Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  “No, no,” Dorothy insisted. “We’ll find someone to bring us back to Hibiscus Pointe. I believe there’s shuttle transportation, too. Go ahead now, so you can beat the crowd.”

  Most of the people were departing quickly, but quite a few were not, she noticed, after Dash and Juliette-Margot had left. Martha Kirk had called for a doctor over her microphone, and several physicians and nurses, retired or otherwise, were already assisting the injured designer. Fortunately, he seemed to have regained consciousness, and was sitting up.

  She still didn’t see Summer, but Detective Donovan was on the scene, directing bystanders away and fending off questions. To her surprise, she also spotted Detective Caputo, wearing a conservative-length plaid skirt, flat, thick-soled shoes and a black blazer. She must have been at the show the whole time.

  Off-duty? Or undercover? The latter, Dorothy suspected. Detective Caputo didn’t strike her as much of a fashion show aficionado. On the other hand, neither was she.

  What had happened to all the security the Majesty Golf and Tennis Club had promised to provide for the models? Surely such protection had extended to the show’s designers and crew members, as well.

  Dorothy started to make her way toward the stage area, but then thought better of it and headed in the direction of the main hall. She had to meet up with Summer as soon as possible. They could look around for clues directly backstage first, and then head over to the models’ staging area in Ballroom A.

  Hopefully they would also manage to find Frankie Downs somewhere in the enormous Majesty Golf and Tennis Club. By this time, they both knew from experience, Angelica’s mother could be just about anywhere.

  Dorothy had searched for her, without success, before returning to the show from the ladies room. She’d half-expected to see Frankie back in her seat, waiting for her with a disgruntled expression, but that hadn’t been the case. She’d told Dash that Frankie had had an unexpected family emergency, and had left.

  That wasn’t far from the truth, in fact.

  How was she going to break the news to Summer that Frankie had managed to get away from them again? That woman made Harry Houdini look like an amateur—especially at her age, for heaven’s sake. How Frankie had removed that grate and crawled her way through a narrow, stuffy duct was beyond her comprehension.

  Perhaps she had also escaped from that Nevada prison. At this point, Dorothy wouldn’t be surprised.

  Fortunately, the Majesty powder room she and Frankie had used was located on the ground floor of the club. But who knew how far that awful tunnel led. Or to where? Hopefully not anywhere dangerous, like a laundry or steam room.

  Right now, she reminded herself, her top priority was to find Summer so they could try to determine who had assaulted Roland Cho. Frankie, she felt quite sure, would be just fine on her own for now. The tiny woman had certainly demonstrated that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  Unless… Dorothy stopped short. What if Frankie had attacked Roland? There had to be some connection between what had happened to him, and what had happened to Angelica.

  Dorothy didn’t even want to entertain the thought that Frankie might have harmed her own daughter. Of course it was possible, she supposed. But what motive could she have had for that?

  Unless Frankie, a convicted criminal who’d done jail time, was so greedy that she’d murdered Angelica to rob her of that Roland Cho necklace.

  Or maybe she’d killed Angelica by accident.

  No. Suffocating a person with a plastic bag was hardly an accident. And the whole idea of Frankie doing such a terrible thing to a daughter she’d dearly loved—and who had taken such good care of her in her old age—was practically unthinkable.

  Now Violet, on the other hand…

  “Mrs. Westin?” Jennifer Margolis, the pretty young Resident Services director from Hibiscus Pointe, touched Dorothy’s elbow. “Would you like Garrett and me to bring you home? We’re taking Peggy Donovan with us, too.”

  “Thank you both so much,” Dorothy said, as Garrett Reynolds, Majesty’s head tennis pro and Jennifer’s new boyfriend, waved from a short way down the hall. Peggy sat beside him in her portable wheelchair, a snowflake blanket thinly disguising her bulky black boot. “But I’m hoping to find Summer. Have you seen her?”

