Fashionably Late
By Lisa Q. Mathews
When a classy fashion-show luncheon turns deadly, the Ladies Smythe & Westin are back on the case
It’s murder she wore…
Sporting a chic Florida outfit and designer baubles, seasoned model Angelica Downs belonged on the runway…not in the morgue. Summer Smythe and Dorothy Westin are determined to retrace her final moments—right up to her desperate plea for help.
The Ladies pin their suspects down to just a few questionable characters. But why would anyone target such a seemingly sweet woman?
To lure the murderer—and perhaps some accessories of the criminal kind—the Ladies hit Milano Fashion Week, even organizing their own charity event at Hibiscus Pointe. Killer fashion may be this season’s drop-dead look, but Summer and Dorothy will be wearing little black funeral dresses if they don’t flatiron the culprit soon.
This book is approximately 70,000 words
Edited by Kerri Buckley
Dedication
To Kerri B., who never gave up hope.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Excerpt from Cardiac Arrest by Lisa Q. Mathews
Acknowledgments
Also by Lisa Q. Mathews
About the Author
Chapter One
“You are going to love this, Dorothy,” Summer Smythe said, as she pulled open the heavy glass door of Waterman’s on the Bay. “Because I have a special surprise for you.”
“How…nice.” Dorothy Westin hesitated for just a moment in the doorway. Her young friend and sleuthing partner was always full of surprises, some of them slightly questionable.
“Don’t worry, it’s much better than that crazy place I took us to last week, I swear.”
“That wasn’t your fault, dear.” Dorothy straightened her sunhat and stepped into the bright, high-ceilinged foyer of Milano’s newest dining establishment. Summer, a relative newcomer to their Southwest Florida town, hadn’t realized that Dorothy would be the most senior patron at Senoritas.
By, say, half a century.
Dorothy liked to think of herself as young at heart—but the pounding music, taco bar and noontime margaritas were a bit much. She might have steered them elsewhere, of course, if she paid better attention to the local social scene.
“Are you here for our holiday fashion show?” A deeply tanned woman in a sleeveless black tunic and long black skirt patterned with enormous pink poinsettias looked up from the hostess stand.
“I didn’t know about the fashion show,” Dorothy said. “But my friend and I do have a reservation for lunch. It’s under ‘Sloan,’ I believe.”
Summer always used her film producer father’s name for reservations, she knew. Apparently that strategy for obtaining an overbooked seating or a more coveted table worked as well in Milano as Los Angeles.
“I’m sorry, but all the members of your party need to be present for me to seat you,” the hostess said.
“Hey, I’m here.’” Summer reappeared from the alcove she’d ducked into to check her lipstick in the convenient, gold-trimmed mirror. “So that’s the surprise, Dorothy. We’re getting a fashion show with our lunch.”
“What a lovely idea,” Dorothy said. She wasn’t a clotheshorse, in truth, but it was the thought that counted.
A whisper of a wrinkle threatened the hostess’s forehead. “You’re late,” she said.
“The reservation was for noon,” Dorothy said. “It’s only five-past.”
“No, this one is late.” The woman jerked her highly coiffed head toward Summer. “All the models were supposed to be here at ten for last-minute fittings, young lady. At least your hair and makeup are done. We’ll have to see if Jeanette can still use you.”
“Oh, I’m not a model. Trust me on that.” Summer flashed her usual sunny grin, and tucked a strand of chin-length blonde hair behind her ear, revealing a perfect-diamond post. “My friend Esmé is working here today, and she gave me tickets. We’re getting one of those last tables by the window, right?”
The hostess’s lips pursed into a tight, red stop sign. “Those seats are reserved.”
“Good thing we have reservations, then,” Summer said, cheerfully. “Look, there’s Esmé, and she’s headed this way right now.”
Esmé—Dorothy wasn’t sure of her last name, although she’d met her several times—hit the foyer like a wave crashing Benton Beach. The dark-haired girl wore slim black jeans, beaded gold sandals and a black T-shirt with “GET MIF-D: Milano Institute of Fashion and Design” printed across the front in bold white letters. “Am I glad to see you,” she said to Summer, as she smiled and waggled her fingers at Dorothy in greeting. “We just had a major issue backstage and I could really use your help.”
“I was about to seat these ladies in the dining room. By the window.” The hostess looked considerably put out now.
“No problem, go ahead,” Esmé said, with a wave. “It’s Nadine, right? I’ll follow you guys in. But I can only stay for a minute or two, because I have to get back to work.”
Dorothy made an extra effort to keep up with Nadine, who snapped two leather-bound menus from a wicker basket and swished through the arched doorway into the crowded main dining room.
It seemed like a long hike toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, which streamed dazzling sunshine and offered a gorgeous view of Milano Bay. A flotilla of boats—including several impressively sized yachts—lazily crisscrossed the waves, and a long promenade crowded with early-afternoon strollers snaked toward a cheerfully striped pavilion that advertised a holiday art show.
Florida: the land of eternal sunshine. Most of the time, anyway.
