Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Goodness, Dorothy thought. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn her friend was a professional model.

  These particular outfits didn’t exactly evoke warm, nostalgic holiday memories, but all of the young women had the figures and attitudes to pull them off.

  “What did I tell you? Trash.” Frankie stood up. “I’m going to the can.”

  “Right now?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yep. When you gotta go, you gotta go.” She started making her way toward the end of the row, loudly excusing herself to each and every person. Dorothy scrambled after her as fast as she could in the darkness.

  Thankfully, Frankie headed straight into the nearest powder room. At least escape was not her primary game plan this time.

  Dorothy positioned herself outside the stall, just in case.

  “You don’t have to wait for me or anything,” Frankie said, blowing her nose.

  Were those odd sounds coming from the stall actually muffled sobs? Dorothy’s heart went out to the older woman. Poor Frankie. Watching all those models must have made her miss her daughter. No wonder she’d needed to leave the ballroom.

  “Are you all right, Frankie?” Dorothy asked.

  “Of course I am,” Frankie said, in a wobbly voice.

  “Well, I’m just going to wash my hands.” Dorothy quickly moved toward the sink, busying herself with choosing between the pretty, star-shaped soaps. She wished she knew how to comfort Angelica’s grieving mother.

  The powder room door swung open, and a waft of heavy perfume with an odd undertone of cinnamon assaulted Dorothy’s nostrils. “Why, Mrs. Westin,” the petite blonde newcomer in the beige blazer said. “Imagine running in to you here.”

  The sobbing noises from the stall abruptly stopped.

  Good heavens, how had Violet Downs gotten a ticket to the Majesty fashion show? Wasn’t she from Vero Beach? And what an odd choice of activities for a woman who had just lost her only sister, and whose elderly mother, to the best of her knowledge, was wandering the streets and swamps and beaches of Southwest Florida.

  “Yes, what a surprise,” Dorothy murmured. Frankie’s feet had disappeared from view, she noticed. Was the poor woman huddled up somehow on the commode?

  Maybe the right thing to do was turn her over to her younger daughter. But Dorothy wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, at least for now. Besides, she and Summer weren’t done trying to get information out of Frankie for the case.

  She needed to get rid of Violet as soon as possible.

  “So is Mr. Westin—I mean, your attorney, Mr. Conlon—here at the show?” the real estate agent asked. “I’d love to talk to you both some more about that fabulous Flamingo Pass property we looked at together.”

  “Thank you, Violet, but I really don’t think…” Dorothy began.

  “I’m expecting multiple offers any minute,” Violet said.

  Dorothy sighed. She’d never get anywhere with her for the case at this rate. “Violet,” she said gently, “Maybe this isn’t such a good time for you. We heard about your sister Angelica back at Hibiscus Pointe. Ernie and I are so sorry.”

  For a moment, Violet stood completely still, her expression blank. “Oh,” she said. “Well, thank you.”

  “And your dear mother,” Dorothy added, ignoring a few slight rustling and clanging sounds from the stall behind her. “How is Frankie holding up?” She held her breath, waiting for the real estate agent’s reaction.

  To her surprise, Violet’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t know,” the woman said. “We don’t talk much. Mom can’t stand me. Never has. The only one she ever cared about was her precious Angelica.”

  Oh, no. Why did I ever bring Frankie up? Dorothy scolded herself. She’d gone too far. The family dynamics of the Downses were a bit beyond her understanding, but she should have been more sensitive.

  “Work is all I have,” Violet said. “It’s good for me. You know, helps me deal with things. Always has. No one ever talks about it, but Angelica blew all her modeling money on spas and clothes and travel, until she married Mr. Moneybags. I supported my sister and mom for years, especially after Mom’s business tanked. And did they ever appreciate it? Nope. Never.”

  Dorothy hoped Frankie wasn’t hearing all of this, but of course she had to be. She was just a few feet away, no doubt twisted into some excruciating pretzel position.

