Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Hibiscus Glen was the memory care unit on the other side of the complex from her and Dorothy, Summer was pretty sure. She’d never been over there.

  “Oh, that’s a very nice facility,” Dorothy said. “I have several friends who…”

  “Her name is Frankie, and I’m quite worried about her,” Angelica said, without waiting for Dorothy to finish. Why was she talking so fast? Summer wondered. The woman sounded really nervous.

  “Can I trust you ladies?” Angelica asked.

  Summer frowned. Trust them? Why?

  “Let’s move along, please, Angelica. The other tables are waiting, and we need to get the show on the road.”

  Ugh. Esmé’s pointy-chinned boss again. Didn’t she have anything better to do than chase underlings back to work? What was her problem?

  “I’m sorry, Monique,” Angelica said, and Summer frowned. Was Angelica’s hand actually shaking on that basket handle? She was a nervous wreck. And why had she asked them if they could be trusted?

  “No, I apologize,” Dorothy spoke up. “I’m afraid I delayed Angelica on her rounds. I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful bracelet she’s wearing. Is that a Roland Cho piece?”

  “Why yes, it is,” Monique said, stepping in front of Angelica before the model could answer. “We carry several of his styles at Monique’s Boutique. They’d make wonderful holiday gifts. Angelica gave you my card, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t think so,” Angelica said quickly. “Sorry, I forgot. And if I didn’t, here, take another one.” She glanced down, fumbling in her basket, and handed a second card to Dorothy.

  “Enjoy the show, ladies,” Monique said, as she hustled Angelica to the next table. Zoe Z and Aleesha were gone, Summer noticed. Jeez, had they left already? Not that either of them would be interested in a bunch of old-lady clothes, but didn’t they at least want some lunch?

  She sure did.

  “Oh my,” Dorothy said, looking around the poinsettia-filled room. “Where did Angelica go? Do you see her anywhere?”

  “Nope,” Summer said. “But she couldn’t have gone far. Monique’s probably giving her a lecture backstage, or something.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at this.” Dorothy pushed the pale pink boutique card across the tablecloth.

  Summer leaned forward to peer at it closer. “Whoa.”

  Below the lines of raised-gold, swirly letters, a single word had been scrawled in shaky red pencil. HELP.

  Chapter Two

  “Wait, dear,” Dorothy said, as Summer immediately reached for her cell phone.

  “What do you mean?” Summer’s perfectly shaped brows drew together in a frown. “Angelica needs our help, or someone does, anyway. That’s what the card says.”

  “We can’t be sure. This might be some sort of prank.”

  “Well, yeah, maybe,” Summer said. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

  Her friend did have a point. Still… “Let’s try to talk to Angelica first, just in case,” Dorothy said. “She must be backstage by now. And it’s very possible she had no idea there was anything written on the back of that card.”

  “Okay.” Summer didn’t sound convinced. “But someone wrote it. Don’t you think we should call 911?”

  “We don’t want to overreact, and get them involved for a twisted joke,” Dorothy said. Heaven knew, there were plenty of real emergencies in Southwest Florida taking up the first responders’ valuable time. Why would anyone ask for help in a note?

  “I guess, but let’s find Angelica quick. She seemed super nervous when she was talking to us.”

  “Agreed.” Dorothy rose from the table.

  “You go ahead, I’ll catch up in a sec.” Summer was struggling to unhook her bag strap, which had caught a snag in the woven back of her chair. “This is why I hate wicker.”

  “Try not to pull, dear, you’ll damage the chair.” Dorothy began threading her way through the tables of festively dressed ladies toward the door. It looked as if most of the models had already returned backstage.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Gladys Rumway eagerly trying to flag her down, but Dorothy pretended not to notice. No time to chat with Hibiscus Pointe’s most prolific conversationalist right now.

  Or anytime, really.

  “Hey, Dorothy, where ya going?” Gladys practically yelled across the room. “You guys can’t leave now. The fashion show’s gonna start any minute.”

  “Ladies room, Mrs. Rumway,” Summer called back at Dorothy’s heels, just as loudly. Dorothy resisted the urge to cover her ears. “We may be a while.”