Sometimes it was easy to forget it was December. That was why Dorothy kept the Year of Seasons calendar in the kitchen of her condo.
“This is perfect, thank you,” she said, as Nadine deposited the menus on their table with overly exaggerated care.
Summer jumped to pull out a blue leather chair for her, as the hostess was oddly hovering.
“Are you by chance a resident of one of our local senior living communities?” Nadine said to Dorothy.
“Hibiscus Pointe,” Dorothy said, unfolding her cloth napkin.
“How lovely. We have quite a contingent here from the Pointe today. Are you sure you don’t want a table across the room, closer to those ladies?”
Dear heavens, no, Dorothy thought. The last thing she needed was to be anywhere near that busybody, loudmouth Gladys Rumway and her friends. She saw enough of all of them back at the complex, thank you very much.
“No thanks.” Summer dropped into her chair and positioned the strap of her large designer tote firmly over the back. “My friend is a serious birdwatcher. See?” She motioned toward a highly overweight pelican, strutting the boardwalk i
n search of stray croissant crumbs. “And those crazy gulls dive-bombing everyone out there? She just loves them.”
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. She rather preferred the graceful snowy egrets and tiny, chipper sandpipers.
“Jeez, she sure didn’t want us sitting here,” Summer said, when the hostess finally left. “Who else was she going to seat here, the Queen of Milano? There’s another empty table right behind us.”
“I may be able to answer that,” Esmé said. She leaned closer to Dorothy and Summer. “Zoe Z is in the house.”
“You’re kidding.” Summer craned her neck. “Where?”
Esmé ran a hand over her loose French braid and sighed. “Remember that backstage issue I mentioned? All about her. The brat should be showing up in the dining room any second. Hopefully Aleesha, her agent, can keep a better eye on her this time.”
“Who on earth is Zoe Z?” Dorothy asked.
“A celebrity train wreck,” Summer said. “She was ZeeZee’s daughter on that reality show Life with ZeeZee.”
“Never heard of it,” Dorothy murmured. It was hard to believe that a young TV star would be interested in a luncheon and fashion show with an audience of older ladies.
“And after she got out of rehab Zoe Z made the worst pop album ever,” Summer went on. “So when her big music career didn’t work out, she decided she wanted to be a serious actress. She actually bugged my dad to cast her in his next movie, but he said no way. Huge insurance liability.”
“Well, I can’t trust Aleesha—she’s totally useless—so I need you to watch Zoe for me,” Esmé said. “She happens to be my cousin.”
Summer stared at her friend. “You never told me that. Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’ll explain later,” Esmé said. “But I promised Aunt ZeeZee I’d look out for Zoe while she’s here in Milano. And I think, actually, she’s in town to see you.”
“Me?” Summer said. “I’ve never even met her. Besides, she’s like nineteen. I’m ten years older than her. I mean…seven. And how come you never even mentioned you’re related to ZeeZee?”
Esmé shrugged. “Never came up, girl. And being linked to Zoe in any way isn’t exactly something I’m proud of. All I know is, she’s asked me about you a zillion times.”
“Perhaps Zoe is hoping you’ll put in a good word for her with your father.” Dorothy took a sip from the glass of ice water a harried waitress had just placed in front of her.
“Ha,” Summer said. “Like Syd ever listens to me.”
Dorothy was quite sure he did listen—possibly more, it seemed, than he heeded the concerns of Summer’s overly sensible sister, Joy, or his many former wives.
“Esmé, what are you doing out here?” A sharp-chinned, red-haired woman in a long, green linen wrap skirt rustled up beside Summer’s friend. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Backstage. Now. The other interns are completely disorganized.”
“Sorry, Monique,” Esmé said. “There was a mix-up with these guests’ reservations.”
“All under control. She fixed everything.” Summer threw the woman a mega-watt smile. “What exactly is it we need to do, if there are any more, uh, Zoe issues?” she asked Esmé.
“Just keep an eye out, okay?” Esmé said over her shoulder, as her employer pulled her away. “We’ll talk later.”
“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Summer said to Dorothy, when the two women were far enough away from the table. “I’m the worst babysitter, remember?”
“That’s not true,” Dorothy said. “You do a wonderful job with Juliette-Margot.”
“Yeah, but she’s only six,” Summer said. “And she’s a good kid. If this Zoe Z girl is anything like she was on TV—or off—she’s impossible to deal with.”
Dorothy glanced toward the entrance. Summer had hardly finished her sentence before a slender, raven-haired teen began to cross the dining room. The girl wore a skintight, daffodil-lace dress and she navigated the slippery floor without the slightest wobble of her canary yellow, sky-high heels. “Well, dear, I believe we’re about to find out.”
*
Summer was careful not to turn around or even look up from her menu as Zoe Z and her thirty-something manager—Aleesha Berman, who was famous in the industry for being way too chummy with her difficult clients—seated themselves directly behind her and Dorothy. Apparently those two hadn’t wanted the uncool hostess to escort them and wreck Zoe’s big entrance.