  And was all that Violet had just blurted actually true? she wondered. Angelica’s condo had seemed quite modest, and it hadn’t appeared that she’d owned many possessions, other than those few pieces of art and furniture and the lovely clothes hanging in her crowded closet.

  Violet suddenly dabbed at her heavily mascaraed eye with a hand towel from the wicker basket on the counter, and the cinnamon notes of her perfume rose to overwhelm the air freshener in the powder room.

  Oh dear. Maybe she wasn’t as tough as she appeared. “There, there, Violet.” Dorothy went over to pat her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, I’m afraid I’ve upset you.”

  “No you didn’t,” Violet said with a sniff. “I’m fine.” She blew her nose and looked at Dorothy, her eyes glistening very slightly with what might have been tears. Or maybe not. “So you’ll look at the Flamingo Pass property again?”

  What? Dorothy dropped her hand from the real estate agent’s shoulder in dismay. She couldn’t possibly be that uncaring and driven.

  Should she mention that she knew Violet’s mother was missing from Hibiscus Glen? Surely her concern for Frankie’s welfare would outweigh the prospect of any lost business dealings.

  Unless she was simply a cold-blooded fish. A jealous, money-hungry shark who had killed her only sister—and whose elderly mother might be her next prey.

  “We’ll see about the condo, Violet,” Dorothy said. “Let me consult my attorney again, and we’ll get back to you. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to return to the fashion show.”

  “All right, Mrs. Westin,” Violet said, tossing a few business cards onto the marble counter and heading toward the door. “I’ll expect to hear from you very soon, then.”

  You can count on that, Dorothy told her silently. As soon as the real estate agent was safely gone, she turned and knocked on Frankie’s locked stall door. “You can come out now, Frankie,” she said.

  No answer. “Frankie?” Dorothy called, more loudly.

  Still silence. She frowned in concern and put her eye up to the thin crack of open space near the door hinges.

  To her dismay, an air-conditioning grate lay across the seat of the commode, and a gaping hole was visible in the wall behind it—just large enough for a very petite woman to squeeze through.

  Frankie was gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Quick, raise your arms.”

  With a silent sigh, Summer did as she was told. It was pretty weird having two total strangers dress you. Not that she was super modest or anything, but it made her feel kind of stupid and helpless.

  It was almost time for the big finale—yay—of the Majesty holiday show, and she’d hardly had a chance to breathe, let alone investigate for the case. Monique never let her out of her sight, especially now that Summer was wearing her trashy, tailed, tomato dress.

  She had learned one thing, from a glance at the program credits: Monique’s last name was Belleek. Too bad the boutique owner hadn’t added it into her store name. Monique Belleek’s Boutique. Ha. But if that was Monique’s married name, maybe she could look up her ex-husband, and ask him about Angelica.

  Did he even know she’d been murdered?

  Roland Cho had been almost as much of a giant pain in the butt as Monique so far, too. He kept popping up to check on the models every two seconds, and changing out jewelry pieces just before they hit the stage. Right now she was wearing some ruby-and-onyx drop earrings that really weren’t too bad. In fact, she might even wear them herself, for the right situation.

  Speaking of which, she’d only spotted Detective Donovan and his grandma once or twice
in the audience. One of them must have talked the fashion show security people into letting them in without Peggy’s plus-one ticket. Summer’s money was on Peggy.

  The lights were too bright for her to see much, but she’d caught Shane smiling—just a little—during that merry widow number with the cupcakes and candy canes. Beside him, Peggy hadn’t been smiling at her at all, but that wasn’t exactly a huge shocker.

  “Hey, Summer. You’re really burning up the runway out there.”

  Summer turned, just as one of the assistants gave a yank on the side zipper of the monster tomato dress, catching her skin. “Ouch!” she yelped.

  “Sorry if I scared you there.” Mia Rivera-Jones, a good friend of Summer’s since they’d met on her and Dorothy’s first case, grinned and waggled her fingers with a blinding flash of bling.

