Eat, Drink, and Be Wary (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 5)

by Maggie Pill

  Dina Engel stood waiting while a chef whipped up the omelet she’d requested. Stopping beside her I said, “Good morning.” She returned my greeting, but she seemed distracted. I really wanted to know what was going on inside that head of hers.

  “May I join you for breakfast?” I indicated the almost empty room. “I’m guessing some of the ladies had too much fun last night.”

  She seemed neither pleased nor displeased by my invitation, which brought out my insecurities. Was I too pushy? Had Dina taken an instant dislike to me? Did she prefer eating alone? Would she pretend to enjoy my company because she couldn’t think of a way to refuse my offer?

  Come to my home, and I’ll feed you good food and talk all day, but don’t set me down in a roomful of strangers and make me chat while I eat someone else’s cooking.

  Dina glanced at the doorway, where Angel was helping Rosalind Rayburn to a chair. “I’m supposed to sit with them, but—Thanks. I’ll tell them I met an old friend and want to catch up.”

  When she’d spoken to Angel and gotten a seraphim-sized hug, Dina returned to the omelet table and picked up her plate. “They’re very nice people, but I’m not sure I can handle another discussion of clever ways to prepare tart cherries right now.”

  “I don’t promise sparkling conversation,” I warned. It was nice to be chosen as the better of two choices, though I did have a moment of regret for the recipes I was missing out on. I love cherry anything.

  We chose an empty table and sat, taking a few moments to locate sugar for our coffee and butter for the toast from the selections at its center. Dina ate as if she didn’t taste her food at all, and I began to doubt myself again. What should a small-town woman with barely two nickels to rub together talk about to someone whose background was cosmopolitan—and criminal?

  Probably realizing the silence had lengthened between us Dina said, “Where are you from?”

  Mention of Allport brought a vague look, so I located it Michigan style, by pointing to the top joint of the index finger on my hand. She nodded vaguely, as people from the Detroit area tend to do when you admit you live “up north.” For many of them it’s like a foreign land.

  Detecting little interest on her part in what Allport is like, I turned the conversation to what was probably her favorite topic. “You’re launching a clothing line at—what are you, thirty? Thirty-two?” Flattery is always good.

  She smiled. “I’m a little past that, but yes. It took me till almost forty to decide to do what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Creating the Smart Detective Agency had been my idea, though I’d never have had the nerve to do it without Barb. Of course I didn’t tell Dina I was on the side of law and order, in case she wasn’t. “We don’t all move at the same pace, and that’s okay. After your show tomorrow, you’ll be on your way.”

  “I hope so.” Her brow furrowed. It was plain to me that something had happened between last night and this morning that shifted her mild apprehension about the show to real worry.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Her grimace might have signaled anger. “Depends who you ask.”

  “What went wrong?”

  She shook her head as if to say she couldn’t explain, but her lips moved involuntarily. Dina had no reason to talk about her troubles to a stranger, but she wanted badly to tell someone.

  Barb and Retta say I have a sense about people. That might or might not be true, but I do listen with my feelings and not just with my mind. I think it comes from my not wanting to “fix” people, the way my sisters do. They don’t mean to tell you what you should do, but honestly, they both do it.

  Dina Engel felt betrayed, and she was having trouble keeping it to herself. I knew I couldn’t remedy whatever was wrong, but I thought it would help if she just told someone about it. But how did I let her know it was okay to share?

  A little confidential disclosure might help. “Listen,” I said. “I’m kind of here under false pretenses.”

  She looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

  With a gesture that took in the whole area I confessed, “It was my sister who really wanted to do this Love-Able Ladies thing. Now she’s laid up in our room with a bad back, and I’m floating around with nothing to do. If you want to talk, I’ll listen for as long as it takes, and I won’t tell anyone what you say.” I wriggled my brows. “I might if they pull out my fingernails, but otherwise I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  She smiled at my joke then sobered again. “It’s Roger—my father.” The last word came out like a curse. “It’s like he’s determined to mess this up for me.”

  For all her forty years, Dina Engel sounded exactly like a dozen teenagers who’d sat at my kitchen table over the years and said similar things about one parent or the other. However, I had a feeling that this time it was more than Dear Old Dad wearing socks with sandals or refusing to buy that classic Chevelle as a Sweet 16 birthday gift.

  “What did he do?”

  She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep her complaint inside, but in the end it didn’t work. “My mom died a year ago, after almost a decade of illness. I’d taken care of her all that time, and with her gone, I needed something to do with the rest of my life. I asked Roger for the money to start a business.” She glared at the salt shaker for a moment. “He owed me. I did it for her, but he—He owed me.”

  Money is often a problem between parents and children, but calling her father Roger while her mother was Mom was telling. “You asked your father to help you get started as a designer?”

  She nodded. “We’ve never been close, but Roger’s got plenty of money. It was no burden for him to give me a stake to get started.”

  Parents often feel differently about that than children do, but I said, “He agreed to help when you explained how much it meant to you?”