They’d probably stuffed Nadine in that giant vase in the foyer. But none of the luncheon guests were paying much attention to Zoe, anyway. Probably not a lot of Life with ZeeZee or celebrity gossip fans in this place.
Why would Zoe wreck whatever low-level celebrity cred she had by showing up here?
Unfortunately, there was zero time to eavesdrop on their new neighbors, because a helmet-haired woman draped head-to-toe in silver lamé appeared at the front of the room.
Major overkill on the tinsel, Summer thought. For lunch, anyway. And maybe anyone that old.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” the woman greeted the crowd through her wireless headset. “I’m Martha Kirk, president of the Milano Women’s League, and I’d like to welcome you all here to Waterman’s on the Bay for our first annual Christmas on the Catwalk Lunch and Fashion Show.”
The attendees all clapped loudly. Was Martha that same lady she’d seen in practically every society section pic in Milan-O! Magazine?
Yep. Summer recognized the bling.
“And I am thrilled to introduce you to our celebrity designer and brand-new sensation Roland Cho, who created the fabulously unique pieces of jewelry our models are wearing this afternoon. Roland, can you step out here, please?”
The crowd burst into even more enthusiastic applause as a very short, spiky-haired man in his early thirties—white jeans, white turtleneck, purple jacket—emerged through the velvet curtain that had been set up to create a backstage area.
Roland smiled and waved, bowing a few times to his fans. Across the room, Gladys Rumway split the air with a screeching wolf whistle. “Really?” Summer whispered to Dorothy. Her friend just shook her head.
Summer was glad she’d worn something fairly conservative. With this crowd, you couldn’t go wrong with a flowered sundress, strappy sandals and pale pink pearls. Dorothy looked great as usual, in a coral-knit twinset and pleated white skirt. Summer had almost suggested that she lose the thick-heeled AeroLite pumps, maybe, but she didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, her friend should be comfortable.
At least she and Dorothy weren’t wearing red and green, like everyone else in the room. Except for Zoe and Aleesha, anyway. Zoe probably didn’t have one green thing in her closet.
Martha Kirk droned on, introducing a bunch of local boutique owners. Summer hadn’t heard of any of them. She’d been in Milano for a while now—months—and she was pretty sure she knew all the retail options. The decent ones, anyway.
This fashion show was sure to be a snooze, but that was okay. She wasn’t here for herself, anyway. She’d brought Dorothy here to get them out of Hibiscus Pointe for a fun afternoon.
Things had been a little boring there lately. She and Dorothy had been so busy earlier, investigating two different murders, that it seemed really quiet now, back at the complex. Not that she wasn’t working hard—well, sort of, since it had been raining for weeks—at her volunteer job as Hibiscus Pointe Aquatics Director. It kept the Residents Board off her case for living in her late Grandma Sloan’s condo, at least.
Why anyone cared that she was technically under the required age to live there, she had no clue. What a stupid rule, the over-fifty-five deal. Her dad owned the place now, and she paid her rent to him on time each month, didn’t she? Well, so far, her sister Joy had. But that was going to change soon, when she got a decent, paying job.
“So let’s give a big round of applause for our gorgeous, hardworking models,” the silver-bullet MC said, as Summer tuned back in. “They’ll be stopping by y
our tables before the show begins, handing out goodies from our sponsors.”
Goodies? Summer hoped Martha K. meant cookies or something. She hadn’t had breakfast yet since she’d had to get up way earlier than usual, and she was starving.
She was about to ask Dorothy if she wanted her to go get their waitress, when she felt a sharp, pointed tap on her shoulder. “Hey, you know me, right?” a nasally voice said behind her.
Summer turned. “Um, no. Sorry.”
“Of course you do,” Zoe Z said, flipping her shiny dark hair. “Life with ZeeZee? Hello?”
“Nope,” Summer said. Dorothy raised an eyebrow at her over her menu.
Okay, so maybe she was being a little harsh. The kid was related to Esmé, after all, and she’d promised to keep an eye on her. “Oh, yeah, right,” she said, pretending to knock herself on the head. “Great show.”
“Well, your dad definitely knows me,” Zoe said. “He offered me a major role in The Girl on the Ledge. I haven’t decided whether I’ll take it yet.”
Aleesha, Zoe’s manager, gave her client a not-now look. “Congratulations,” Summer said, forcing a smile.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” An attractive older woman, tall and graceful in a long silk dress that matched the colors of the bay through the window, stopped at their table. She carried a shallow white basket filled with cards, perfume samples and those smelly little closet sachets. “Won’t you please take a card with these lovely gifts, courtesy of Monique’s Boutique?”
Ugh. Monique could have come up with a better name for her store.
“Why thank you, I believe I will,” Dorothy said, reaching into the basket.
The model glanced over her shoulder. “I see you have a Hibiscus Pointe tag on your purse,” she said, in a low voice. “My name is Angelica Downs, and I just moved my ninety-year-old mother into Hibiscus Glen.”
Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin) Page 1
