Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Excellent. Well, that is good news. Bring it to Green Groves. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes,” I said. The grand plantation was one of the places I’d intended to take the kids. I reached for the pen and notepad on the desk and scribbled the words down.

  He continued, “Park in the lot at the gate and walk around the left-hand side of the house to the back gardens. Go down the terrace steps and continue to the fountain with the dolphins. I will meet you there at midnight.”

  “But won’t it be closed then?”

  “Midnight,” he repeated wearily, as if he barely had the patience to deal with my stupid questions.

  I tried another tack. “I want to speak to Ben. Put him on the phone.”

  “I’m afraid he can’t speak to you right now. Nothing to worry about,” he said quickly, cutting off my protest. “He’s resting, that’s all.”

  I sputtered, trying to regroup my thoughts. Did he mean that Ben was drugged? Ben had said he was avoiding the food in one of his messages. Did that mean he knew they were trying to drug him and he’d outsmarted them? Was he faking unconsciousness again to fool them?

  The rough voice continued before I formed another question, his tone turning contemplative as he said, “Tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day. There’s nothing like watching the sunrise. I hope your brother will be able to see it. ’Course, that depends on you.” He hung up.

  It took me a few minutes to recover from that one-sided conversation. Monica asked if I needed to sit down or if she could get me a glass of water.

  “No. No time. Let’s go,” I said, cutting off her questions. I led the way out the door, but when I stepped into the hallway, I saw a man knocking on Ben’s door and jerked to a stop. Monica plowed into me, sending me forward half a step.

  My room was on the long side of the rectangle that formed the atrium. Ben’s door was around the corner on the short side of the rectangle, so Jenson had his back to us, but I recognized his thin, sandy hair and cream-colored guayabera shirt. Jenson knocked again. He braced his hands on his hips and put his head down, listening for movement inside the room.

  “What the—,” Monica said before I could shove her back into the room.

  “It’s the police,” I hissed, trying to press the door closed, but it had one of those pneumatic hinges, and I saw Jenson turning my way before it closed completely.

  “The police?”

  “Yes. Probably something to do with Angela’s death.” I had Monica by the shoulder and pushed her backward as I spoke. “Stay in the bathroom. If he sees you, it’ll slow us down.”

  She’d been about to argue, but that shut her up. She nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. The shower curtain rings clattered as the sharp rhythm of a knock sounded.

  I blew out a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second to calm my fluttery heartbeat before opening the door.

  Jenson stood relaxed, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Ah, Mrs. Avery, I thought I saw you. Going out?”

  “Dinner.” I couldn’t really deny I was leaving since I had my purse in my hand.

  Without being invited, he strolled in, angling his head to look into the back of the room. “Ben around?”

  “Ah, no. Afraid not,” I said, hoping that Mr. Sandpaper Voice wasn’t keeping an eye on me. At least Jenson was in plain clothes, not a police uniform.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, being completely honest.

  Jenson raised his sandy eyebrows, and I shrugged. “We aren’t spending every minute of our vacation together.”

  “I only ask because no one in the hotel has seen him since this afternoon. He hasn’t returned my phone calls. It’s almost like he’s avoiding me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what’s going on. In fact, I know it isn’t.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Jenson moseyed closer to the bathroom for a glimpse in there. I made a little movement toward him, which drew his gaze back to me.

  “Not a lot, actually. I haven’t talked to him since this afternoon. We’ve—ah, kind of gone our separate ways today. Would you like to sit down?” I asked, moving over to the couch.

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said and, with his hands still in his pockets, ambled a few steps closer to the bathroom. “Oh, I’ll take that purse now, Mrs. Avery.”

  “I don’t have it. I gave it back to Chase this afternoon.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said.

  I considered telling him everything. It would be such a relief to turn everything over to him, but I hesitated. The scratchy voice seemed to ring in my head, repeating no police. If I told Jenson, would they be able to find Ben before the deadline? Would Mr. Sandpaper Voice know I’d spoken to the police? Would it endanger Ben more?

  I felt my chest rising and falling with my quickened heart rate, and I realized I had one hand clenched around my purse strap. I released my death grip and tried to slow my breathing. “Why do you want to talk to him? Has something come up? Something to do with Angela?” And why was I asking so many questions?

  He didn’t move from the little hallway by the bathroom door. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he said, “Yes, quite a lot has changed. We’ve got a new tech. Gung-ho kid. This is something like his second case, and he spotted an unusual thing, a light dusting of particles on Miss Day’s belongings, the ones that were found by the pool. Well, this kid isn’t like some jaded, worn-out tech who’s been around for years. This guy is enthusiastic. Keen to prove himself. So instead of writing the particles off, this kid analyzed them right away and brought the report directly to me. Do you know what they were, Mrs. Avery?”

  “No,” I said, sure that I wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Scopolamine. Ever heard of it?” I shook my head, and he continued. “It’s called Devil’s Breath, a powder that turns people into zombies, basically. We haven’t seen it much here in the States, but it’s very popular in Colombia, especially with thieves, rapists, and prostitutes. The criminal element,” he summarized. “Not surprising, really, because it blocks the formation of memory. A few puffs of the powder in someone’s face and they’re docile. They do whatever you want. Empty bank accounts, open homes and let robbers inside, pretty much anything they’re asked, they’ll do. Too much is fatal.”