  Dorothy cringed, but kept moving, her eyes on the door.

  “Keep a lookout for Zoe and Aleesha, too,” Summer said in a low voice as they stepped out of the dining room. “Bet it wasn’t a coincidence those two left right after Monique grabbed Angelica. Zoe’s probably up to something.”

  “May I help you, ladies?” Nadine popped in front of them like a black-and-pink spider from her post at the hostess stand. “The powder room is in the other direction.”

  “Wonderful, thank you.” Dorothy continued down the hall, quickening her pace. Hopefully that first unmarked door on the left led to the backstage area. Choosing the wrong door and bursting through the curtains into the dining room like the Keystone Kops was the last thing they needed.

  If Angelica—or anyone else—was actually in danger, they needed to proceed with caution. The note writer must have had a good reason for staying low.

  The backstage area was abuzz with activity, as cheerful holiday music played through speakers set up on a folding table. Bored-looking models stood, in various stages of dress, as interns in MIF-D T-shirts buzzed around them, adding jewelry and taping hems. Hairdressers frantically sprayed stubborn cowlicks and tamed stray curls as makeup artists applied finishing touches with blush-dusted brushes on the models’ foundation-caked faces.

  There was no sign of Angelica.

  “She could be practically anywhere back here,” Summer said. “I’ll talk to some of those ladies in the chairs over there, with all the makeup mirrors.”

  “It seemed to me as if Angelica was ready to go out onstage,” Dorothy said. “I’ll try the dressing area by the windows. Maybe she was scheduled for a wardrobe change after she finished handing out her gifts in the dining room.”

  “Oh, wait, there’s Esmé. Perfect.” Summer pulled Dorothy toward a group of tables piled with clear plastic boxes and open bins of color-coded accessories. Her friend was kneeling on the black-and-white tiled floor, a set of pins held firmly between her teeth as she expertly brought in the waistband of a petite senior model’s starfish-print skirt.

  “Hey, Esmé, hate to bother you, but do you know a model named Angelica?” Summer asked. “Tall, older, really pretty, seafoam chiffon? Dorothy and I need to find her quick.”

  Esmé shook her head. “Hold on,” she mumbled, around the pins. She swiftly removed them, one by one, and stuck them in the fabric of her T-shirt. “Sorry. There are a whole bunch of women here who fit that description. Seafoam’s really ‘in’ this year.”

  Well, that was true, Dorothy thought. On the other hand, seafoam was always “in” in Florida. “Angelica may need our help,” she said. “The last time we saw her, she was headed back here with Monique.”

  “She was one of those basket ladies,” Summer added.

  “Oh.” Esmé cocked her head, thinking. “Right, I remember her now. She was acting a little strange, if you ask me. But I haven’t seen her since she picked up her basket from that table over there by the door.”

  “Weird how?” Summer asked. “Sorry, this is kind of an emergency.”

  Esmé’s perfectly arched brows shot up. “Emergency? Oh, jeez, Zoe again? I swear, I’m going to kill that girl.”

  “No, no,” Dorothy assured her, quickly. “Nothing to do with your cousin, dear. Well, we don’t believe so, anyway. But if we could just locate Angelica…”

  “Wait, Esmé, back up, okay?” Summer b
roke in. “How exactly was she being strange? You never told us.”

  “I don’t know.” Esmé shrugged. “She was just jumpy, I guess. Seemed really worried. Kept looking at the door.”

  “Did you notice anyone else around here doing anything weird?” Summer pressed. Once she was focused on something, especially for a case, she rarely gave up. A cheery, determined blonde pit bull.

  “Not any more than usual.” Esmé jumped up, brushing off her jeans. “Oops, no offense, Bryana,” she added to a twenty-something model still standing in front of her. “I didn’t mean you. You’re totally normal. I think we’re done here.”

  The model gave her a tired smile and moved away.

  “Just don’t eat anything before you go out there,” Esmé called after her. “We need those pins to hold, okay?”

