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

by Deborah Garner

  Any idea what kind of tattoo GQ has?

  Amber returned the text quickly. Has? Don’t you mean had?

  Of course, Sadie replied. She tilted the phone to show Myrtle and whispered, “No reason to get her hopes up. She loves him.”

  “Of course she loves him.” Myrtle sighed. “They all love him.”

  What kind of tattoo did he have? Sadie typed.

  Amber replied almost immediately, certainly quickly enough to show she knew the answer off the top of her head, which is what Sadie suspected.

  An infinity symbol with a cactus in one side and a shark in the other.

  Sadie turned the phone toward Myrtle again, who looked at the text and simply shook her head.

  The text exchange with Amber ended, and Sadie set her phone down.

  “Weird,” Myrtle muttered. “A cactus and a shark? I’ve seen a lot of strange tattoos around these days, but they usually make some kind of sense.”

  “They make sense to the people who get them, I guess.” Sadie glanced around the lobby, taking in guests with and without tattoos, and then suddenly focused her attention on the hotel’s entrance. “Myrtle!” Sadie whispered. She tapped her new friend’s hand and nodded toward the front door. Detectives Martin and Sloan had just entered and appeared to be heading in the direction of the gift shop.

  “I wonder what that’s about,” Myrtle whispered back.

  “Not sure, but I feel a sudden need for something to read.” Sadie stood, slung her tote bag over her shoulder, and headed to the gift shop. She grabbed the first magazine she could, which turned out to be the latest issue of People. Ironically, the cover boasted Garrison Quinlan’s handsome, smiling face. She turned her back to Kira, who was just a few yards away. She could hear two sets of footsteps approach.

  “Ms. Fairchild, we’d like to ask you a few questions, preferably not here.” Martin’s voice was easily recognizable, though his words were spoken at a low volume. Without turning around, Sadie was quite sure the detectives recognized her. In spite of herself, she smiled. What could they do? They couldn’t exactly ask her to leave.

  “I’ve already answered your questions,” Kira said. Sadie detected an odd tone in her voice that she couldn’t quite place. Annoyance? Indignation? Guilt?

  “We have a few more,” Martin said. “It would be convenient if you’d accompany us willingly to the station. We can leave quietly right now.”

  Sadie knew the translation for that: Kira was going to the station one way or another. She might as well avoid causing a scene at the hotel. Apparently this was understood, as Kira placed a copy of Cosmopolitan back on the shelf and left with the detectives.

  “That was interesting,” Sadie said when she rejoined Myrtle.

  “I saw her leave with the detectives,” Myrtle said. “Are they arresting her?”

  Sadie shook her head. “Didn’t look like it. They just said they wanted to ask her some questions and suggested she accompany them to the police station.”

  “And she just went?” Myrtle quirked an eyebrow.

  “Well, it was implied in their tone that she didn’t have a choice,” Sadie said. “I’d do the same if I were in her stilettos—a horrifying thought.”

  “Being questioned by the police?” Myrtle said.

  “No,” Sadie exclaimed, eyes wide. “Wearing stilettos!” She’d long ago switched to flats just to avoid low pumps. She reached around and rubbed her lower back, just at the thought of heels that high. Then again, she had a good thirty years on Kira, who was likely not to have Sadie’s back problems. Yet, Sadie reminded herself. The years creep up on everyone. Well, maybe not on Garrison Quinlan’s double, unfortunately.

  “Oh my, I agree!” Myrtle said. “I have a niece who wears them, and I shudder whenever I watch her walk. I don’t know how she keeps from tripping. I’d have a broken ankle within ten feet.”

  “This is going to make the news tonight,” Sadie said.

  “About the body not being GQ?”

  Sadie nodded. “I think so. Either the press will get wind of it, or the police will make an official announcement.” She glanced at her phone’s screen, noting the time. It was already past the normal five-o’clock broadcast, but that still left the eleven-o’clock news.

  “There’s just one thing about this that doesn’t make sense,” Myrtle said.

