A Flair For Flip-Flops (The Sadie Kramer Flair Mysteries Book 5)

by Deborah Garner

  Sadie nodded. “I think Garrison Quinlan went out on a boat tour the afternoon of the dinner. Or maybe in the morning. It doesn’t matter. What matters is…”

  “…he didn’t come back on the boat,” Myrtle said.

  “Exactly!” Sadie said triumphantly. “Now we just have to figure out…”

  “…why he went, who he went with, when he went, and how he ended up on the beach here instead of returning on the boat and then coming to the dinner to be the guest of honor.”

  “Right,” Sadie confirmed.

  “Just why, who, when, and how,” Myrtle said. “That’s all we need to figure out?”

  “Yeah… that’s all.” Sadie’s enthusiasm dimmed as the weakness of her theory became clear.

  “So what now?”

  Sadie sighed. “Let’s find out if this theory of mine is anything but rubbish.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Hello, is this Sid’s Seaside Sailing? I’m Sally Ann Kranger from the Winnemucca Post. I understand Garrison Quinlan was on a boat tour of yours recently.”

  It was a lie, of course, but only partially, Sadie rationalized. She might be fibbing about her identity and employer, but she was wondering if the deceased celebrity had been on the company’s boat tour. And the outfit she’d called before that, Otto’s Outboard Outfitters. And the other eighteen tour operators she’d contacted. Arnie’s Aquatic Adventures had directed her to Manny’s Marine Motorboats, who had sent her to Ernie’s Excellent Expeditions. So far, no bites. She figured if she scored the right vendor, at least she’d get a moment of hesitation before they denied it. And deny it they would, naturally. Who’d want to admit to the press that they’d lost a passenger? It would hardly be good for business.

  The call to Sid’s Seaside Sailing simply led to a dead end. A receptionist—an oddity in the boat rental business as far as Sadie was concerned—transferred her to a reservation service, which took a message. Several other calls had gone to voice mail directly, including the first one she’d made to Cappy’s. She wasn’t getting anywhere, yet she continued to try.

  A ringtone accompanying Amber’s name on her cell phone interrupted what felt like a fruitless and never-ending search. Gladly disconnecting from Tony’s Tidal Tours, which had kept her on hold listening to Frankie Ford’s recording of Sea Cruise over and over, she answered the incoming call.

  “Amber, good to hear from you,” Sadie said. “Everything okay at the store?”

  “Yeah, no problems, it’s been a quiet morning,” Amber said. “I sold a pair of those rhinestone sunglasses you like, also a silk scarf. And Mrs. Thomas picked up the sweater she ordered last week. That’s about it.”

  “Well, getting a few sales is better than no sales at all,” Sadie said. “Maybe it’ll pick up later. Did Matteo bring over any new truffles?” Just the thought of the magnificent confections at Cioccolato, next door to the boutique, made her long for home.

  Amber laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact. He made a batch of mango pecan truffles with drizzles of dark chocolate. Delicious.”

  “And you’re saving me one, right? Maybe… two?” A thrill of anticipation ran through Sadie just thinking about it.

  “Naturally,” Amber said. “But that’s not why I’m calling you. Some rumors are floating around on the internet about GQ’s…”

  Sadie knew why Amber was having trouble finishing the sentence. Death was rarely an easy word to say.

  “Oh!” Sadie exclaimed. “I’ve been on the phone for, well, way too long, so I haven’t checked for updates anywhere. Tell me.”

  “They’re saying there might have been high levels of alcohol and some kind of drug in GQ’s…”

  Amber’s voice trailed off again, which Sadie understood. The word body wasn’t any easier than the word death. And the two combined made for depressing conversation.

  “But it can’t be true!” Amber said. “He went to rehab years ago and has been clean ever since!”

  “What kind of problems sent him to rehab?” Sadie asked. She ran a few combinations through her mind that she knew could be disastrous if combined with alcohol—benzodiazepines, opioids, even stimulants.

  “Hydrocodone, I think,” Amber said. “Or maybe it was Vicodin. Something like that.”

