“I don’t think so.” Dorothy pointed to the sun-beaten sign on the side of the tiny gate house. It clearly prohibited camping, both on the beach and in the parking lot.
Summer shrugged. “A lot of people do it anyway.”
Oddly, the gate house was unmanned. Was it too late in the day to collect a parking fee? The town of Milano usually required payment for just about everything, round the clock.
She frowned but withheld comment as Summer pulled the MINI into the parking space directly next to the Happy Trailways—just as the driver door opened, narrowly missing her own.
Dorothy braced herself for Ray’s scowl—or worse—but it was a stocky, middle-aged man wearing a banana-yellow shirt, a canvas sunhat, and frayed denim cutoffs who emerged from the camper.
Well, that was most definitely not Trixie’s friend. Dorothy let out a tiny sigh of relief. It would have been nice if they had found their two suspects, of course—but maybe not this close up.
Summer hit the daisy-decaled sun visor above her head in frustration. “Rats.”
Dorothy leaned out the passenger window. “Excuse me, sir?”
He turned, wiping his face with his arm and flinging the sweat onto the asphalt. “Yeah?” he said, clearly disinterested. Then he spotted Summer, and approached the car. “What can I help you with, ladies?” he asked, placing one distinctly hairy hand on the hood.
Dorothy tried, unsuccessfully, to summon more than a shred of sympathy for the man as he yelped and jumped away from the scalding metal.
“My granddaughter and I were admiring your lovely RV,” she said. “Did you buy it here in town? We’re thinking of taking a little trip ourselves.”
“We want one exactly like it,” Summer added. “You know, with ‘Happy Trailways’ on the side. That’s so cute.”
The man’s gold wedding ring flashed in the sun as he clutched his other, slightly charred paw. “You wanna tour of the inside? My name’s Louis, by the way.”
Dorothy detected a quiet gag from the passenger seat beside her. “No, thanks,” Summer said. “We’re good.”
“It’s a rental.” A freckled woman in a khaki Australian-style hat glared at her husband as she came around the rear of the van, trailed by two children loaded down with brightly colored beach chairs, plastic toys, and swimming floats. A younger set of carrot-topped progeny was just emerging from behind the RV, lugging an enormous red cooler between them and bickering loudly.
“That’s even better,” Dorothy said. “Which agency did you use?”
“We just picked it up today. Cinderella Luxury Coaches, off 85,” the woman said. “North Milano, I think. But don’t waste your money, this thing is a piece of junk. It’s already broken down twice.”
“So sorry to hear that,” Dorothy said. Closer up, the RV did seem worse for the wear, with one semiflat tire and a large dent below the dirty windows. On this side, the worn—or intentionally edited—letters in Happy Trailways read Hoppy Tails.
“Some dear friends of mine just rented a vehicle and they may have used Cinderella Coaches, also,” Dorothy told the woman. “I do hope they won’t have any trouble. They’re going all the way to Montana.”
“Montana?” Louis’s wife glanced over her shoulder as he took off after the children, who were now pushing and shoving each other near the water fountain. “A woman in line at the rental counter said she was headed there. Told everyone she was in a big hurry, but she just kept on talking. Held all of us up.”
“Was she wearing huge diamond earrings shaped like Texas?” Summer asked.
“Don’t know what they were supposed to be,” the woman said. “But they were big and sparkly, all right.”
“Yes, that might have been my friend,” Dorothy murmured. “More of an acquaintance, really.”
“Pauline, get a move on!” Louis called from the wooden walkway that led to the beach. “The kids got away from me!”
“Sorry,” Pauline said, with a sigh. “Gotta go. Good luck on your trip.” She adjusted the wooden bead to tighten the chin strap of her hat and hurried away over the sandy parking lot.
“Those children certainly are rambunctious,” Dorothy said. “I hope their parents are able to catch up with them before they reach the water.”
“I swear, I am never having kids.” Summer pushed the ignition button.
Maddie used to say that, Dorothy told herself. Sadly, there was no way to know now whether her daughter might have changed her mind. “Surely you don’t mean that, dear.”
