Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  “Look on the bright side, Dorothy,” Summer said. “Those security goons didn’t call the cops on us.”

  “Well, they would have, if Mia hadn’t seen your text,” Dorothy said. “And at least that necklace I found in the shower room got locked up safe and sound. Imagine, she didn’t even remember leaving it there.”

  “Guess that’s what happens when you own a ton of bling,” Summer said, cheerfully. “I misplace stuff all the time, and I don’t have half the rocks she does.”

  “Mmm,” Dorothy said. She herself had lost her engagement ring in the ocean once. Harlan had replaced it on their twenty-fifth anniversary.

  “So what do you say, should we go back out and do some more hunting for Frankie?” Summer said. “Not that we had much luck this afternoon, and we spent hours. We must have covered half of Milano, including the fabulous bus station. Glad I can check that last one off my bucket list. Where else can we look?”

  “Are you sure there were no direct buses to Vegas?” Dorothy asked.

  “Positive,” Summer said. “Just charters, no night departures, and I showed all the ticket people Frankie’s picture from that Missing poster Jennifer made. No one recognized her, even with the blue hair.” She reached across the counter to lift the lid on the cookie jar. “You never keep any cookies in here, Dorothy. Is it just for show, or what?”

  “Only to fool the ants,” Dorothy said. “There should be some pink-and-white MallowPuffs in the fridge.”

  Summer threw open the refrigerator door. “Mmm, yum, with coconut.” She drew out the package and popped a cookie into her mouth. “How many do you want?”

  “None, thanks,” Dorothy said. “I think I’m sufficiently sugared up for the day. Possibly the entire week. But all that extra energy will come in handy, because I’ve decided I need to talk to Violet again, in person. I’m planning to tell her I want another tour of Angelica’s condo before I can even think of making an offer.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Summer said, immediately.

  “Thank you, dear,” Dorothy said, “but I really think I should do this alone.”

  Summer’s face fell. “Oh. You mean, you’re just going to go with Ernie?”

  “No,” Dorothy said. “I want a chance to speak with Violet one-to-one. Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly safe on my own. It will be broad daylight, so I can get another look into Angelica’s closet for that safe, and there are plenty of people around Flamingo Pass if things take an unexpected turn. In the meantime, you can broach the Hibiscus Pointe fashion show idea to Jennifer. You’re always good at persuading her to do things.”

  “Most of the time,” Summer said.

  “Good, that’s settled, then. We can compare notes tonight.” Dorothy smiled. “Or maybe you should take the evening off and treat yourself to a nice dinner. With a handsome detective friend, perhaps.”

  Summer flushed. “How did you know about that?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing his text come across your phone when you ran into the ladies room at the Fast and Frostee.”

  “Oh. Right.” Summer ducked her head to check her cell. “Looks like I have Juliette-Margot’s makeup swim lesson at five, anyway,” she said. “Gladys canceled, no surprise there. She’s probably still recovering from all that booze she drank, between the Majesty show and Mia’s brunch.”

  “I’m sure,” Dorothy said. Or possibly she was hot on the trail for her own investigation, following some important clue she and Summer had missed. Come to think of it, Gladys might be the perfect person to enlist to find Frankie Downs. It was impossible for anyone to hide from her for long.

  Summer was still absorbed in her phone. “I’m just checking out Violet again, in case any new info has shown up, before you meet with her,” she said. “She seems pretty legit. So far I really haven’t found anything at all about her personal life. It’s a hundred percent Real Estate City here. A bunch of pretty lame ads, a few ribbon-cuttings and charity deals in the Vero Beach papers, and someone interviewed her last week for a local real estate board newsletter. She does a lot of promotional videos on her Facebook page, though. Want to see?” She held out her phone.

  “No, thank you,” Dorothy said. “I can imagine.” She’d be hearing Violet’s latest sales pitch soon enough.

  “Her online reviews say she’s the best real estate agent in Florida,” Summer went on. “Maybe even the whole country. Look, all these five stars out of five. Huh.”

  It was sad, in a way, that Violet appeared to have no personal life whatsoever. Or else she kept it extremely well hidden. Perhaps that idea was much more worrisome.