  She made a helpless gesture. “Roger doesn’t let you explain anything, and he certainly didn’t care how I felt. He agreed to fund my project, but there were strings attached. I got a line of credit and two years to turn a profit. After that, I have to start paying him back.” Looking down at her plate she said, “I wanted it so badly, you know? I wanted to feel like my life wasn’t a total waste, like my—” She chewed on her lip. “—like people who never try.”

  Like her mother, from what I’d read. A life lived in the shadow of a controlling husband.

  While Engel’s deal didn’t seem like something a doting father would offer, it wasn’t unreasonable, so there had to be more. “You got the chance to make Detroit Chic successful. What’s gone wrong?”

  Dina pushed her plate away and patted her lips with her napkin. “Roger insisted I have a financial overseer.” Her lips tightened. “He tried to make it sound like it was a benefit but really, he wants control.”

  “When you’re just starting out—” I began, but she interrupted.

  “I know the fashion business: fabric, weave, chemistry, dyes, materials used for buttons, belts, and accessories—I studied all that.” She sipped at her tea. “People think it’s all just drawing pictures of skirts and dresses, but there’s a lot more to it.”

  “Most jobs seem easier to outsiders than they actually are,” I said.

  “I took classes in finance too. I have a four-year business degree.”

  Which didn’t mean she could manage both ends of the business in today’s complex climate. Her father might know her weaknesses better than Dina was willing to admit. “Maybe he wanted to let you concentrate on the artistic part of things.”

  She made a sarcastic pfft. “You don’t know Roger.”

  I gave up trying to defend a parent’s tendency toward caution. “Well, at least you’ve got a start. Are things going well?”

  “They were.” She stirred more sugar into her tea. “But Roger took it upon himself to reduce my expenses for the show this weekend—without the courtesy of letting me know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dina set
her cup in its saucer. “Do you know who Roger Engel is?”

  I managed a confused look to indicate I was thinking but couldn’t come up with anything concrete. It was better than an outright lie.

  “He runs several night clubs in the Detroit area.” When I nodded noncommittally, she went on. “His money-saving idea for me was to cancel the contract I’d arranged with a reputable agency and send a group of his dancers to act as models for my show.”

  “Oh.” That didn’t sound like caution. It sounded like disaster.

  She ran her hand through her light-colored hair, pulling it up and off her neck then dropping it back into place. “My designs are classy, and the women at this retreat stand for female dignity and old-fashioned values. The models tomorrow morning will be ten exotic dancers who wouldn’t know class if it crawled up on the stage and slapped them.”

  “Oh.” I really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Besides that, they’ve no doubt altered themselves in all kinds of wild ways in order to be different and recognizable.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Right. Boob jobs, tats, piercings—the whole gamut.” She did the hair thing again. “Not only that, but my clothes are sized for mature women. They won’t even fit right.”

  “Wow.” At least it wasn’t another Oh.

  Dina toyed with a chunk of melon she’d left on her plate. “I suppose I could turn on some funk and let them show the Love-Able Ladies why men flock to Roger’s clubs when their wives aren’t looking.”

  I suppressed an involuntary smile at the mental image of club dancers grinding their way through the horrified crowd. “I can’t imagine that would go over well. What will you do?”

  “Something—I just don’t know what yet.” Her brows met as she made a decision. “I have a rehearsal scheduled for this afternoon. If I can make the clothes fit and teach the girls some basic fashion modelling, I’ll go ahead with it.”

  “Those are two big ifs.”

  “Yup.” She shook her head. “Wish I could be in three places at once.”

  The thought that popped into my head scared me, but at the same time it was a heaven-sent opportunity. Someone had a crime planned during Dina’s show. If I were inside her circle, I might find out who it was and what was going to happen.

  Without thinking it through as much as I probably should have, I offered, “I could do fittings while you oversee the rehearsal. If I take notes on what needs to be done, you can make the alterations afterward.”

  “You know how to do that?”

  Alterations were once my specialty, though I never admitted it outside my own home. Since money was always tight and boys grow like weeds, I used to buy the nicest men’s garments I could find at second-hand stores and fit them to my sons by taking them apart and reassembling them. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I know how to re-set a sleeve, take in or let out a dart, and re-size pants completely by separating the front from the back, adjusting the fit, and putting them back together. It was a source of pride for me that no one but us knew my family’s dress clothes were never new.

  “I told you this retreat wasn’t my idea” I reminded Dina. “As long as I’m here, I might as well help if I can.”

  “What if your sister feels better tomorrow?”

  The thought of Retta’s situation made me hesitate, but I’d been ordered to be visible at the events, and I would be. “When her back goes,” I replied, “it’s usually a day before her pain meds kick in. I can give you the whole afternoon.”

  Dina’s spine straightened a little. “The models are due to arrive around twelve. I told Honny to bring them in through the kitchen.”

  “Honny?” It sounded like honey but I noticed the spelling later in the program.

  “The watchdog my father assigned to me. He’s driving up with the clothes and the ‘models.’” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not expecting ten Heidi Klums.”

  “Where will the rehearsal be?”

  “Here.” She took her phone and notebook from the chair beside her. “We have the room from one till four. Then they have to set up for dinner.”

  “I’ll find you after lunch then.”