  “Just during the show,” Jennifer said. “She made a fantastic model, don’t you think?” She lowered her voice. “But I’m so glad the whole thing is over. I mean, a murder and an almost-murder in the same week, at two different fashion shows—I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m not sure I can, either,” Dorothy said, with a sigh. “Tell me, has there been any news on Angelica’s mother, Frankie Downs?”

  That was pushing things, she knew. If Jennifer ever found out that Dorothy and Summer had actually had a conversation with the missing woman this very evening, the Resident Services director would be sorely disappointed. And probably more than a little irritated.

  And she certainly couldn’t blame her.

  “No, not yet, unfortunately,” Jennifer said. “We have flyers up everywhere, and I’ve been going door-to-door asking residents to keep an eye out for her. The Milano PD put out an alert a few hours ago, too. But so far, no luck. I really hope Mrs. Downs is somewhere safe.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Dorothy said. “I just have a feeling about that.”

  “Her daughter Violet is very upset,” Jennifer said. “She’s decided to delay any memorial service until after Frankie is located and the medical examiner releases the… I mean, Angelica…to the funeral home. She also wanted to wait until after the holidays, so more people could attend.”

  “Of course,” Dorothy murmured. Well, Violet had certainly fooled Jennifer. She couldn’t help wondering what information, if any, the police might have from the ME’s initial report. She and Summer knew from experience, though, that Detective Donovan—and especially Detective Caputo—were unlikely to share anything with them in that regard.

  After saying good-bye to Jennifer and waving to Peggy and Garrett, Dorothy slipped through the door at the furthest end of the ballroom, behind the stage area. It was easy to slide herself in along the wall against traffic, as models and crew members were streaming out in an ongoing flood of panic.

  The entire space appeared to be in chaos. A few young women were crying, and gowns and shoes and accessories were strewn all over the room as other models tried to extricate themselves from overly tight, high-fashion outfits or bulky holiday-themed costumes.

  Summer was still wearing the gaudy red finale dress from Monique’s Boutique as she hovered behind the curtain, in prime position to observe the now much smaller group surrounding Roland Cho.

  Detective Donovan and Detective Caputo were there, of course, along with a sole remaining doctor, a Majesty staff member who was literally biting her nails, and three paramedics who had just arrived on the scene. Gladys and the rest of the gawkers must have been dispersed.

  “I have no idea what happened,” Roland was saying, as Dorothy came up beside Summer. Her friend put a finger to her lips. “One minute I was there in the designer VIP section—starting to pack up my pieces during the finale—and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in a face plant on stage.”

  “Did you see anyone before you were assaulted? Did anyone say anything to you?” Detective Caputo said, scribbling on her tablet.

  Roland shook his head, then winced as he touched it gingerly. His hand came back with a streak of dark red, and he quickly tried to hide it in a fold of his baggy jumpsuit. “Someone must have snuck up behind me and hit me on the head with something really heavy,” he said. “I heard a crack—my head, I guess—but I don’t remember anything else. I have no idea how I made it through that curtain.”

  “The poor man,” Dorothy whispered to Summer. “He does look very woozy.”

  “He’s refusing to let them take him to the hospital,” Summer said. “But I think they’re going to make him, anyway.”

  “Certainly a v
ery good idea,” Dorothy said. The already-large lump on Roland’s head was rapidly rising.

  Ignoring the designer’s feeble protests, the paramedics began preparations to transfer him to their metal stretcher and a waiting ambulance. Just as they were about to secure the straps Roland jolted up, wild-eyed.

  “Tears of Atlantis, my brand-new masterpiece!” he cried. “I just remembered, I was holding it before I blacked out. It’s gone!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure it wasn’t stolen,” the Majesty staff person said quickly. “It’s probably right around here”—she looked around the topsy-turvy room—”somewhere.”

  Dorothy and Summer exchanged glances as Roland spiraled into meltdown. “Why is this all happening to me?” he wailed, kicking and pounding his fists on the stretcher. “I’m ruined!” The paramedics quickly moved to restrain him.

  “So I guess we know for sure now why Angelica ended up murdered,” Summer said, turning away from the curtain. “Someone wanted that necklace she was wearing at Waterman’s. And then they came back here to the Majesty show to steal more Roland Cho jewelry, and almost bumped him off, too.”

