“Move out?” Summer bristled. Well, he had a lot of nerve. Where did he live that was so great? His own grandma lived here.
Detective Donovan cleared his throat. “I mean, didn’t you say this whole old-folks thing was just a temporary arrangement, until you found a real apartment?”
“No,” Summer said. “I mean, yes.” This was a lot like being grilled by the Residents Board. And it was, by the way, even less of Shane Donovan’s business than theirs where she chose to live.
He was right, though. Originally, she hadn’t planned to stay here very long. Just until she got back on her feet after moving to Florida and things cooled down on all that other stuff. She’d planned to make her exit from Hibiscus Pointe before the second rent check to Syd was due.
But the truth was, she was getting sort of used to the place.
Besides, she couldn’t leave Dorothy now. How often did you find an amazing friend, detective partner, and grandma, all rolled into one?
“It’s not like I’m stuck here,” Summer said. “I can move out anytime I want. And it isn’t as if this is my whole social life, or anything,” she added. “I like hanging out with Dorothy, that’s all. And Ernie and his wife, Grace. And Dash, and a whole bunch of other people.”
She could count them on two and a half fingers: Esmé, who worked 24/7, Mia, who was off on an extended cruise after her ex-fiancé ended up dead, and—sort of—Jennifer.
One corner of the detective’s mouth twitched slightly, revealing a very small, extra dimple she hadn’t noticed before. “Hey, whoa, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Let’s start over. I just need to confirm that you still live here. You know, for the case.”
Right. Obviously, he thought she was a loser. “I told you before, I’m the aquatics director here now,” she informed him. “I teach swimming and fitness classes and we’re starting up a water ballet team soon.” If Helen Murphy got her way.
“You’re quite a diver, too.” Detective Donovan jerked his head in the direction of the board. “I was watching you earlier. Pretty impressive.”
“Thanks.” Now he knew she was good at two things: water sports and solving crimes. That was progress.
“I’m doing some film reviewing, too,” she added.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Your dad’s that Hollywood bigwig, right?”
Okay, now that was really annoying. He didn’t have to sound so snotty about it. She’d never told him about Syd. He’d found out himself, when he was checking out her background when she was a suspect in that other case. “Sort of,” she muttered.
Why did she care what this guy thought of her anyway?
“Okay, so let’s get back to business here,” Detective Donovan said. “Why don’t you start by telling me exactly when and how you found Mrs. Caldwell?”
Summer told him all the details she could remember, starting from her and Dorothy bringing the books down to the library, to the elevator ride with Trixie Quattrochi and her gun, to the weird warning about The Snake, and learning about Lorella’s possible professor boyfriend from her old neighbor. Dorothy had to have told him the exact same story, but the detective was taking notes anyway, on his phone. “Did you find Trixie and Ray yet?” she asked.
Detective Donovan ran a hand through his dark brush cut. “No, but we will. And we’ll be speaking with this Professor Bell also.”
“I bet Trixie and Ray weren’t really going to Montana,” Summer said. “I mean, she made such a big deal about it, she was probably lying. You know, to throw people off. That way, everyone would look for her in the wrong place.”
“Possibly,” Detective Donovan said. “But in any case, I’d like to ask you and Mrs. Westin to refrain from pursuing any possible suspects on your own. We appreciate your efforts, but that’s our job. Got it?”
Well, he sure wasn’t very grateful. She and Dorothy were trying to help, and they’d already made more progress on the case than the Milano PD. “Mm-hmm,” she said.
“No, seriously. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.” He smiled again. “Hey, I don’t want you getting hurt, okay?”
Summer hugged her knees under the towel. “Okay.” No point in ticking him off. He’d be really happy when she and Dorothy solved the case. Maybe he’d get to take a few days off and go out on that boat of his. He might even take her with him.
“Hi, guys!”
The pool gate swung shut behind Jennifer with a clang as she crossed the pool area toward them, carrying a paper plate covered with aluminum foil.
Summer sighed. Just when she and the detective were finally making some progress. She had to hand it to Jennifer, the girl always had great timing. Like Radar O’Reilly in those old M*A*S*H* reruns, who always knew what people wanted before they did.