  Prescription opioids, Sadie mused. It could be another sad accidental overdose case, far too common. Or was it?

  Amber must have been reading her mind, as her next comment was, “It doesn’t make sense, Sadie. GQ was active with drug prevention programs. He spoke at schools and rehab centers, and he did those public service announcements on TV.”

  “Maybe he had a problem that no one knew about,” Sadie suggested even though she knew it wouldn’t be what Amber wanted to hear. “Some people relapse.”

  “I don’t want to believe it!” Amber said.

  Yep, called that one right, Sadie thought to herself.

  “And,” Amber continued, “how did he end up in the water? He was terrified of water. It was a phobia going back to childhood. Everyone knows that.”

  Not everyone, Sadie thought, counting herself among the least knowledgeable about pop culture and that sort of thing.

  “Wouldn’t he have passed out wherever he was?” Amber continued. “Do you think he could have been so out of it that he decided to go swimming without knowing how? I mean, actually swim out far enough to drown?”

  Sadie resisted the impulse to point out that someone could drown in very little water. It wouldn’t help. As it was, she had the urge to reach through the phone and hug Amber to comfort her. She hadn’t heard her shop manager this upset in a long time, and she understood. Garrison Quinlan had been Amber’s biggest celebrity crush.

  “I’m not sure,” Sadie admitted. “I don’t know much about drug combinations. Maybe he took something right before entering the water. He would have still felt okay going in.” Sadie’s new theory ran through her mind, but she thought it better not to further upset Amber with the additional possibilities of a boat tour and head or bodily trauma. Besides, the boat idea was nothing more than a hunch at this point.

  Amber sighed. “I’m going to eat another truffle and then go inventory the scarves. I’ll make notes of which ones we need to reorder.”

  “Good idea,” Sadie said. “You can even have the truffle you were going to save for me.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Amber said. “I know better than to come between you and your chocolate. Don’t worry. Yours will be sitting on your desk when you get back.”

  Sadie laughed. “Then treat yourself to more from next door if needed. Take it out of petty cash. That’s exactly what the petty cash is for: emergencies.”

  “The need for chocolate being an emergency,” Amber said.

  “I see I’ve trained you well.” Saying goodbye, Sadie let Amber get on with the shop tasks. Without even setting the phone down, she immediately sent off a text to Myrtle.

  Possible new info, Sadie typed.

  Already saw the rumors online. Nothing confirmed. What do you think?

  Sadie held her fingers over the phone’s keyboard, contemplating the answer to Myrtle’s question. What did she think? An alcohol and drug combination could have contributed to GQ’s death, but it didn’t lead to any conclusions. Was it a self-inflicted overdose, a result of the personal problems Amber had first told her about? Or was it an accident, maybe a little partying carried too far? Or was it something more sinister? Foul play and all that.

  It’s not much to go on.

  Agreed, Myrtle sent back. There’s no official statement saying it was the cause of death.

  Has the news said what the cause was? Or speculated? Sadie shook her head. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Amber if she’d heard anything about that?

  Based on a vague statement from an anonymous source, they’re now debating accidental drowning from blunt force trauma. There’s no official report from the medical examiner yet.

  Sadie pondered that. How would a person die accidentally from blunt force
trauma? It was possible he might have fallen, hit his head on something, and been knocked unconscious. But how would that happen on a beach? And why would he then end up in the water? It didn’t add up.

  A sharp yip from Coco drew Sadie’s eyes up from the phone. Knowing Coco’s expressions well, Sadie knew she was being reprimanded, and she deserved it. Between phone calls and texts, she’d barely given the Yorkie a glance all morning. She sent a quick text to Myrtle to let her know she’d catch up to her later. The responsibilities of dog ownership called.

  “How about your pink rhinestone collar and leash?” Sadie asked, holding the items up for Coco to inspect. Not hearing a vote of disapproval—Coco was prone to the occasional whine—Sadie attached the sparkling items. She clipped a pink bow on top of Coco’s head for a finishing touch, and they headed out for a walk.