  “I know,” Sadie agreed. “If Garrison Quinlan isn’t the one who washed up on the beach, then where is he?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The late-night newscast did not disappoint. Sadie watched from the bed in her suite, green frog pajamas tucked comfortably inside the hotel’s eight-hundred-thread-count sheets.

  We have a new development in an ongoing story, the news anchor reported. The police have released information saying they believe the body that washed up on the beach outside the Casa Playa hotel might not be that of well-known actor Garrison Quinlan, as originally believed. There has been no official statement about a corrected identification. There is also no word on the whereabouts of Mr. Quinlan, who did not show up for a celebrity dinner three nights ago. We will keep you posted on this developing story.

  “Well, there you have it, Coco,” Sadie said, directing her comment to the Yorkie’s travel palace. The petite canine lifted a sleepy head from her velvet pillow at the sound of her name. Not seeing anything of interest, she quickly curled back up and closed her eyes.

  Sadie clicked the Off button on the television remote, picked up her cell phone, and debated sending a text to Myrtle. Deciding the hour was too late, she set the phone back down only to hear the double buzz of an incoming text a moment later.

  I know you’re awake, watching the news.

  Of course, Sadie texted back to Myrtle.

  So whose body do you think it is?

  Sadie suspected she had the answer to that, having done an intensive web search after returning to her suite earlier. After checking references to doubles, stunt workers, fill-in extras, and a variety of other descriptions of roles a secondary person might have in relation to a star, she reached a conclusion. According to the majority of movie credits and tidbits of information, the identity of the man wearing the St. Christopher medal in the photo was likely Toby Anders, a thirty-seven-year-old from Pasadena. Several other men had worked as doubles for Garrison Quinlan over the years, and of course, they all resembled the man in the photo. But Toby Anders had been listed as GQ’s double in the majority of film credits, as well as the only one during the past five films. In addition, articles indicated that Garrison and Toby had formed a friendship over the years, sometimes spending personal time together to enjoy hobbies such as fishing and golfing.

  Possibly Toby Anders. Sadie sent the text with an odd feeling of dismay as if naming the man might actually make him the unfortunate victim.

  Never heard of him, Myrtle sent back. Must not be that famous.

  Worked as GQ’s double for the past five years. Apparently a friend too.

  There was no immediate text response from Myrtle, which Sadie understood. The information only led to more questions. Myrtle’s mind was probably churning ideas just as Sadie’s had been when she’d first discovered the connections. Working together, golfing together, fishing together? Had Toby and GQ gone out on a boat together? Was there an unexpected accident? Or an expected accident? Was that why Garrison Quinlan had not shown up for the dinner? Was he a killer and on the run? Then again, maybe GQ was the victim? Or maybe there was no victim at all. There were too many possible scenarios.

  If it was the double, then where is GQ?

  Sadie had no answer for that. She was confused too. She’d posed the exact question at the police station. It made no sense that he hadn’t come forward.

  He would have shown up by now to say he was still alive, Myrtle continued.

  I would think so, Sadie texted in return. Coffee at nine?

  Receiving an affirmative answer, Sadie ended the conversation and set the phone aside.

  “What do yo
u think?” Sadie directed the question to Coco, who simply raised her head from her pillow. “Why wouldn’t Garrison Quinlan show up as soon as he heard the news?”

  Sadie slid from the bed, poked her feet into bunny slippers, and helped herself to bottled water from the suite’s refrigerator. Leaving Coco—who protested with a slight whine—in the travel palace, she opened the sliding glass door and sat down at the patio table. The sound of waves building and then crashing against the shore was calming, a nice contrast to her jumbled thoughts.

  As far as Sadie could figure, there were three possibilities for Garrison Quinlan’s continued absence. One, he could be on the run. He and Toby could have taken a boat out together, and Toby—whether by accident or by foul play—ended up dead in the water. GQ could be hiding out if guilty of murder or afraid to come in for fear he would look guilty even if he wasn’t. Admittedly, the last option was weak. In addition to that, she had yet to confirm her boat theory, though Amber’s early comment about GQ’s fear of water made the idea of him walking out into the ocean on his own seem unlikely.