“Yes, I do,” Summer said stubbornly, but she didn’t sound quite as emphatic this time. “So, where are we headed? Guess we can forget catching up with Trixie and Ray now.”
“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “Why don’t we pay a visit to Cinderella Coaches? Maybe the rental agent there can tell us something about those two. Every little detail counts.”
She tried not to grip the car seat as Summer backed out of the parking space in one fell swoop.
With luck, Trixie and Ray’s motor coach had turned into a pumpkin somewhere along the road.
*
Summer tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. The highway was a total mess. Traffic. More traffic. Annnnd…yep, more traffic.
Spring break must have started early. Now there’d be a bunch of underage kids jamming the clubs every night, and all the decent restaurants would be packed with tourists.
Whoa. Did she really just think that? She used to love spring break in Cabo, and that wasn’t so long ago. Or…maybe it was.
Jeez. She was getting old.
She glanced at Dorothy beside her in the passenger seat. Her friend had to be broiling in this heat. They should have grabbed a lemonade or something from the Benton Beach snack bar.
“Hey, can you see who that is?” she asked as her cell rang. “Might be Donovan. But if it’s anyone else, don’t answer, okay?”
“Hello?” Dorothy said, into the phone. “Oh yes, how are you? She’s right here. But she’s driving, I’m afraid.”
Summer sighed. “Put it on speaker, please.”
“Hold on just a moment, Dash.” Dorothy fumbled with the screen, then looked triumphant as the deep voice of Summer’s best friend crackled into the MINI.
“Hey, Cali Girl, where are you?”
“Not home. What’s up?” She loved Dash, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit bummed that he wasn’t Detective Donovan. Not that she’d expected the caller to be him, or anything. But the guy had to question her soon about finding Mrs. Caldwell, right? It was his job, for crying out loud.
Maybe he could interview her over coffee. Or drinks. Even better.
“Well, I would have asked you this sooner, but Mother just called,” Dash said. “She’s shown up a few days early, gods help us, and she’s already on her way from the airport. Do you and Dorothy want to come over tonight for dinner? Mother is expecting a party.”
“Thanks, but I may not be able to make it,” Summer told him. “Dorothy and I are on a new case. I’ll fill you in later, but—”
“You mean the librarian lady who just got murdered?” Dash said. “The Pointe is in quite an uproar right now. Cops and TV crews everywhere. I’ve been trying to peel Juliette-Margot away from the windows.”
“Poor Jennifer,” Dorothy murmured. “She must have her hands full.”
“So what do you say, ladies?” Dash asked. “Please, please save my life and come to the dinner party tonight. You’ll love Mother. And Dorothy, bring Ernie, too. The more, the merrier.”
“Thank you, Dash, but are you sure we wouldn’t be imposing?” Dorothy said.
“Hardly.” He chuckled. “Mother’s already put in her menu requests. So, cocktails at six-thirty?”
“Count us in,” Summer said. “See you then.”
“Wait, Dash, what would you like us to bring?” Dorothy asked.
“Just yourselves. Ciao for now.” He clicked off.
“Well, it will certainly be lovely to meet the great GH H
amel,” Dorothy said. “But goodness, we can’t show up empty-handed. We should at least get some flowers on the way home.”
“Okay,” Summer said. “I’m sure we’ll pass a few grocery stores. Hey, look, there’s a sign for Cinderella Coaches,” she added as they finally reached the off-ramp for North Milano. “See the one with the revolving glass slipper?”
Oops. Hopefully, Dorothy wouldn’t notice those other signs next to it. Miss Kitty’s Gentlemen’s Club and Greenwood Discount Cremation Services. Summer didn’t know which one was worse.
But Dorothy was frowning at something else. Her attention seemed focused on the strip mall just off the exit, where another silver slipper—glittering like a disco ball—revolved on top of a tall pole in the middle of the parking lot. “What on earth is going on here?” she said.
“Looks as if Cinderella Coaches is going out of business,” Summer said. “Or else there’s a sudden big demand for Happy Trailways motor homes.”
At least five RVs and a few sad-looking SUVs were in the process of being hitched up to wreckers. A white stretch limo was already being towed from the lot exit. Some poor bride was going to be in for a nasty surprise.