  “Oh, wait, here we go,” Summer said. “Here’s a one-star. The person says she wished she could give zero stars, but the system wouldn’t let her. Violet bugged her for months, even after she told her she’d changed her mind about buying anything.”

  “Not surprising,” Dorothy murmured. She’d probably pester her and Ernie nonstop as well, once she found out they weren’t really interested in Angelica’s condo.

  “Oooh, this is the best,” Summer added. “Listen to how the review ends: ‘Whatever you do, avoid hiring Violet Downs to be your real estate agent. Otherwise you may have to change your phone number and move out of state like we did.’ Yikes.”

  “Good heavens,” Dorothy said. “That’s horrifying. Hopefully the person is exaggerating.”

  “From what we know of Violet, probably not,” Summer said. “I bet she put up all those five-star reviews herself.”

  “How unethical,” Dorothy said. “Which reminds me… I’ll be right back.”

  She went into the bedroom and straight to the little metal cough drop box on her nightstand. She had almost forgotten she’d been holding on to the diamond earring she’d discovered on the floor in Angelica’s condo.

  She headed back to the kitchen and showed the earring to Summer. “I should have handed it over to Violet right away, or at least left it there in the condo somewhere,” she said, after explaining how she happened to be in possession of a piece of jewelry that belonged to a dead woman. “I’m not sure why I didn’t, but Violet did startle me at the time.”

  Summer turned the earring over in her hands, then held it up to the light. “Nice setting. Looks like real gold. Do you think the diamond is real?”

  “I have no idea,” Dorothy said, “but it doesn’t matter. It belongs to Angelica’s family now, or to whomever else she named in her will.”

  “If she had one,” Summer said. “Maybe I can find that out from Detective Donovan tonight.” She brought the earring close to her mouth, and blew on it.

  “What are you doing?” Dorothy said, frowning in confusion.

  “It’s the fog test,” Summer said. “If it’s a real diamond, and you breathe on it, like you would in a mirror, it won’t get cloudy. Not for long, anyway. See? I think this might be genuine. We’d really need a jeweler’s loupe to tell for sure, but hand me that newspaper from the coffee table, would you?”

  Puzzled, Dorothy retrieved yesterday’s copy of the Milano Sun and brought it to her friend. Summer placed the earring down on a page and peered at it closely. “Yep, it’s probably real. I can’t read the print through it. If it was glass or something, you could.”

  “Ah,” Dorothy said. “I’ve heard of scratching glass or some other surface with a diamond to see if it is genuine, but not those methods.”

  Summer shrugged. “Hey, if the gem isn’t real, why wreck a perfectly good fake? And sometimes they put fillers and stuff in real diamonds, so the scratching thing is sort of risky.”

  “I’m impressed, dear,” Dorothy said. “But valuable or not, I need to return the earring to Violet today.” Or, at the very least, return it to the spot on the carpet where she’d found it.

  That way, Angelica’s sister would never know she’d taken it. And it was sad to admit, but deep in her heart she felt less than eager to hand over anything of Angelica’s to a woman who seemed so greedy and heartless—and may even have been her kil
ler.

  *

  “So what do you think?” Summer said, giving Jennifer a smile so wide her face almost split. “Is having a cool resort wear show here an amazing idea, or what?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” the resident services director said. “It’s the worst idea ever.”

  “What do you mean?” Summer said. “Everything will be totally taken care of. You won’t have to do a thing. Well, maybe just a few things. The Rivera-Joneses already have almost everything planned.”

  Jennifer glanced out her office doorway at the busy four-thirty traffic streaming through the Hibiscus Pointe lobby. Chattering groups of seniors, some with walkers or an occasional wheelchair, were already headed to the Canyons dining room for dinner. Most of the men wore colorful sport coats and the women seemed to have agreed ahead of time on silky floral dresses and color-coordinated beads tonight. “We can’t risk putting any of our residents in that kind of danger.”

  Summer gave a dismissive wave. “No danger,” she said. “The Rivera-Joneses are hiring extra security teams. And their people are tons better than”—she dropped her voice as Bill Beusel, head of Hibiscus Pointe Security, wandered aimlessly by in the opposite direction of the dining room—”uh, most other companies.”