  “Esmé, dear,” Dorothy said. “We need your help. Tell us whatever details you can remember about Angelica, no matter how unimportant they seem.”

  “Ouch.” Esmé extracted a stray pin from the knee of her jeans. “Well, when Angelica first got here, she was real sweet and friendly, but then she got all jittery, like I said. Kept asking me whether there was another way out of here. Which there isn’t. Just back through that door you guys came in, or through the dining room.”

  “Did each of the models who visited the tables have her own particular basket?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes. They were different colors, to go with their outfits.”

  “Was anyone minding the baskets beforehand?” Dorothy asked.

  “Monique, I guess,” Esmé said. “She’s been pretty much directing everything, though. She handed the models the baskets on their way to the dining room because she didn’t want anyone to pick up the wrong color. That’d be a serious fashion faux pas, in her book. She loves things all matchy-matchy. Totally old school.”

  “Maybe we should just find Monique, then,” Summer said to Dorothy. “If anyone’s going to know where every single person is, it’s her.”

  “She’s a beady-eyed witch, all right,” Esmé said. “I haven’t seen her back here for at least ten minutes, though, thank the lord.”

  Summer sighed. “Well, this is fabulous. No Angelica, no Zoe, no Monique.” She reached into her pastel-pink shoulder bag, which had a slight scuff on the handle from her battle with the dining room chair. “Maybe we should just call the cops now, Dorothy.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Dorothy said.

  They should have done that in the first place and avoided wasting valuable time on this wild goose chase. Why had she been so concerned about a possible false alarm? At this point, Angelica might be in terrible danger.

  And if she is, it’s my fault, Dorothy told herself.

  Summer was pawing frantically through her bag now. “Where is my stupid cell phone? It’s not in here.”

  “You had it right beside you on the table,” Dorothy said.

  “Yeah, but I’m a zillion percent sure I didn’t leave it there. It’s practically brand-new, and I’ve been sooo careful with it.”

  Dorothy tried not to think about what had happened to Summer’s old phone. Her friend had dropped it in the mangroves near an escaped giant python on their last case.

  “Esmé, lend me yours, would you?” Summer sounded exasperated now.

  “Sorry. Monique made us all put our phones in a cubby she locked up when we got here.”

  Summer muttered something under her breath, which Dorothy was happy she didn’t hear clearly. “Well, someone had to have kept theirs,” Summer said. “I would have.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find one.” Dorothy glanced around the bustling room, where models were being herded swiftly through the dining room entrance by a frazzled-looking intern.

  Then she felt a set of long, thin fingers close on her arm, and an extra burst of frost from the more than sufficient a/c.

  “This area is absolutely off-limits, ladies,” a familiar voice said.

  *

  “Let go of my friend.” Summer wasn’t about to budge for the angry-looking woman who had to have a hot curling iron up her butt.

  “Monique, we’re looking for Angelica Downs,” Dorothy said, brushing the woman’s hand off her arm. “It’s quite urgent, I assure you. And we are not leaving here until we’ve spoken with her.”

  “Way to go, Dorothy,” Summer said in a low voice, impressed. No one messed with her friend when she put her foot down.

  “Well, if you find that useless woman, you can inform her she’s fired.” Monique’s tone was crisp. “I’m replacing her in the lineup.” She looked hard at Summer. “You’ll do. We need someone tall to pull off our holiday ornament hat.”

  “What? No way.” Summer took a step back. Why did people always think she could be a model? Strutting down a runway, even in a restaurant, was harder than it looked. Especially without tripping. “Sorry, but that’s really not my thing. I’m a detective.”

  “Detective?” Monique’s dark brows shot toward the ceiling fan. “You’re joking.”

  “Angelica is missing, and she may be in trouble,” Dorothy broke in. “As we said, it’s extremely important that we find her.”

  “Join the club,” Monique said, with a haughty sniff. “She was wearing an extremely expensive gown carried exclusively by Monique’s Boutique, not to mention a one-of-a-kind Roland Cho bracelet.” She turned, and almost caught Esmé rolling her eyes behind her back. “What are you standing here for? Go over and help that other intern girl make sure the models stay in line.”