  “I’m afraid knowing the motive really doesn’t help us much for the case,” Dorothy said, with a sigh. “Any of our suspects so far could be a jewelry thief, and they’ve all been in the near vicinity at the times of both crimes. Or, at least, they could have been.”

  Dorothy saw Summer glance back at the scene out on the stage. Detective Donovan was trying to question the still-ranting designer as the paramedics began to roll the cart away.

  Summer yanked a loose piece of red fur from her unfortunate gown in frustration. “Well, at least we can rule out Frankie, since she was with you the whole time.”

  Oh dear. How was she ever going to break the news to her that she’d lost the person who might now be their number one suspect? Dorothy cleared her throat. “About Frankie, dear…”

  *

  For once, Summer was actually glad to get up early. She hadn’t gotten any zzzs, anyway, tossing and turning all night while her mind spun with all the images that would have shown up in nightmares if she’d been asleep.

  Beginning with the red dress she’d worn home last night, since her own clothes had gotten locked up by mistake in some room called Sand Trap. The whole key card system was down at the golf club, the girl at the desk had told her. She’d taken her name and address and promised her stuff would be delivered to Hibiscus Pointe ASAP, free of charge.

  Now Monique’s hideous creation lay in a heap on the floor next to her bed. Next stop, the incinerator chute, Summer thought, giving the furry dress a kick on her way to the bathroom. She wished. That’s where it belonged.

  Frankie was missing again. That was the worst thing, even worse than Roland getting attacked. And then Esmé had texted her at three AM that Zoe had gotten in a big scene with her manager outside some club after the Majesty show. Someone called the police and the paparazzi had gotten it all on tape—along with Zoe’s claims that they couldn’t arrest her because her BFF Summer Smythe-Sloan was in tight with a cop from the Milano PD.

  Zoe even had his picture to show them, and claimed Summer had sent it to her straight from her phone. Totally humiliating.

  Summer grabbed her toothbrush from the medicine cabinet and slammed the door shut, rattling the mirror. Any second now, she’d probably hear from Shane Donovan that he was canceling their date tonight. She couldn’t blame him, really. Maybe she should beat him to it and cancel first.

  She had to be a hundred percent focused on solving the case now. No more messing around. She and Dorothy needed to find Angelica’s crazy mom quick, before anyone figured out they’d let her get away.

  She’d done a lot of online searches last night when she couldn’t sleep, and she needed to talk to Dorothy.

  First of all, she’d tracked down—well, sort of—Monique’s former husband and Angelica’s boyfriend, Patrick Belleek. He’d been out of the office the whole past week, according to his admin at the law offices of Hastings and Belleek, and wasn’t expected back until after New Year’s.

  Summer did a quick check of his social media accounts. Yep, looked like he and his old law school buddies were trying to visit every pub in the West of Ireland. The pictures were plastered all over the place.

  Patrick wasn’t that bad-looking, for an older guy, but he should probably be a little more careful. Weren’t lawyers supposed to be discreet? Apparently, he wasn’t, because Monique had known exactly what he was up to with Angelica.

  At least they knew now that Monique’s ex hadn’t been hanging out with Angelica around the time of the Waterman’s fashion show. That didn’t mean Monique still couldn’t have killed her in a jealous rage, but it was probably a little less likely.

  But the big thing Summer had learned last night was that Frankie had been in “business,” all right. The jewelry business. As in, the stealing kind.

  Once Summer had started clicking, the articles and records came thick and fast. Frankie had even had a store in Fort Myers that went belly up after her insurance company refused to cover her losses for an unsolved robbery. Or so she’d claimed.

  Apparently one of Frankie’s employees hadn’t locked up well enough one night while she was off at some jewelers’ convention. And after her business tanked, she’d tried to rebuild her inventory by heisting a few major rocks from a Vegas casino safe.

