out of there.
I brought up the box to comment on the status update and typed, Are you feeling homesick? I felt I should stay with the spirit of the original message. Surely Ben was being careful and could cover his tracks. He could delete the browsing history or he might even delete the fake Facebook account he’d created, but I wanted to be careful. I continued the comment, Miss you here. Ready for you to come home.
A few seconds later, a comment from Evan Benworth appeared below mine. I’d love to, but must win the scavenger hunt and won’t leave until I do.
“Oh, Ben,” I murmured. He was just like me—stubborn to the point of unreasonableness.
His message continued, This cabin is a contender for the Dirty Sock Award.
A little laugh escaped, surprising me. At Camp Sunshine, the Dirty Sock Award was an actual dirty sock given to the messiest cabin. The cabin leader had to wear it pinned to his shirt for the whole day. It was a sort of stinky scarlet letter motivation for campers to keep their cabins neat. Don’t worry about me, Ben added in a new comment. Plans already made for midnight escape, if needed. I waited, but no more messages came in.
I felt a prick of worry again. He thought he had everything under control, and I hoped he did, but I wasn’t about to go back to my hotel and wait for him to show up. At least I knew he was okay and I was doing something to help him out.
There was a flurry of movement in the parking lot. “Here she comes!” The woman beside me hitched her toddler higher on her hip and raised her phone.
Several people exited the building, all circling around a central figure. I couldn’t really see her until the cluster reached the line along the fence. A brunette in a lime green halter top, tight jeans, heels, and dark sunglasses that obscured the upper half of her face separated from the group and came toward a section of the fence a few feet from me. Camera shutters whirred, and people shouted her name. She might not be swimming competitively now, but she still had a swimmer’s physique with strong shoulders and arms. Her taunt muscles flexed as she reached out a tanned arm to shake hands and sign autographs. She swirled her name on several pieces of paper, then stepped back and waved, pivoting so that everyone gathered could get a shot of her, then she moved to the black Suburban. I wouldn’t be able to talk to her here.
; I abandoned the fence, sprinting back to the van. The roads were going to be packed once all those people made it back to their cars. I had the van in gear almost before I was buckled in. I gave it some gas, and it climbed off the grassy verge lined with mailboxes and onto the road. I didn’t turn around. Instead, I drove straight ahead, away from the throng of people moving slowly across the road. A few blocks and I was out of the neighborhood. When I stopped at a light on a busy intersection, I quickly tapped the screen of the GPS, entering the name of the hotel where Suzie had stayed before and followed the directions back to the Park Palms Hotel, hoping I’d guessed right on her destination. I watched the minutes tick off on the dashboard clock as I waited in the slow traffic on the beach road.
Finally, I pulled into the hotel grounds and navigated the curving drive. I came to the portico where a crowd was converging on a black Suburban. I slowed to take in the scene. The back door opened and cameras flashed. The pack surged toward Suzie, her lime green top and dark glasses making her easy to spot as she climbed out. She pushed through the crowd, head down, arms tucked to her sides, following a burly guy in a suit as he cut through the throng. Once she stepped inside the hotel, the group disbursed.
I eased off the brake, bypassed the valet, and took the ramp to the hotel parking garage, since the swanky drive to the hotel didn’t have a turnaround and led straight to the parking garage. I headed there, thinking gloomily that there was no way in the world I would be able to talk to Suzie unless I knew someone in her entourage who could get me in to see her. I circled through the lowest level of the parking garage, intending to pay the minimum charge and go back to my hotel, but the gate attendant came out of his little booth with his hand up and stopped me a few feet back from the bar. He plopped an orange cone in front of my bumper. “Just be a moment, ma’am,” he shouted as I rolled down my window.
He said something into his cell phone as he returned to the booth. A few seconds later, a black Suburban nosed up to the bar from the wrong direction. The guard raised the bar and the Suburban whipped by the booth, cut around me, and stopped a few feet away at a corner of the garage. The back door opened, and a figure in lime green hopped out. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, and I could see this was Suzie Quinn. The other woman and Suburban must have been a decoy. She and several other people disappeared through a door marked SERVICE.