  The beach reflected the usual scene—young women stretching out on colorful beach towels in hopes of acquiring tans, older women reading books while seated in portable folding chairs and wearing hats to shade their faces, children digging into the sand with plastic shovels and buckets. And, of course, the tumbling waves, polka-dotted with surfers.

  Coco, ecstatic to be out amid the action, trotted along beside Sadie while yipping hello to anyone passing by. Especially pleased with those who stopped to pet her head, she’d licked more than one sandaled foot by the time Sadie tugged her leash gently and led her over to a beachside café. After being served a glass of water—“for you, ma’am”—and a bowl of water—“for the little darling”—Sadie ordered a basket of fish and chips and sat back to people-watch, a favorite activity.

  “Look, that woman sitting on the boardwalk bench is wearing my sarong,” Sadie said. “I think that’s the same woman we keep seeing—Kira Fairchild.” She scooped Coco up into her lap. “Well, obviously, it’s not my sarong she’s wearing, but I bet it’s from the same shop.” That served as a reminder to go back and pick up another. She’d found it to be a good shopping practice to buy two of something she knew would be a favorite piece of clothing. It never seemed possible to find the same item again later on.

  The basket of crisp, battered fish and hot, salty fries landed on the table, along with a pleated paper cup of tartar sauce and a bottle of vinegar. Coco craned her petite neck, far more interested in the basket’s contents than the sarong Sadie had pointed out. Not oblivious to Coco’s tricks, Sadie pushed the food away from the edge of the table, picked up a fry, and waved it in the air to cool it down. Holding it in front of Coco’s mouth, she let the Yorkie take a nibble.

  Sadie added several generous splashes of vinegar to the fish, dipped a piece into the sauce, and took a bite. She closed her eyes and sighed. There was nothing like good old fried food, healthy or not. And, being on vacation, she reminded herself it was calorie-free.

  Opening her eyes, her attention was drawn back to the woman across the way, certain now that it was Kira Fairchild. This time it wasn’t the colorful sarong that caught Sadie’s eye but a man sliding onto the bench beside her. He slipped his arm around the woman’s waist in an oddly casual manner that almost appeared secretive. A baseball cap shaded his face, making it difficult to discern his features. But a brief gust of wind provided all the information Sadie needed. In the time it took him to grab his cap and replace it on his head, it was clear the man was none other than James Chalinder.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sadie returned to the hotel after lunch with a doggie bag of leftover fish and chips plus two more shopping bags. One held the extra sarong she’d picked up, the other, an ankle-length yellow shift with a conservative slit up the side and a school of smiling fish embroidered around the neckline. She added both to the growing collection of beachwear in her closet and then moved to the sitting area of the suite.

  It was only on rare occasion that Sadie opened her laptop while on vacation, but she always made a point of having it with her. After getting Coco occupied nearby with a chew toy, she fired the computer up and proceeded to search every celebrity website that she could find. Shocked at how much information came up—some possibly accurate, much probably not—she absorbed one trashy detail after another, trying to sort out fact from fiction. There were enough photos online to fill any fan’s scrapbook—red carpet poses, celebrity golf tournaments, charity events, even still shots from filming locations. In addition, there were pictures of GQ as a child, as a young teen, as a high school quarterback, and as the heartthrob adult who constantly graced magazine covers today.

  After observing Kira Fairchild and James Chalinder together on the boardwalk, she’d grown curious about what role the woman really played in Garrison Quinlan’s life. Perhaps she played no role at all and the secret love interest rumors were simply that: rumors. Photos of award events showed her standing by Mr. Chalinder’s side but more in a coworker-type stance than anything romantic. This matched Sadie’s observations of the two at the hotel’s appetizer hour but not the closeness implied by their body language on the boardwalk.

  As for Ms. Fairchild’s role in relation to GQ, there weren’t nearly as many photos of the two of them together, and most of them were posed group pictures. Still, a few blurry paparazzi shots told a different story, some closely matching the information Amber had told her before. One showed the couple in hooded sweatshirts and sunglasses, stepping into a limousine. Another showed Kira alone in a garden purported to be part of GQ’s Bel Air estate. Was Kira Fairchild actually the star’s girlfriend? Or James Chalinder’s? Or neither? Or… both? Well, it was Hollywood, after all. Anything was possible.