  I left feeling sorry for Dina. The stress of launching a business was bad enough, but to have its success threatened by her father’s interference—and stinginess—made things ten times worse. Once I’d walked away, I cautioned myself to remain objective. A detective can’t just take what someone tells her at face value. Dina might be seeing things from a skewed perspective. Or she might be lying for some reason, though I couldn’t think of one that fit the circumstances.

  Should I have warned her she might be in danger? I wasn’t sure she was. If she was part of Roger Engel’s schemes, Dina might already be aware that an FBI agent had been murdered. She might have had breakfast with me to see if I’d tell the first sympathetic person I met that my sister was a prisoner and I was a hostage.

  Still, she’d seemed one hundred percent focused on launching her business. Could she be so convincingly distressed if the event was merely a cover-up for some impending crime?

  Confused and uncertain, I put the decision off. Instead I made the choice to attend the morning session titled Romantic Vacation Cruises rather than Coping techniques for Widows. At least in the former there would be pretty pictures.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Barb

  On Saturday morning I was surprised to find no messages from either sister. For Faye, that wasn’t unusual. Having gone from hating her smart phone to merely being irritated by it, she might have turned it off to enjoy the conference. But Retta? No way. The woman walked around with her cell in one hand, as if letting go would end the world as we know it. For her to miss a message and a voice mail was highly unusual.

  After trying to call both of them and getting no answer, I called the inn’s front desk. A pleasant young man told me my sisters had checked in Friday. He just as pleasantly connected me to the land line in their room, which rang and rang. No one answered. “They’re probably involved in some activity,” he said when I called back. He added in a tone of amusement, “There are Love-Able Ladies all over the place.” In a more helpful vein he offered to page one of them but advised waiting until the sessions broke for lunch. “Unless it’s an emergency,” he said diffidently.

  Was it an emergency? I couldn’t say it was, since I knew my sisters had arrived safely. If Faye had had a heart attack or Retta had slipped on her too-tall, spiky heels and broken an ankle, this guy would know about it. They had to be okay.

  But it didn’t feel right. I went out to the shed, where Dale was already at work. Buddy lay just inside the door, tacitly proclaiming that if Faye wasn’t nearby, he considered Dale second-best. “You still haven’t heard from Faye?”

  “No.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a weather-beaten, work-roughened hand.

  “The inn people don’t know of any problems, but I just called their cells again and got no answer. Do you think I should be worried?”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “I was trying not to worry myself.”

  “It isn’t like them to stay quiet this long.”

  Dale applied a wrench to a bolt. “Can you call that FBI agent they’re working with?”

  “Good idea.” But Auburn’s phone went directly to voicemail, where a recording asked me to leave a message and promised he’d get back to me. I asked him to return my call as soon as possible.

  Dale spoke, almost to himself. “These are the times when I feel the most useless.”

  A falling tree branch—often called a widow-maker—and the resulting head trauma had left Dale able to drive only short distances and preferably to familiar places. Noise, movement, and light distracted and disoriented him, making longer trips uncomfortable and dangerous. “If you’ll keep an eye on the office,” I said glancing at my watch, “I’ll head over there and check on them.”

  I should never have let them go without me.

  Less than an hour later I wa
s on the road with a small bag in case I stayed overnight. Telling myself I was over-reacting didn’t help, and Dale had been openly relieved by my decision. Subsequent calls to Auburn’s phone netted no result, and the receptionist at the Bureau in Detroit could only tell me that the agent was currently unavailable. Though I wasn’t ready to tell the FBI there was an emergency, I felt in my gut that there was.

  GPS took me to St. Millicent’s, but it was a slow trip. Traffic was summer weekend heavy, and the mostly two-lane roads didn’t allow many places for passing. It was noon by the time I reached the inn, and the desk clerk informed me the retreat guests had just gone in to lunch. There was a speaker, so they wouldn’t come out again until after one.

  I asked if there’d been any trouble, but she shook her head. “They seem to be having a good time.” Leaning toward me a little she said, “I bet a few are hung over from the wine-tasting at the pool last night.”

  My sisters were unlikely candidates for that affliction. Retta can hold her liquor, and Faye seldom drinks at all. If she’d over-indulged in an attempt to fit in, she might be too sick to call, but—No. That didn’t sound like Faye at all, nor did it explain why Retta hadn’t returned calls and messages.

  As I expected, hotel policy prevented the clerk from telling me which room was theirs. I located the dining room, but a woman outside the closed doors told me politely but firmly that no one without a retreat badge was admitted inside. I’d have to wait until the meal and the speaker were finished in order to see if my sisters were in there.

  Now should I claim an emergency? The serene atmosphere suggested no such thing. Aside from the hum of conversation and the clink of silverware inside the room, the inn was silent. I looked at my watch. Forty minutes, maybe less. I would wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Retta

  My dislike for Ted didn’t get any better on Saturday morning. After deciding Bill and I would share one breakfast, he rummaged through my purse and took my keys, claiming he’d find a place to eat somewhere off the property. Bill was slightly apologetic, explaining that Ted had no vehicle of his own. “He came with his girlfriend,” he said, “and she’s staying down the road somewhere.”