Summer pulled into the entrance near a nondescript brick building. The sign in the window said “Cinderella Coaches and Luxury Vehicles”—with OUT OF BUSINESS stamped over it. “Well, that was fast,” she said. “Wonder if Trixie and Ray will get to keep their RV.”
“I doubt it,” Dorothy said. “How very odd, that people were renting from this place just a few hours ago.”
“Must have been an unexpected closing.” Summer leaned over the steering wheel to peer at the posted notice on the door. “Yep. IRS.”
Dorothy sighed. “I guess we won’t be questioning the rental agents, then. We might as well go ahead and buy those flowers for tonight.”
“Okay,” Summer said. “Next stop, Publix.”
Unfortunately, the entrance to 85 was closed for construction, so she had to navigate another round of traffic on the parallel truck route. At this rate, they’d be lucky to make Dash’s for dinner at all.
“Wait a minute,” Dorothy said, twisting in her seat. “Was that Jupiter Boulevard back there?”
“No idea,” Summer said. Everything in this part of town looked the same to her. Strip malls, outlet stores, fancy car dealerships, elaborately landscaped entrances to gated communities and golf and tennis clubs.
Downtown was another story, of course. Close to the beaches, the trendier parts of Milano boasted trendy boutiques, uber-hip restaurants and clubs, and famous art galleries. Not that she cared much about the galleries. They were a dime a dozen around here. But sometimes they hired model types—usually male—to hand out white wine and hors d’oeuvres.
“I seem to remember Lorella mentioning she lived off of Jupiter Boulevard before she moved to Hibiscus Pointe,” Dorothy said. “Somewhere behind the Jupiter Crossings Mall, which we just passed. Maybe we can talk to some of her other former neighbors.”
“Okay.” Summer took the next left turn. “Put my phone on speaker again, so we can find out her old address.”
After several rounds of the neighborhood under the equally-clueless direction of the cell phone’s virtual assistant, they pulled up to the curb outside of 831 Jupiter Court. The pointy, two-story tan and brown house with the crisscrossed windowpanes looked totally out of place on the crowded block of little pink houses with Spanish-tile roofs.
“That is one ugly place,” Summer said. “Like the witch’s cottage from Hansel and Gretel.”
“It’s called a Tudor home, after the royal Tudor family in medieval times,” Dorothy told her. “The style was most popular around the beginning of the twentieth century, though. You’ve never seen one?”
Sometimes Dorothy sounded a lot like a librarian herself. “Maybe,” Summer said. “But this one looks kind of haunted, if you ask me.”
“Nonsense.” Dorothy was already getting out of the car. “Let’s see if there’s anyone home.”
For the zillionth time that day, no one answered the door. And once again, Summer felt relieved, just like she had at the library. Look how that had turned out.
“Let’s go try the neighbors,” she said, glancing around at the other houses. All the ones besides Lorella’s had teeny, tiny pools. Did people actually swim in those? They were more like hot tubs, without the jets.
Stepping off the crumbling stone porch, she almost ran smack into a short, dark-haired guy carrying a large pair of hedge trimmers. He’d appeared out of nowhere.
Like a ghost.
“What are you doing here?” the guy demanded, in a low, gravelly voice. He narrowed his already-squinty eyes, closing and unclosing the clippers.
Why was he doing that? Maybe the guy was some kind of psycho killer, like the ones in those late-night horror movies? She tried to block Dorothy’s view, as her friend came up behind her.
“We’re friends of Lorella Caldwell,” Dorothy told the creepy guy, giving Summer a tiny push aside. “It looks as if she isn’t home, and we’re so disappointed.”
“Mrs. C doesn’t live here anymore,” the guy said. “I take care of this place for the new owners while they’re up North. The Johnstons.”
Summer glanced back at the deserted house. By the looks of things, he wasn’t doing such a hot job. Back in LA, he’d be fired pronto. “Are they coming back, uh, soon?” Hopefully not, for his sake.
The guy shrugged. “Dunno. They’re always changing their minds. You gotta leave now.”
“Oh, of course.” Dorothy made no move to go. “Sorry to have bothered you. So you worked for Mrs. Caldwell, too?”