  Sadie was convinced the online information was only serving to confuse her own observations. All in all, nothing she’d seen, heard, or read that day led her any closer to figuring out how Garrison Quinlan’s body ended up on the beach. She was still convinced her boat theory was the best explanation for him falling into—or being dumped into—the ocean, in spite of numerous companies indicating he wasn’t on any of their trips.

  Unless… could it have been a private rental? That would be much more difficult to track. There had to be dozens, if not hundreds, of personal boats along the shore that people were willing to rent out. He could have rented one, taken it out, slipped on a wet deck, and bumped his head. But how did he end up in the water? And how would the boat have returned to the rental location? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

  Sadie pored over website after website, trying to find clues. Finally, restless and frustrated, she closed the laptop. She scooped Coco up, got her settled in the tote bag, and headed to the lobby.

  Though well before the appetizer hour, the main hotel atrium boasted a good crowd. The front desk was busy with new arrivals. A short line of guests waited to be checked in. A bellman rolled a cart in from the valet parking area, marking name tags on each piece of stacked luggage in order to deliver them to the correct room. The Beach Bum already showed some bar activity, not yet full but prepared for the buzz to follow later on. A TV behind the bar’s countertop showed commentators on a sports channel.

  Sadie took a seat in an extrawide armchair positioned in an ideal spot for people-watching. She set the tote bag next to her, gave Coco a pat on the head, and picked up a magazine from a side table to keep her hands busy while she took note of others in the atrium area. Two women sat on a couch across from Sadie, one speaking in animated fashion, hand gestures flying, the other nodding attentively. A distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a mustache leaned against a column. He checked his wristwatch—a Rolex, Sadie was quite sure—repeatedly, as if impatient for a room not yet ready.

  A sharp popping sound caused Sadie to jump and turn her head to one side, only to see a guest had accidentally dropped a briefcase on the floor. She took a deep breath and exhaled. Must stop watching so many crime shows late at night. She settled against the cushioned back of the chair and watched the guest pick the briefcase up and walk away, which is when she saw, just beyond that, Kira Fairchild making a purchase in the hotel’s gift sh
op. Not far away, James Chalinder paced back and forth, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Assuming they were together, Sadie was surprised to see Ms. Fairchild complete her transaction and walk away, passing James Chalinder as if unaware of his presence. In kind, he reacted the same way, taking no note of her passing by. In addition, he made no move to follow her.

  “Well now,” Sadie said, whispering into her tote bag. “Those two act like they know each other well, and then not at all. It’s very peculiar.”

  “Are you looking for something, Ms. Kramer?”

  Sadie straightened up quickly at the sound of the male voice. Expecting a stranger who simply thought talking to a tote unusual, she was surprised to see Detective Martin standing in front of her. “No. I was just having a discussion,” she said.

  “With your bag?” The detective’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Sure, why not?” Sadie quipped, simply for the amusement of not giving him a straight answer.

  “I see,” he said, clearly not seeing at all but not bothering to carry the ridiculous conversation further. This, Sadie understood. After all, how valuable could it possibly be to discuss why someone would talk to a bag? Secretly she was pleased that Coco chose not to yip just to add to the levity.

  “I suppose you’re here looking for more clues,” Sadie said, stating the obvious. “Have you been able to determine if Mr. Quinlan’s death was accidental or foul play?”

  Detective Martin gave Sadie a mixed look of annoyance and disinterest. “You must know I can’t divulge information while an investigation is ongoing.”

  “Well, I think it was foul play,” Sadie said. Tempted to direct the statement to Coco just to further irritate the detective, she spoke to him instead.

  “You do, do you?” The detective’s expression remained annoyed but now showed interest. “And why is that?” He took a seat in the closest chair and waited for an answer.

  Sadie pondered her reply. She was certain GQ’s death hadn’t been an accident but couldn’t quite pinpoint why. And a hunch wouldn’t be of any use to the police, would it?