  I leaned against the arm of the couch. “You’re saying that this drug was used on Angela?” My thoughts were racing, thinking of Ben and the possibility that he could be in danger of having the same drug used on him. How could he possibly defend himself from a powder? I felt myself breaking out in a cold sweat.

  “It certainly appears that way.”

  “But when I talked to her, she wasn’t docile at all. She was scared and”—I searched for the right words—“animated, passionate even. She really wanted me to bring the purse to her.”

  “The powder works within minutes.”

  “So you’re saying someone had Angela call me, then gave her this drug?”

  “That’s a possibility. There is an autopsy underway at the moment—it’s such an unusual case, we were bumped to the front of the line. We’ll know as soon as the tox screen results come back. In the meantime, I need to speak to your brother. As you can imagine, this has changed the direction of our investigation.”

  “So now you don’t think Angela took this drug on purpose? That seemed to be your theory earlier—that she overdosed.”

  “We’ve discovered that Miss Day had a strong moral resolve when it came to drugs. All her friends and family agree that she wouldn’t willingly take drugs. That fact, combined with the scopolamine powder, argues for other causes of death.”

  Like murder, I thought, but kept that to myself.

  “So you can see why I need to talk to Ben.”

  “But he didn’t do that to her. He was with me all morning.”

  “All morning? Didn’t you state that you left to pick up your children, and he went to the apartment to return Angela’s phone?”

&n
bsp; A wave of panic rippled through me. He really thought Ben was involved? That was crazy. “Yes, we were apart, but that was only a few minutes, and Ben would never do anything like that. Never,” I said adamantly. “Look, I know that it might seem like Ben is involved in this, but he’s not. He may have been by himself, but he had no reason to hurt Angela.”

  “I’ve always regarded motive as the weakest aspect of a case. Motives are so . . . unpredictable. Much easier to nail down means and opportunity.”

  “Even if he had the opportunity, that doesn’t mean he did it,” I said.

  “Of course not.” Jenson studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I understand you, Mrs. Avery. You’re in your brother’s corner. I got that, but things will go a lot better for him if he talks to me. Not returning my calls and lying low doesn’t make him look good. I do need to speak to him, if only to mark him off my list, so to speak.”

  “Yes, I understand. The minute I hear from him, I’ll tell him you want to talk to him.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod, then he darted for the bathroom, calling, “I’ll just grab a drink of water, if you don’t mind.”

  I hopped up from the couch. The game was up. I’d have even more explaining to do once he discovered Monica. Now there would be no keeping the Ben angle quiet from Monica, either, I thought. The shower curtains clanked. I tensed. There was a pause, then Jenson stepped out of the bathroom, a small crease between his eyebrows. He walked to the closet, edged the sliding door open with a finger, then with a shake of his head said, “Have your brother call me as soon as possible, Mrs. Avery.” He let himself out.

  I hurried over to the bathroom. The shower curtain was pushed back. The rest of the tiny room was empty. I scurried to the closet and pushed back the door. It slammed into the wall with a thump. Empty.

  Monica hadn’t had time to make it to the balcony and she wasn’t under the bed, either.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I spun back to the bathroom and opened the door on the vanity. Monica was folded like an accordion, her knees under her head, which was shoved up next to the underside of the sink bowl.

  “I get the feeling there’s more to your story than you’re letting on,” she said, working one leg out of the tight space.

  I helped her extract herself from the cabinet. She basically fell out in a cascade of towels, her laptop gripped to her chest. “Why did you hide in there?”

  She stretched her legs and rotated her neck before reaching out a hand. As I pulled her up, she said, “He’s the police. Like you said, if he saw me, there’d be more questions, more delay. He’d want to know who I was and how I’m connected to you. No time for that,” she said, checking her watch. “We’ve got to get to the restaurant before eight. Come on. You can explain what all that was about on the way.”

  I was cramming the towels back into the cabinet when she reappeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? We’ve got to go.”

  I closed the door and stood up. “Sorry. Sometimes I can’t fight my instinct to keep things neat—a by-product of my nature. I’m a professional organizer, and clutter and mess bother me. But that’s the least of my worries right now.”

  “Then this situation must be driving you crazy,” she said as we crossed the hotel room.

  “Pretty much.” I took the lead and opened the door a crack to peer out. “Don’t see him.”

  “Okay, let’s take the stairs. Those glass elevators are too out in the open for me.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  We reached the parking lot without seeing Jenson. “My car,” Monica said, waving for me to follow her. After racing down ten flights of stairs, I didn’t argue.

  “Now, about your brother,” Monica said in a leading tone as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but this is not for print. It can’t be in your magazine.”

  She agreed, and I took a deep breath, then said, “He’s missing.” I rubbed my temples. The situation was stretching beyond what Ben or I could handle. I’d avoided telling Jenson about it. That would have been the moment to dump it all in his lap and walk away. If only I thought he’d be able to move on it quickly and actually get to Ben before midnight. However, my up-close-and-personal experience with government bureaucracy via the military hadn’t given me much faith in either their efficiency or speed. I doubted the bureaucracy of a city police department would move any faster. I checked my watch and groaned. So little time.

