Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Frankie immediately stopped crying. “Really? What happened?”

  Dorothy glanced toward the small photo of Maddie on the side table, the last one ever taken of her, as far as she knew. It showed her tall, slender blonde daughter standing in front of a small prop plane, her hair blowing in a gusty wind. “Her name was Madeline, but she always preferred Maddie,” she said.

  “Glad she went with the nickname,” Frankie said. “I’ve never liked Madeline, either. I’m a Francine myself. Blech.”

  Dorothy ignored the rude remark. The elderly woman was not in possession of all her faculties, she reminded herself. “Maddie was a storm chaser. There was an accident, and she tried to save someone’s life.”

  That’s what she and Harlan had been told, anyway. Dorothy had always suspected that there were other details, but she would probably never know the full story. Harlan had been more accepting, of course. Knowing wouldn’t change the result, he’d always said. Their beautiful, impulsive daughter was gone, but they would see her again someday.

  How she missed them both.

  Dorothy quickly willed the threatening tears away, before they spilled over and upset Frankie further. Angelica’s mother was looking at her now with an unreadable expression.

  Harlan was right. What was past was past, and couldn’t be undone. But if she could help this poor woman learn the truth about her daughter, maybe they would both feel better.

  “You know what?” Frankie said, finally. “You’re a good person, Dorothy Westin. If anyone’s going to find out who killed my Angelica, my bet’s on you.”

  “Thank you, Frankie,” Dorothy said. She wished she shared that same confidence. But one thing she was quite sure of: she and Summer would give the case their best shot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Summer awakened to a loud banging on her door. Jeez. That was so annoying. What time was it, anyway? It had to be the middle of the night. She’d just gotten home.

  She felt around for her phone, which she kept under her pillow for safekeeping while she slept, and squinted at the screen.

  Ten-oh-five. And someone was still going to town on the door, at the same tempo as the pounding in her head. The bell must be broken again.

  “I’m on my way already!” she called, rolling off the bed and padding toward the living room in her tank top and PJs. At least she’d changed out of her club clothes when she came in. Her hot green tube dress was in a heap in the tub.

  “Summer, did you forget?” Dorothy stood outside the door, dressed in a freshly ironed, light blue linen suit. Her favorite hummingbird pin was fastened to the lapel.

  Behind her friend, Frankie was yawning widely in a powder pink tracksuit Summer recognized as Dorothy’s. It was way too big for her. Angelica’s mom looked as tired as Summer felt right now.

  Oops. She was supposed to show up at Dorothy’s this morning to get Frankie. Where was Dorothy going, again? Oh, yeah. She and Ernie were going to view Angelica’s condo. Well, Dorothy was pretty sure it was Angelica’s, anyway. If not, at least she’d get to find out more about Violet.

  “Sorry, but I have to run, dear,” Dorothy said. “Ernie is already downstairs.” She held out a little plastic container of doughnuts from the Hibiscus Pointe continental breakfast buffet. “Frankie wasn’t hungry earlier, but I figured you’d both want some of these. If you have some coffee, you’ll be all set. So I’ll let you know how everything went when I get back.”

  “Okay,” Summer said, taking the doughnuts and stepping aside to let Frankie in. What was she going to do with her? She was hardly even awake yet.

  She felt bad for Frankie, she really did, but Angelica’s mom couldn’t stay here. She was pretty sure Dorothy felt the same way about having Frankie hang out at her place. Besides, if anyone found out they were hiding her—well, not hiding, exactly, but whatever—they’d be in trouble.

  What would Caputo think? Or, even worse, Detective Donovan? He’d probably never speak to her again. And it wouldn’t be professional. Not that she and Dorothy were technically pro detectives, but still…

  “I hope you have a comfy bed for guests, Goddaughter,” Frankie said, as soon as Dorothy was gone. “I am not a morning person.”

  “Me neither,” Summer said, with a sigh. Hopefully both of them could just go back to sleep until Dorothy showed up and they went over to Hibiscus Glen.

  An hour later, though, she was still tossing and turning on Grandma Sloan’s extra-firm mattress, unable to fall asleep again. Frankie was snoring in the other bedroom, but that wasn’t the problem. Why did she feel so bad about selling Angelica’s mom out? Because that was what she and Dorothy would be doing.