  “Yeah, guess I’ve been a little jumpy lately,” Summer said, as the wardrobe assistants took off to torture another model who was totally stuck in her dress. These sample sizes were way too tight on all of them. “I thought you were on another cruise. Cozumel this time, right?”

  “Well, I was on a cruise,” Mia said. “For, like, a week. The whole crew and half the passengers came down with norovirus, can you believe it? Not me and the girls, though, thank the stars. But we had to return to port, anyway.”

  “Gee, too bad,” Summer said. There was a really good reason she never did cruises. But Mia, who was what one of Summer’s stepmoms used to call “filthy rich,” always had a lot of time and extra cash on hand.

  “It turned out to be a good thing, actually,” Mia said. “My mom is going totally crazy with all the prep work for her charity deal. It’s the last show of Milano Fashion Week, at her and Daddy’s place. Resort wear. So now that my holidays are ruined, anyway, I might as well help. Want another modeling gig?”

  “Yeah. Maybe when Florida freezes over,” Summer said, as she spotted Roland hurrying toward them. What did he want now? She was not giving up the red-and-black earrings.

  “Mia!” Roland said, as he came up in his baggy black jumpsuit and little red scarf that matched his beret. The two of them exchanged air kisses, to Summer’s disgust. “How is that little diamond-and-sapphire number of mine working out for you?”

  “Oh, I’ve gotten tons of compliments on it,” Mia said. “I just wore it to a friend’s wedding, so you may be getting a few calls soon. Thanks again for such a generous gift.”

  Gift? Summer frowned. Ol’ Roland probably wouldn’t even give her a model’s discount. Unless maybe she had Mia ask him for her.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Monique said, clapping her hands at Summer as she passed them at a fast clip. “No time for chit-chat. Everyone should be backstage at the ballroom by now and lining up for the finale. Roland, you’ll be the last designer out at the credits.”

  “Guess I’ll see you later,” Summer told Mia.

  The pretty socialite nodded. “Right. I’d better get back to my seat. Wouldn’t want to miss a minute.” She raised a perfectly shaped, dark eyebrow toward the tomato bag. “Nice dress there.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Summer muttered, bending down to adjust the back strap of her red satin shoes over her newly blistered heel.

  Roland leaned his spiky head down close to hers. “Watch those earrings,” he said. “I don’t want anything happening to them, or it’s on you. Those particular gems are irreplaceable, you know.”

  Summer stood up fast to get him out of her face. “They’re attached to my ears,” she said. “Super tight. Do you really think they’re going to drop off or something?”

  “No,” Roland said. “I was pointing out the less than slim possibility that someone might want to steal them.”

  Summer frowned, and did a quick check around her. She had seen Zoe Z and her agent in the audience, right up front, during her second walk. As far as she knew, though, the sticky-fingered brat hadn’t shown up backstage.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Roland. “Your precious earrings are safe with me. They’d have to rip them out of my ears.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily other people I was referring to.” Roland gave her a pointed, condescending look.

  What a jerk. Summer wanted to bop him on the head with her uncomfortable red shoe.

  “Summer!” Monique was waving her arms around over her head, looking frantic. “Over here. NOW!”

  Summer obeyed, almost tripping over Roland on her way. How had Angelica put up with all these annoying people? she wondered. Being a model, even a fill-in one for a night, was a lot harder work than she’d thought.

  Plus, she was starving. They’d put out a service table backstage for the crew, but Monique wouldn’t let any of the models eat anything, in case they spilled stuff on their clothes.

  Martha Kirk and her Silver Belles bestie were announcing the finale as Summer arrived backstage and took her place in line behind Bryana.

  “I can’t wait ’til this is over,” Bryana said. “Want to catch a drink with me afterward? Or a salad?”

  “Sorry,” Summer said. “I would, but my friends are here and I might have a date later.” Hopefully, unless Shane was totally repulsed by this hot-mess dress. He might even change his mind about Saturday night.

  How could she try to find him afterward with all those people out there, and his grandma to boot? She’d have to change and get out of here ASAP.