  “You mean, literally, stay in line?” Esmé asked. “Or you just want me to make them follow your stupid rules?”

  Monique bristled like a boar’s-hair brush. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of your ungrateful, disrespectful attitude—what is your name again? Whoever you are, you’re fired. Very soon. I’ll let you know when you can leave.”

  Esmé’s eyes flashed like a crazy laser show. “Guess what, Monique? This job isn’t worth it, especially when I’m doing it for free. I quit. And I’m leaving right now.”

  Uh-oh. There went her friend’s big internship. Summer knew that feeling. She’d lost a zillion internships herself, over the last couple of years. In her case, just a streak of really bad luck. Well, mostly.

  “Summer, we have to go,” Dorothy murmured. “We’re wasting time here. We need to make that call.”

  “We’ll catch you later, Esmé.” Summer waved and bounded after Dorothy, who was walking briskly toward the wall lined with brightly lit, portable cosmetic mirrors. The super-bright light those bulbs gave off was never flattering, in her opinion, but cosmetic artists swore by them.

  One of her former stepmothers—Bianca, maybe?—had the lighting completely redone in every room of the house, before Syd wised up and divorced her. There were still a bunch of those mirrors left in some of the guest wings.

  Now that she thought of it, Bianca and Monique looked sort of alike, except Bianca was Rodeo Drive-blonde.

  “Goodness, how did everyone in here clear out so quickly?” A dozen worried-looking Dorothys stood still now in front of Summer, staring out from the long line of mirrors. “And not a single phone in sight.”

  “We’ll find one,” Summer said, searching through the jumble of combs and foils and hair accessories on a nearby rolling cart. “I hate to say this, Dorothy, but maybe Angelica just took off with the fancy dress and bracelet. I know she seemed nice and everything, but she’s probably halfway to Miami or somewhere now.”

  “I truly doubt that,” Dorothy said. “She seemed so lovely, and she seemed genuinely upset about something. Why don’t you go back into the dining room, and see if you can borrow one of the guest’s phones? Or better yet, there’s probably a landline at the hostess stand.”

  “Okay.” Summer pointed herself toward the foyer.

  “Whatever you do, don’t alert Gladys, or we’ll have to deal with her, too,” Dorothy said. “Just call the police. I’ll keep looking for Angelica.”

  The hoste
ss stand was empty, as Summer headed toward it. From a distance, it looked like there was a landline phone there, all right…the kind with the zillion confusing buttons that had gotten her fired from a temp job once.

  Loud, crackly music suddenly sounded from behind the closed French doors to the dining room, replacing the holiday tunes. The big fashion show had officially started.

  What was that weird song they were playing for the models to twirl around to? Super retro, and way cutesy, probably from the sixties or something. The guy who was singing kept asking a cat what was up. Over and over. Oh-oh-oh-oh-whoa…

  Yikes. She’d never get that cat song out of her head now. This was the most bizarre-o fashion show she’d ever been to.

  Nadine was watching the show through the dining room doors. Purr-fect. Summer leaned over the hostess stand and extracted the other, much simpler phone she knew she’d find, under the reservations book. Bingo.

  “911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “We have a missing person,” Summer told the operator. “And we think she may be in trouble.”

  “What is your name, please?”

  “Summer Smythe. I mean, Sloan.” Oops. Which would be better to use this time? It didn’t matter, actually, because the police already knew her under both names. Detective Donovan always called her Ms. Smythe-Sloan, her full name, just to annoy her.

  “And how long has the person been missing?”

  “About half an hour. Maybe a little longer,” Summer said. “Her name is Angelica Downs. I’m not sure exactly how old she is, maybe in her sixties, but she’s really tall and has…”

  “Give me that.” She felt a hard tug on her arm as a furious Nadine snatched the phone from her grasp. “This is my private phone. How dare you?”

  “It’s an emergency,” Summer began.

  “Disregard that call,” Nadine told the operator. “And she’s not calling you back.”

  “That was 911,” Summer informed her, as the hostess jammed her cell into an artfully hidden pocket in her overly blooming skirt.