  Jennifer was hesitating, she could tell. That was a good sign. “Some of them are ex-Secret Service,” she added. “Mia’s code name is Aruba.”

  She’d made that up on the spot, of course, but it sounded good. And it was possible that some of those goons at the Rivera-Jones estate could have protected the President, right? Or maybe a Congressperson, at least.

  “Roger will never go for it,” Jennifer said, nervously smoothing her shiny, dark hair. It was already perfectly in place.

  The Hibiscus Pointe manager—Summer called him “Roger the Dodger”—spent most of his time on the golf course, so he left just about all of the day-to-day stuff up to Jennifer. True, he yelled at the poor girl whenever anything went wrong, which was a bummer, but mostly he was happy if the residents were happy.

  “He’ll love it,” Summer said. “For one thing, think of the major publicity this place will get from hosting the last show of Fashion Week. I mean, there’s a ton of turnover here on a fairly regular basis, so wouldn’t it be a lot less pressure for you…”

  “Shh!” Jennifer warned, frowning and looking back at the lobby again. “You don’t need to bring up the turnover rate, okay? I get it.”

  Oops. Wrong tack. “Right, sorry,” Summer said. “But you’re short an Activities Director now, right?”

  Jennifer sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. Mrs. Rumway drove Dolly crazy, and she quit. Again. I’m trying to get her back.”

  “Well, there you go.” Summer leaned back in her chair. “You can tell Roger that you won’t have to hire anyone for at least another week, because the residents will all be busy practicing or getting ready for the fashion show.”

  “I swear, Summer, if anything goes wrong…”

  “It won’t,” she said. “You know why?” It was time for the trump card. “Because Dorothy’s going to be helping run things on the Hibiscus Pointe end. Not me.”

  That wasn’t exactly true, but it did the trick, just as she’d expected. Jennifer’s forehead actually unwrinkled. “Well, gee, if you put it that way,” her friend said, with a resigned grin. “I’ll talk to Roger. No guarantees, though, okay?”

  “Well, well, well.” Gladys stuck her poodle-haired head into the office, making both of them jump. “Kudos to you, Jennifer. I hear we’ve got a major fashion event coming up here at the Pointe this week. Don’t worry, I’m spreading the word. How’d you talk those hoity-toity Rivera-Joneses into it?”

  And how did you find out about it so fast? Summer wanted to ask. Across from her, Jennifer was looking a little green behind her desk. But now at least she wouldn’t have to bring up the subject with Roger. Gladys would beat her to it.

  My job here is done, she told herself. “Hey, Jennifer, I’ll talk to you later,” she said, getting up from her chair. “I have a swim class to teach. Hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Rumway,” she added over her shoulder, as she practically skipped past her through the door.

  The Hibiscus Pointe resort wear show was a done deal—well, almost—for Tuesday, and the grand finale for Milano Fashion Week. Plus, she and Dorothy were almost equally guaranteed to find Angelica’s killer—and whoever had attacked Roland Cho.

  Piece of cake.

  *

  “You did an awesome job today,” Summer told Juliette-Margot, wrapping her up like a tiny mummy in an oversized beach towel. “I think we’ll be ready to move to the deep end soon.”

  “Juliette-Margot would like that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the darker-blue water, and shrugged. “Six feet, pfft.”

  “Spoken like a true Frenchwoman,” Summer said. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you, kiddo?”

  “Absolutely not, Mademoiselle Summer.”

  “Well, I’m afraid of what your daddies will say if we don’t get some more sunblock on you. There are still plenty of rays out here today.”

  “That is nonsense, don’t you think?” Juliette-Margot said, but she hobbled across the concrete in her towel to the lounge chair where she’d left her pool bag and brought it back to Summer.

  “Think of it as a special foaming moisture treatment,” Summer said, shaking the can. “You’d have to pay big bucks at a spa for this. Close your eyes, okay?” No sense in torturing the kid like Petra with her hairspray.

  The little girl squeezed her eyes shut. “Juliette-Margot has thought some more about Santa Claus,” she said.