  Summer’s cell gave a muffled ring under the pillow. Great timing. She needed a distraction.

  “Hey, Cali Girl,” her friend Dash said. “What happened to you yesterday?”

  Aargh. Right. She’d missed Juliette-Margot’s swim lesson. “Dash, I am soooo sorry. Dorothy and I have a new case, and I got caught up. And then my cell phone got stolen by one of our suspects but I just got it back and…”

  Luckily, Dash was a good listener and an awesome friend, as usual. He totally understood when she told him the whole story. But she felt really bad about letting Juliette-Margot down. The kid was only six, and really looked up to her, for some reason.

  “Hold on a sec, Dash, okay?” Summer sat up and glanced into the guest room. Frankie was still snoring away in there, big-time. If she snuck out for a little while to take Juliette-Margot to the pool, it would probably be okay.

  The kid could only go swimming early in the morning and late afternoon, though, because Dash and Julian, her other dad, were worried about her getting sunburned. Even though Juliette-Margot wore, like, 100 SPF and Summer had bought her a special sun-protected surf suit.

  Well, the two of them could do something else, then. Ice cream, maybe. Juliette-Margot loved ice cream. So did she. Even for breakfast.

  “Sure,” Dash said, when Summer asked him. “I’ve got a lunch meet-and-greet with a potential client, and Julian would probably appreciate a break. He’s been working really hard lately.”

  Both guys had, actually. Dash had a super successful design biz and Julian was a workaholic lawyer. But Juliette-Margot was always their top priority. They adored that kid.

  So did she.

  Feeling a lot more energetic after she hung up with Dash, Summer took a few long swigs from the water bottle next to her bed and bounded into the bathroom. Maybe she’d wear her new black sundress with the crisscrossed back this morning. Juliette-Margot would like it. Her mom was a runway model in Paris, so the kid had fashion in her genes.

  Summer left a doughnut and a note on the nightstand for Frankie, in case she woke up, and tiptoed out of the condo.

  Unfortunately, Juliette-Margot wasn’t ready for ice cream yet. Breakfast in the Hamel-LeBlanc household this morning had included strawberry waffles, courtesy of Dash. He’d packed a to-go offer for Summer, too.

  “So what should we do?” she asked Juliette-Margot, glancing into the tiny backseat of the MINI. “Anything you want. We could visit your turtle friends at the zoo, if you want.”

  The little blonde girl adjusted her enormous white sunglasses. “Juliette-Margot would like to go shopping, s’il vous plaît.” She snapped open her pink patent-leather purse with the bow on top and held up one of those fake plastic charge cards that came in the mail with credit card come-ons.

  “You got it,” Summer said, pushing the ignition key. It cracked her up that the kid always referred to herself in the third person. Dash said she’d started to talk that way when she was two and still hadn’t grown out of it. She also tossed in a bunch of French words or phrases whenever she could, maybe because she’d never met her Parisian-native mom.

  Shopping was a good choice. Much better than the Turtle Lagoon. Maybe she could pick up something to wear to the Majesty fashion show tomorrow.

  Her cell rang, and Summer pushed the voice button on her steering whee
l.

  “Hey there,” Esmé said. “I hope you’re feeling better this morning than I am.”

  “I’m fine,” Summer said, glancing into the backseat again. “Juliette-Margot and I are headed downtown.”

  “Well, good, because I have some info for you. Remember when you asked me last night who booked the Waterman’s gig for Angelica? Turns out all the models came from the PAGE Agency’s senior division. The place is right on South Fifth, if you want to drop in. No sign, but it’s a little pink building with black shutters. They never answer their phones or email. Too many model wannabes.”

  “Awesome, thanks,” Summer said. “We’ll check it out. Talk to you later, okay?”

  Well, that was interesting, she thought as she clicked off. PAGE had offices in New York, LA, Miami, Milan and Paris. Who knew they had a division for senior models in Milano? “Have I got a surprise for you,” she told Juliette-Margot. “You’re gonna love this.”