  Except she still had to get paid. There was a PAGE rep around here somewhere who was supposed to hand out checks.

  Maybe Detective Donovan would come backstage to find her. But if not, it didn’t matter, because she’d see him tomorrow night.

  Except…oh, no. She’d totally forgotten about Frankie. She couldn’t go out and leave Dorothy to deal with her alone. Rats.

  “Go.” Monique gave her an impatient little push from behind and Summer suddenly realized that the music and clapping had gotten a lot louder and Bryana had already started her walk.

  Here goes nothing, Summer told herself, stepping through the curtain. She had to remember not to smile, which wasn’t too hard, as she walked to the edge of the stage floor and stood still for a couple of seconds, hand on one thrust-out hip.

  The pounding semi-techno music gave way to the sound of sleigh bells as the spotlight turned to ice blue. Fake snow began to fall over the stage and the long aisle through the grand ballroom.

  Summer felt the flakes hitting her head and shoulders as she made her way the length of the room, stopped to pose, and headed back toward the stage again. This end part of the show was actually kind of cool.

  Or it would be, if she didn’t have to parade around in a stupid tail. Hopefully people wouldn’t notice the ugly bow, but she was pretty sure it was a standout element. Dash and Mia were never going to let her hear the end of it.

  As she approached the stage, she saw Juliette-Margot on Dash’s shoulders, waving with one hand as she held onto her father’s neck with the other. So cute. The kid was thrilled. This time Summer had to resist the temptation to smile.

  Martha began calling names out over her microphone, and the clothing, jewelry, hat and handbag designers came out on stage, one by one, to take their bows. The crowd was applauding like crazy, and cell phone camera flashes went off everywhere in Summer’s face.

  “And last but not least, let’s all give a Majestic round of appreciation for the world’s latest jewelry design sensation, Roland Cho!” Martha practically screamed.

  The world’s? Summer thought. Really? That was probably pushing it just a tad. The guy wasn’t that great.

  She took her place beside Bryana and the rest of the clapping models, just before the spotlight, red this time, swung back to the curtains and a giant burst of snow dumped onto the stage.

  Summer looked up into the darkness of the temporary catwalk above her head. Some guy up there must have gotten a little too enthusiastic with the white stuff. Or maybe they were just trying to get rid of the last of it quick.

  “Roland Cho!” Martha call
ed again, toward the empty spotlight.

  Come on, get moving, dude, Summer thought. She had a life to get back to. And a murder investigation.

  For a second she wondered how Dorothy had been managing with Frankie. Hopefully she wasn’t going to get stuck putting her up for the night again.

  The curtains finally parted, after a few false starts from someone bumbling around behind them, and Roland stepped out to more applause than anyone else had gotten so far.

  Except he didn’t step, exactly. He was kind of lurching around, as if he had no clue where he was.

  Then Summer saw the bright red line running down the side of his head, and it had nothing to do with the color of the spotlight.

  Blood, she realized in horror, just as the designer fell heavily forward, flat on his face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Okay, that’s it,” Dash said, shielding Juliette-Margot from the crowd of fashion show participants and audience members pressing toward Roland Cho’s inert body on the stage. “We’re going home. This is no place for kids. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “What about Summer?” Dorothy said, craning her neck in hopes of spotting her friend. All of the lights in the ballroom had come on by now, but her view was completely blocked by Gladys Rumway. The large woman was watching the action at the front of the room with rapt attention as she talked animatedly on her cell phone.

  “Don’t worry, Summer will be okay,” Dash said, placing his wide-eyed and unusually speechless young daughter in front of him to guide her through the crowded row. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you, Dorothy?”

  “Thanks, but I think I should stay,” Dorothy said. “Summer and I need to try to find out what happened. It’s very likely Roland was attacked by the same person who killed Angelica Downs.”

  “Even more reason to leave,” Dash said. “Julian’s home, so worst case I can come back again after we get Juliette-Margot to bed and pick you two up. And your friend Frankie if you find her, too.”