  Summer paused with her finger on top of the sunscreen nozzle. “You did?” Well, that was nice.

  “Yes,” Juliette-Margot said. “Papa explained that Maman could not come to visit us for Christmas, because models are very, very busy. Every week is Fashion Week in Paris, even at the holidays. But I need Maman to get here in time for the mother-daughter fashion show on Tuesday.”

  Oh, no. How had the kid heard about that already? On the other hand, this wasn’t the first time she’d underestimated Gladys Rumway, the Mouth-of-South-Florida.

  “So maybe if Juliette-Margot believes in Santa Claus, and asks him very nicely, he will bring her here in his magic sleigh for just a few hours and take her back to Paris in time for her next show.”

  “Umm…” Summer replaced the top on the spray can and tossed it back into the pool bag. “You know what, I don’t think we need that stinky sunblock stuff now. Why don’t we sit down at a table and I’ll get us some lemonade?”

  “Okay,” Juliette-Margot said, still huddled in her towel.

  Luckily, there were enough bottles of sugar-free lemo in the unlocked pool bar fridge to float Hibiscus Pointe through the apocalypse. The staff kept them on hand to head off all those resident Arnie Palmer emergencies.

  “So here’s the thing, JM,” Summer said, opening both of their drinks and sliding one across the glass-topped table. How was she going to explain how Santa Claus worked? And much worse, moms? Obviously, Dash had messed this up, but that wasn’t surprising because his famous mystery writer mom was one for the books. And so was hers. “Santa Claus gets so many requests that every once in a while he has to…” Her voice trailed away. Has to what? Break kids’ hearts?

  “Juliette-Margot wrote him a letter,” the little girl said, reaching into her pool bag again. “In her very best penmanship. And she sealed it with candle wax, so it would be extra special. And private. See?”

  Summer felt a pang as Juliette-Margot held out the pale pink envelope with a blob of pressed-down white wax that she had tried to write her initials in with a toothpick or something. “Wow. Santa is really going to be impressed.”

  “Juliette-Margot needs to mail it to the North Pole quick. The show is only a couple of days away.”

  The kid seemed so worried, looking at her with those big blue eyes. And hopeful, too. She’d have to figure out some way to let her
down easy, but now right now just didn’t seem like the right time. “I’ll tell you what,” Summer said. “I saw on the news that there’s a special box for Santa outside the post office downtown. How about if we drive down there and mail it right now? It’ll be on its way to the North Pole, special Christmas delivery, first thing in the morning.”

  So maybe she wouldn’t have much time left to get ready for her date with Shane Donovan. But sometimes a girl—especially if she was also a decent detective—had to be flexible. And do the right thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dorothy felt a rush of trepidation as she stepped into Angelica Downs’s condo, but also a tiny bit of relief. She’d arrived at Flamingo Pass without being kidnapped or murdered, so maybe she hadn’t made the wrong decision when she’d asked Violet to pick her up at the library and drive her across town.

  But there was still the threat of danger ahead, of course. She hadn’t informed the real estate agent yet that she wouldn’t be signing any contracts.

  “I’m so glad I was able to reschedule all my other important appointments this afternoon so I could bring you right over,” Violet said, flipping a switch near the door.

  The electricity must already be disconnected, Dorothy thought, when no lights came on. Well, that was fast.

  “As you can see, we’ve made enormous progress in getting rid of all that horrible junk that was in here last time you visited.”

  Oh dear. Violet wasn’t kidding. There was hardly a stick of Angelica’s pricey furniture left in her once-pretty condo. One small moving carton marked “Kitchen” remained on the counter, but the rugs had been rolled up and there were a few sad holes in the plaster where the artwork had once hung. The drapes were still in place, but most of the light fixtures had been removed.

  “The place does seem…larger,” Dorothy murmured.

  “I have a digital measuring device right here, in case you need to see how beautifully your own furniture will fit. So much better than those clunky, old-fashioned metal tapes.” Violet reached into her Coach shoulder bag. “If the space isn’t quite right, you and your attorney can just buy brand-new pieces. It’s so much fun to shop and the Milano design stores are always on-trend.”