“Yeah. Nice lady. Real quiet. No visitors, except for that brother of hers. That’s who he said he was, anyway.”
“Brother?” Summer said. “Does he live in Milano?”
“Dunno,” the guy said. “Drove an old black sports car with Florida plates. Just caught him here the other day, snooping around in the bushes. Coulda got his head chopped off.” He held up the clippers, and demonstrated on a small, dead branch hanging over the porch railing.
Yep. This guy was definitely a psycho. Either he didn’t know his old boss was dead, or…maybe he’d tracked her to Hibiscus Pointe and killed her himself. Maybe Lorella hadn’t paid him or something.
“How odd that he wasn’t aware his sister had moved,” Dorothy said, thoughtfully.
“I set him straight on that,” the caretaker said. “He won’t be coming around here again.”
Lorella’s brother was probably buried somewhere under the dead rosebushes. “Well, guess we’d better get going,” Summer said, quickly. “Come on, Dorothy.”
“Thank you so much for your help, sir,” Dorothy called over her shoulder, as Summer hustled her friend as fast as she could down the uneven walk. The stones were barely visible through the scratchy, brown grass. Lorella must have taken Milano’s rarely-enforced watering restrictions pretty seriously.
Things were a little different back at Hibiscus Pointe. The fountains there spewed twenty-four-seven and the grass was greener than the felt on the mini-putting green outside the main building.
Maybe that was one of the reasons Lorella decided to move there. Or maybe she just didn’t want to take care of her ugly, haunted house anymore. Who could blame her?
Summer was just opening the car door for Dorothy when she spotted a pair of eyes peering over the wood fence. Kind of like the nosy neighbor guy on that old TV show Home Improvement, where you never saw the rest of his face. But this person, judging from the curly white head with the pink visor, had to be a woman.
“Hold on a sec,” Summer said to Dorothy. “I’ll be right back.”
She jogged toward the fence—by now the psycho guy with the clippers had disappeared around the side of the witch house—and the white-and-pink lady had vanished, too.
Summer peered over the faded brown fence. She was careful not to touch it, because it was probably full of splinters.
The woman on the other side was crouched down in a row of red and yellow tulips, pretending to be invisible. “You know I can see you, right?” Summer asked.
Lorella’s former neighbor stood up and took a few steps back into her yard, half tripping over a flat of unplanted purple pansies. She just stood there, blinking nervously a few times. “Are you the Johnstons?” the woman asked, finally.
“Nope,” Summer said. “We’re friends of Mrs. Caldwell’s. Well, my grandma is, anyway.” No need to mention Lorella was dead, in case Nervous Nellie hadn’t heard yet. “Did you know her?”
“No, not at all,” Nellie said. “I mind my own business, you know.”
Yeah, I bet, Summer thought. “You don’t know where Mrs. Caldwell’s brother lives, do you?”
“Lorella doesn’t have a brother,” Nellie said. “No family at all.”
Summer didn’t find that idea depressing, like everyone else seemed to. She had plenty of family, thanks to all her dad’s marriages, and she couldn’t stand any of them. Except her sister Joy, of course, and their dad, when they weren’t trying to mess up her life.
Her mom, Harmony, was okay, too, but who knew where she was these days? The crystal store on the pier must not have worked out so well. “No brother, huh? That’s funny, I thought I met him once.”
Nellie pulled her pink visor farther down over her face and stepped back toward the fence. “Oh, you mean the young man who was always visiting,” she said, in a gossipy voice. “That’s not Lorella’s brother. He’s her boyfriend.”
“How young?” Summer asked. It was hard to imagine Mrs. Caldwell as a cougar.
Nellie leaned in closer. “Not a day over sixty.”
Huh. Well, that was no big deal. Lorella had to have been in her seventies. “Yep, that’s the guy we need to talk to, all right,” Summer said. “Do you know his name?”
“Oh yes.” Nellie nodded eagerly. “It’s Charles Bell. He teaches at Santa Teresa Community College. Lorella used to work there, you know, in the English Department office.” The woman was straight up against the fence now. “If you ask me, I think the two of them were having an affair.”
“So he’s married?”
Permanently Booked Page 4