  Incredible. So now Frankie was running around Milano, stealing more jewelry. Maybe she was on a bus by now, headed back to Vegas to hit the blackjack tables. Summer wouldn’t put it past her.

  But could she have been so greedy she’d actually killed her own daughter?

  Summer had had a few stepmoms who’d wanted to kill her, she suspected. Well, the feelings were mutual. But none of them had actually acted on those thoughts, luckily.

  There was no doubt about it, though. Angelica’s mom had to be her and Dorothy’s number one suspect now. And both of them had let her slip right through their fingers. Twice.

  Her cell buzzed beside her on the sink. She quickly spat out a mouthful of toothpaste and took a swig of water before answering it. Who would call her this early?

  Dorothy, probably, wanting to meet up to talk about the case. Or Detective Donovan, just like she’d thought, to let her know he wouldn’t be picking her up for pre-dinner cocktails at seven after all.

  “Hey, Summer.” Mia’s voice sounded a little muffled. “Can you hear me okay? I’m getting my roots done, so I’m calling you from under the dryer.”

  “Yeah, I can hear you fine.” Why hadn’t her friend just texted? Mia never called. This had to be serious. Summer checked the time again. Seven AM. What salon was so desperate for business they’d be open this early? “You’re downtown already?”

  “No, I’m at Mummy’s. Her hairdresser came to the house. But listen, I’ve got a major problem.”

  You and me both, Summer thought. She doubted she could help out her uber-wealthy friend much, other than being supportive. Mia didn’t have regular-people problems.

  On the other hand, neither did she, really. That came with the territory when you tried to solve murders.

  “Remember I told you Mummy and a bunch of her friends were hosting that mega resort wear show?”

  “Um, yeah.” Summer headed into her bedroom with her cell, and began to hunt through her closet for something to wear. When was the last time she’d sent stuff out to the laundry? Everything in here was dry-clean-only, and the bills were piling up.

  “Well, it looks like we’re going to have to cancel it.”

  The last thing she wanted to hear about right now was another fashion show. But Mia sounded really upset. “How come?” Summer asked, even though she had a feeling she already knew the answer.

  “Practically all of our models have quit, after what happened at Waterman’s, and then at Majesty last night,” Mia said.

  Yep, that made sense.

  “Someone from PAGE emailed me last night, after midnig
ht, with a big apology. And now they aren’t even returning my calls.”

  “It is a little early,” Summer said.

  “No, that’s not it,” Mia said. “They always return Mummy’s calls, because she’s a queen bee on the charity show circuit. I don’t know what we’ll do about the models. I’m hoping if we offer them double their usual rates, they’ll be willing to take a little extra risk.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Summer said. “If you throw in a little extra security, too.” No, a lot of security. Not that it had helped much at the Majesty show last night.

  “It looks like most of the designers are still in, at least,” Mia went on. “Even Roland. He checked himself out of the hospital already.”

  “That’s good,” Summer said. She was glad he was okay, even if she couldn’t stand him.

  “Listen, I can’t really talk anymore, they have to take my foils out,” Mia said. “But we’re throwing together a casual brunch here at eleven for anyone involved with Mummy’s show. You know, as kind of a psych-up deal. Even Roland said he’d try to make it, if his headache goes away. So what do you say? Can you drop by?”

  “Sure,” Summer said. “Okay if I bring Dorothy?”

  She could definitely use some decent grub this morning. And her friend would be up for brunch at Mia’s mom’s estate, she was sure. She could tell Dorothy what she’d found out about Frankie’s shady past on the way over.

  If Frankie was still in town, and she somehow got wind of a new jewelry scouting opportunity, she might just show up.

  Weirder things had happened. Especially when Frankie was around.

  And if Angelica’s mom was a no-show, she and Dorothy would get to hang out at the Rivera-Joneses’ estate for an hour or two. With all those designers around, they could do a little more investigating for the case, and grab some food at the same time.

  The best part was, they could question Roland—maybe even before any Milano PD detectives got to him again. Hopefully by now he’d remember Frankie sneaking up on him to bonk him over the head and steal his precious diamond choker.