  It was easy enough to find the pink building, but a parking spot, not so much. She and Juliette-Margot had to hike a few blocks. On the way, a lot of people smiled at them, because their black dresses were almost identical, by total coincidence. Juliette-Margot’s dress was a little longer, but it looked super cute on her. She had great taste, that kid.

  Summer couldn’t wait to see her in a few years. Dash and Julian were going to be in for quite a ride.

  After a quick stop at Beanz for a to-go iced coffee to wash down the last of the cold strawberry waffles, Summer and Juliette-Margot climbed the three flights of stairs to the PAGE reception area.

  The whole place was done in black and white, with a hot-pink floor. There was one uncomfortable-looking slab of a couch with a glass frame and a glass coffee table with not even one magazine on it. That seemed kind of weird for a modeling agency. And who sat on a glass couch, anyway? Unless they weighed zero pounds, maybe.

  There were a bunch of blown-up magazine covers on the wall, though, along with a few very un-senior head shots. The young models, a few of them shirtless guys, stared down at Summer and Juliette-Margot in an intimidating, hungry way. Some of the women didn’t have shirts on, either.

  Maybe bringing a kid here wasn’t such a hot idea, Summer told herself. But she’d been around this kind of stuff when she was Juliette-Margot’s age—younger, actually—and it hadn’t been such a big deal.

  Anyway, Juliette-Margot had seemed thrilled when they came in. But now, as they approached the reception desk, Summer saw she’d sucked in her cheeks and pasted some kind of bland, uber-focused look on her face. And where did she learn that weird walk? It was more like a grown-up strut, actually. Yikes.

  No time to worry about that now. “Hi,” Summer said to the pale, angular young woman behind the desk. “Marta,” her name plate said. “I’m a friend—well, I mean, I was—of one of your models and I’m here to speak to someone about…”

  “You can fill out an application online,” Marta cut her off. “Or, if you really want to, you can do it here in the office, I guess.” She handed Summer a pink clipboard with a single piece of paper clipped to it. “Measurements, date of birth, any previous modeling experience. We’ll need to see your portfolio, tear sheets and a professional head shot to scan into your application, too.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” Summer said. “My friend was Angelica Downs and I need to…”

  “Look, I’m sorry for your loss,” Marta broke in again. “I really am. We’re all going to miss Angelica here at PAGE, too. But I can’t give you any special treatment.”

  “Juliette-Margot’s mother is a very famous model,” the little girl spoke. “In Paris.”

  “Yeah?” Marta’s thick eyebrows quivered like twin squirrel tails. “Listen,” she said, turning back to Summer. “I can save you a lot of time and disappointment. I don’t know who your mom is, or why Angelica sent you here, but you’re way too young for our senior division.”

  Well, duh, Summer thought.

  “And way too old for our main division,” Marta went on. “Our cut-off for Cover Girls is twenty-one and that’s really pushing it. And, no offense, but we’re definitely not looking for the next Christie Brinkley. The All-American, wholesome blonde beach girl look has been out for decades. We’re only signing edgy. And”—she nodded toward Summer’s milk-and-sugar-filled iced coffee—”well, thin. You probably already know, the camera adds twenty pounds.”

  Summer’s mouth dropped open. Seriously? She had made her point. She didn’t need to be insulting or anything.

  “Your kid here, though, she may have potential.” Marta smiled at Juliette-Margot and pressed a button under the glass desk. “Nancy, I have a STAT referral from Angelica Downs.”

  Immediately, a freckled, middle-aged woman with no makeup, wearing designer jeans and her hair pulled back in a preppy ponytail, appeared in the doorway of the office behind Marta. “Hey, come on in,” she said, zeroing in on Juliette-Margot and giving her an even bigger smile than Marta had. “I’m sure I can help some friends of Angelica’s.” She looked at Summer over Juliette-Margot’s head. “Terrible news, huh? We’re just devastated here. But the fashion shows must go on, right?”

  Right, Summer thought as she followed Juliette-Margot into Nancy’s office. At least until they found Angelica’s killer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So glad you two could make it this morning. You’re the perfect couple for this place, I can already tell. It’s going to go fast, of course, but you’re the first ones to see it. I have exclusive right to sell, by the way.”