  “What?” She shot me a quick glance.

  “I don’t know where my brother is. It all has to do with Angela’s pictures.” I didn’t see how I could do anything but tell her everything. I had to keep her on my side. She knew enough about me that she could cause me some real problems if she went to the police. I realized she probably wouldn’t do that—she was a reporter, but I didn’t doubt she would do whatever she could to get her story. And, she had the contact who was researching Angela’s e-mails. I needed that information.

  “My brother, Ben, was with me when Angela’s body was found. They had dated, and he had broken up with her. At first, the detective thought Angela had overdosed, possibly because she was depressed over the breakup, but everyone I’ve talked to agrees that’s not something Angela would do. So Ben and I thought murder was a possibility even before we found the photos. When we saw those . . . well, I figured those were the reason she died.” I blew out a sigh. Monica listened intently. I had a feeling she was itching to park and get it all down on paper, despite her agreement not to print anything.

  “Anyway, after her body was found, we got an e-mail from Angela’s e-mail account, asking us to bring the purse to the lobby of the hotel. We figured whoever sent it probably had something to do with Angela’s death. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Ben went down with the purse—minus the memory card that had the pictures. The guy waiting for him took the purse. Ben followed him to the parking lot and tried to take his picture. When the guy realized the memory card was gone and saw Ben taking his picture, he attacked Ben. He knocked him down, then pulled a gun and made Ben get in his car. They drove away before I could get to them.”

  Monica threw the car into PARK with such force that her blond pageboy swung forward. She stared at me. “Wow. Just, wow. Talk about a backstory.” She reached into the back seat for her notebook and pen, biting down on the cap and pulling the pen out, the cap still in her mouth. “This could be a sidebar to the pictures, if not an entire article,” she said around the cap.

  I gripped her wrist and stilled her hand. “You agreed. You can’t print this, at least not until my brother is safe. Once he’s with us, then you can run with it.” She recapped the pen a bit sulkily as I continued. “I got a call demanding the pictures in exchange for Ben. Since I didn’t have them anymore, I bargained for time and have,” I looked at my watch, “about four hours or my brother won’t have twenty-twenty vision, at the very least.”

  “Okay,” she said, drawing out the word. “That does change things. And you’re sure you don’t want to go to the police?” She spoke the words as if they pained her.

  “And tell them what? That Ben got into a car which I can’t describe and that I don’t have the license plate for? That a strange man, who I can’t identify, is calling me, threatening my brother? And then there are the photos, which I don’t have, either. Add in the fact that Ben is a grown man and he’s been missing for only a little over”—I consulted my watch—“six hours.”

  “Okay, I see how that might be an uphill battle.”

  I slumped back against the seat, glad to hear the tone of concern in her words. At least, it appeared that she wasn’t so totally focused on her scoop that she would sacrifice Ben for it. “But don’t think that I didn’t notice you planned to stiff-arm me on the photos,” she added.

  “No, I planned to give you a copy and let you have the exclusive story—every tiny detail—once Ben was safe. I figured you wouldn’t be too upset with that.”

  She roll
ed her eyes and grinned. “Yeah, you’re right. Can’t argue with that.” She pulled her laptop out. “Better get busy.”

  While she powered it up, I looked around. I’d been so focused on telling her what had happened and ensuring her cooperation that I hadn’t taken in our surroundings. “I thought we were going to a restaurant?”

  We were in an outlet mall parking lot with the Jetta tucked beside an island of landscaping, a group of hedges that surrounded a trio of palm trees set at angles so their trunks crossed a few feet in the air. Monica pointed straight ahead, across a road to the back of a building. “That’s the back door to El Mar. I guarantee that is where Nick and Suzie will arrive and depart.”

  As if on cue, a black SUV lumbered over a set of speed bumps and halted not far from a door set into the back of the building. “Time to go to work,” Monica said, almost tossing the laptop at me as she picked up her camera. She leapt out of the car and squeezed between the hedges, looping the camera cord around her neck. I sat up straight to get a better look. The hefty guy in the suit that I’d seen earlier escorting the “decoy” Suzie into the hotel emerged first and went to open the back door of the SUV. We were parked in the perfect position to see both the SUV and the restaurant’s back door.

  Monica grabbed one of the palm tree trunks and boosted herself up into the V created by the crossing of the trunks. She braced her feet against one tree, leaned her hip against the other, and moved the camera to her face. By this time, the SUV door was open. Nick, in a white jacket over a white shirt with a mandarin collar, stepped out of the SUV and turned back to hand out Suzie. Between cars whooshing by on the road, I saw Suzie had changed to a royal blue halter dress and had her hair up in a loose ponytail. With a whirl of color, she exited the SUV and disappeared into the blackness of the doorway in a few seconds. Monica climbed down from the trees much more slowly than she’d climbed up and made her way back to the car.

  “A curse on prickly hedges. They should be banded from landscaping,” she said, dropping back into the car and examining the scrapes on her bare legs.