  Sadie took a drink of water and contemplated the second scenario. GQ could be unaware of the news. But how could that be? In this day and age of technology, the news was everywhere. Surely he would know. Unless he’d planned a trip away to some remote location, which would mean he’d never intended to show up at the dinner even though he was the guest of honor. That also was far-fetched. Still, Amber had pointed out a whole slew of problems he’d been facing—paparazzi, a stalker, a lawsuit, and who knows what else. Maybe he just got fed up and took off.

  The third option was obvious: he was dead. Sadie had already ruled that out, at least ninety-nine percent. There was that one percent chance she was wrong, but everything she’d put together so far told her Toby Anders was the unfortunate body in the morgue, not GQ. She would try to pry that information out of Detective Martin in the morning if the police didn’t make an official statement.

  Yes, those were the three most likely conclusions. Garrison Quinlan was either on the run, away of his own choosing, or in the morgue. Since Sadie had ruled out the third theory, that left two viable options to pursue. Broussard would likely have some theories as well, but it was too late to text him, considering the two-hour time difference.

  Stepping back inside the hotel suite, Sadie put the bottled water in the fridge and climbed into bed. Weary from analyzing, she opened the paperback mystery she’d picked up at the airport and read until she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The ringtone of Sadie’s phone barely registered, and as she emerged from sweet slumber, she was not entirely happy it had. She and Cary Grant had just boarded a jet for a Parisian vacation. Her dress was exquisite—pale yellow satin with a chiffon overlay, a designer original. She and Cary, arm in arm, were in the process of waving to his adoring fans from the doorway when the roaring of the jet engines turned into the chorus from Fly Me to the Moon.

  “No!” Sadie muttered into her pillow. “Not the moon! Paris! Paris!” She tried desperately to cling to her dream world, but Old Blue Eyes just wouldn’t let up. Multiple times her hand smacked the phone’s surface, hoping to stop the interruption. On the fourth wallop or so, Sinatra’s smooth crooning stopped, replaced by an annoying voice that couldn’t have been more of a contrast.

  “Ms. Kranger? Ms. Sally Ann Kranger?”

  It took Sadie a minute to connect the name with the one she’d made up when calling the various boat rental businesses north of the hotel. Right, she reminded herself. Sally Ann Kranger of the Winnemucca Times.

  “Are you there, Ms. Kranger?”

  Sadie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Grasping the phone, she gathered all the pre-coffee aplomb she could and responded in what she hoped was a professional tone. “Yes, this is Sally Ann Kranger. Have you got a tip for me?” She had no idea why those particular words tumbled out, but it seemed like something a reporter might say. She looked at Coco and shrugged her shoulders.

  “I think so,” the voice crackled. “This is Cappy of Cappy’s Coastal Cruises.”

  “Yes, Cappy.” Sadie stood and began pacing back and forth. She shot a quick glance at the sauntering green frogs in the room’s full-length mirror. Admittedly, her pajamas made for a drastic wardrobe detour from the dress she’d been wearing with Cary Grant just moments before.

  “You left a message asking if we’d had a boat rental by Garrison Quinlan recently.”

  “Yes?” Sadie prodded. A buzz ran through her, similar to one that she’d get as a child just before opening a Christmas gift.

  “Well, we didn’t.” The scratchy voice coughed a scratchy cough.

  “Oh,” Sadie said, her spirits tumbling just as quickly as they’d soared. I left Cary Grant for nothing?

  “But I’ve been watching the news and I saw that his manager’s name is James Chalinder,” Cappy said.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Sadie, noticing Coco now hopping impatiently from paw to paw, opened both the travel palace’s latch and the suite’s sliding glass door. Coco gratefully scurried outside to take care of morning business. “Go on,” Sadie said.

  “Well, that name sounded familiar, so I went back and checked our records.” Cappy coughed again—a smoker’s cough, Sadie was certain. “I found that name on a rental a few days ago.”

  “You did.” Sadie kept a level tone to her voice, not wanting to get her hopes up.

  “Yes. And we’ve had regular rentals under the same name in the past, always with specific instructions.”

  “Specific instructions? What kind?” Sadie said, hoping for another clue.