  “The condo is for me,” Dorothy reminded the overly enthusiastic Violet. “We told you earlier, I believe, that Mr. Conlon is my attorney.”

  Beside her, Ernie gave a distinctly self-satisfied chuckle. Dorothy frowned at him.

  “Of course he is.” Violet winked at Dorothy, and ushered them in through the door of Angelica’s condo.

  It was definitely Angelica’s place, because “Downs, A.M.” had been listed next to 3-A on the foam directory board in the lobby.

  “The Flamingo Pass properties weren’t designed on quite as grand a scale as Hibiscus Pointe’s,” Violet said, as she brought Dorothy and Ernie into the tiny living room. “But it’s a very good value. The only slight drawback is that this particular condo doesn’t have a spectacular view.”

  Ernie pulled back one of the striped satin drapes, revealing a looming, gray cinderblock wall. “Yowza,” he said. “You’re telling me.”

  “Extra fire wall protection,” Violet said, smoothly. “And just think of the considerable savings on the listing price and condo fees, right off the bat.”

  “What about the pool?” Ernie asked. “Mrs. Westin is a dedicated swimmer.”

  “Oh, it’s being renovated right now,” Violet said. “Charmingly retro. But it will be lovely once construction is completed.”

  Ernie was doing an excellent job of distracting the overzealous real estate agent, just as Dorothy had asked him to on the short drive over to meet Violet at the Brooklyn Deli. She tried to listen with one ear as she made a quick scan of Angelica’s home.

  At first glance, all signs indicated that its former inhabitant had been a woman of modest tastes. But the artwork—intriguing, but mostly eighties-era pop art, which Dorothy knew next to nothing about—white fur rugs and expensive leather furniture hinted otherwise.

  The basic layout was similar to that of Dorothy’s own two-bedroom garden condo, but close to half the size. The kitchen was even smaller, but much better equipped than hers. She surreptitiously cracked open the fridge, which was well-stocked with various juices, French cheeses, fresh fruits and veggies, and a bottle or two of sparkling mineral water.

  Nothing very exciting there, but clearly Angelica had enjoyed a healthy lifestyle. There was one black ashtray set on the counter, shaped like the Ace of Spades. That had to be Frankie’s. How long had Angelica’s mother been staying at Hibiscus Glen? The bed in the guest room had been stripped of its sheets, and the closet wa
s a tumbled mess.

  The Milano PD must have been through here, looking for clues. Perhaps they had already removed any items of possible interest for the case. So far, the condo had offered a blurry snapshot of Angelica’s daily life, but not a terribly useful one.

  “As I mentioned, the seller is extremely motivated,” Violet was telling Ernie. “We could put in an offer today, before this steal hits the market, and block any other potential bids. So what do you say? You two—I mean, Mrs. Westin—could be all moved in here in maybe three weeks, tops.”

  “That’s motivated, all right,” Ernie said. “So who is the seller, anyway? Did the person who lived here die?”

  Oh dear. Dorothy hoped her friend’s question wouldn’t upset Violet. Angelica was her sister, after all, and blood was thicker than water—money or no money. Unless the bereaved relative was a cold-blooded killer, of course.

  “I assure you, Mr. Conlon, this is not a stigmatized property in any way,” Violet said. “There have been absolutely zero deaths on the premises. Unlike a lot of other places you might look at here in Florida,” she added, in a slightly dropped voice.

  Dorothy half-froze in the doorway to the master bedroom. How incredibly heartless. And downright morbid. What was wrong with this woman? She could very well be a certified psychopath.

  “And not to worry, it’s not haunted, either,” Violet went on. “No ghostly visits or bumps in the night.” She gave a short, tinny laugh. “Hope you’re not too disappointed. Some people love a good fright.”

  Dorothy had a good mind to march back out there and tell Violet exactly what she thought of her utter lack of sensitivity. But that would blow her cover, tenuous as it was, and get her and Summer nowhere for their investigation.

  Maybe she should have been direct with Violet Downs in the first place, instead of becoming embroiled in this silly charade. But then she might not have had this opportunity to access Angelica’s home. Legally, at least.