  “Nothing too unusual. He’s a repeat customer, so we honor his requests.” Another cough. “Well, I guess he wasn’t actually the customer, now that I know the connection. Anyway, Mr. Chalinder always arranges for an ice chest of beverages. He also asks for the keys to be left on the boat so he can pick it up early in the morning. Or, apparently, so Mr. Quinlan could pick it up.”

  Odd, Sadie thought. “You don’t worry someone will steal the boat?”

  Cappy laughed and coughed at the same time. “It’s not like we leave them in the ignition. We arrange a hiding place. It’s not that unusual. Some fishermen like to head out early, before our office opens.”

  “What about returning the boat?”

  “Key drop,” Cappy said. “Same reason, office hours. Some boats come in late.”

  “So you really don’t know who takes the boats out? Or when they leave? Or when they return?”

  “Sure we do.” Cappy’s tone turned defensive. “We monitor our security footage carefully, especially at the end of the day. I check it late at night to make sure the boats are returned, wiped down, tied securely, that kind of thing. The customers know we do too.”

  Aha! Sadie’s spirits lifted. Of course they’d have security footage. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Now she was getting somewhere. “I’d love to come by and see those tapes.”

  There was silence on the line. Sadie knew she was pushing the limits. She didn’t really have any right to look at the footage, and he didn’t need to show them to her.

  “I don’t know…” Cappy wheezed.

  “Perhaps I could give your business more coverage. Maybe even an exclusive article, which would send more customers your way.” Sadie chastised herself for the flat-out lie, justifying it at the same time. If it helps solve GQ’s disappearance…

  “Aren’t you up in Nevada?” Cappy asked, confused.

  Wow, lies are complicated. “No, I’m here at the Casa Playa hotel.” Truth.

  “Well then, come on down,” Cappy said. “We’re not too far up the coast from you.”

  * * *

  Cappy’s Coastal Cruises wasn’t difficult to find. The ramshackle yet tidy building hugged the Pacific Ocean, as expected. Docks with wooden walkways stretched to either side, equipped with ropes, hoses, fire extinguishers, and trash cans. Several boats floated in individual slips, moored by
thick rope. Cabinets of fishing tackle next to the rental office boasted rods, reels, and other fishing paraphernalia. Several open tubs marked Bait sat on the ground in front of the selection of equipment.

  Cappy himself would have been easy to recognize even if he hadn’t been coughing when Sadie walked in. He mirrored Popeye himself, minus the corncob pipe. And it wasn’t coincidental. If the blue pants, black-and-red shirt, yellow belt, and white sailor’s cap didn’t prove it, the shelf of spinach cans behind the counter did. Sadie liked him immediately.

  “Good to meetcha, Ms. Kranger,” Cappy said, holding out a weathered hand in welcome. “And you,” he added when Coco popped up to check out the surroundings.

  “Likewise,” Sadie said. She took a look around. “Quite an outfit you’ve got going here. Looks like a lot of fun, and your boats are beautiful.”

  “Nothing like the seafaring life!” Cappy exclaimed. “Just look at that sparkling blue water out there. And that salt in the air is better than the finest perfume.”

  “I might have to take a boat out myself one of these days,” Sadie said, her tone polite in spite of her differing opinion on the smell in the air. The aroma from the tubs of bait far outweighed that of the salty sea air. As perfumes went, Eau de Fish ranked far lower than her own Chanel No. 5.

  “You just let me know,” Cappy said. “I’ll set you up on my best boat. Even give you some free bait.” A big grin accompanied a wave of his arm, motioning Sadie behind the counter. She followed his direction and soon found herself in front of a small monitor that had seen better times. “I set this up while you were on your way here. This is the footage of Mr. Chalinder’s boat leaving that morning.”

  Sadie set her tote down on the floor, leaned forward, and watched the screen closely. The black-and-white image wasn’t as clear as she’d hoped, and the predawn light was dim. But a figure looking much like Garrison Quinlan—as well as Toby Anders, of course—loaded fishing tackle on the boat as well as the ice chest Cappy had mentioned in their phone conversation.