So those had to be cookies. Yum.
“I thought you might not have had any time to grab lunch today, Detective, so I brought you a hot prime rib sandwich from the dining room.” Jennifer placed the plate on the little wrought-iron table between the lounge chairs and removed the foil. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat it now. I had it packed to go, just in case.”
Detective Donovan’s face lit up like the Christmas tree on the Third Avenue Promenade back home in Santa Monica. “Thank you, Jennifer. This is really nice of you. I’ve had nothing but coffee all day.”
Jennifer beamed as he unrolled the cloth napkin with the silverware she’d also thought to bring, and dug in.
“Um, I didn’t realize you were here, too, Summer, or I would have brought more.”
“That’s okay.” Jennifer looked really nice again, Summer noticed. She was still wearing her pencil skirt, but she’d ditched the blazer and undone a button or two on her starched blouse. Oh, and the little scarf was gone, too. One paisley silk corner was sticking out of the Resident Services director’s factory-store purse.
She had to be off duty now. And obviously, the girl had a ginormous crush on Shane Donovan. Well, she, Summer, was no boyfriend stealer. Time to go.
Detective Donovan paused midfeast. “Sorry, I think I got carried away. Does anyone want some fries or anything?” He pointed toward the steaming plate with his knife. “Happy to share.”
Those fries did smell amazing. “No, thanks,” Summer said, trying to get herself up gracefully from the lounge chair with her towel still in place. “I’m going to a dinner party tonight, actually, so I have to save my appetite.”
That would be a first. She never lost her appetite.
“Oh, okay,” Jennifer said, sounding unsure. “Have fun.”
“I’ll be talking with you again soon, I’m sure.” Detective Donovan waved his fork.
Count on it, Summer told him silently as she headed to retrieve her phone and pool bag. He’d need to congratulate her and Dorothy when they hauled in Lorella Caldwell’s killer.
Chapter Five
“Bon soir, Madame Dorothy. You are late.”
Dorothy smiled down at the little girl in the purple taffeta party dress and matching Mary Janes who greeted them at the door of the Hamel-Bernard residence. “You’re right, Juliette-Margot,” she said. “Please accept our apologies.”
Their handsome host, thirtyish Dash Hamel, shook his head as he came up behind his daughter, martini in hand. “That wasn’t exactly the etiquette we’ve been working on,” he said.
“Juliette-Margot is très désolée,” the little girl told Dorothy, just as Summer and Ernie Conlon came up from parking the car across the elaborate Spanish-style courtyard. “That means ‘very sorry’ in French.” She turned back to her father, with a slight frown. “But it is seven-thirty, Papa. Juliette-Margot has been waiting forever.”
Dash sighed. “Please come on in, everyone.”
“My fault, JM.” Summer stepped through the doorway, in her simple, perfectly fitted lime-green shift.
“That’s okay.” The little girl took Summer’s hand—the two had matching pink pedicures, Dorothy noticed—and gazed up at he
r adoringly.
“Cute kid, but why does she call herself by her own name like that?” Ernie whispered to Dorothy as they followed the rest of the group through the tiled foyer.
“I’m not sure,” Dorothy said. Juliette-Margot was almost six, with her own, very definite sense of style. “But it’s quite endearing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess.” Ernie, dressed in checkered golf pants and a red polo shirt, handed Dash the Publix flowers, the bottle of wine, and a box of mint-liqueur chocolates. He had carefully slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair for the occasion. “Thanks for letting me join you all.”
“Glad to have you,” Dash said, with an easy smile. He wore a casual but perfectly tailored navy blazer, a crisp white shirt, and immaculate khaki trousers. “Mother loves a party. The bigger, the better.”
“Whatever is keeping you, darling?” a deep voice called from the lanai off the spacious, open living room. “Are those your friends you promised? Do come out here so I can meet them.”
“Grandmère, this is Summer,” Juliette-Margot said, taking Summer by the hand and pulling her out onto the lanai festooned with white Japanese lanterns.
Georgiana Hamel, perhaps a decade younger than Dorothy—or perhaps not, judging from her taut, unlined skin and carefully chiseled cheekbones—was ensconced in a black-lacquered palm chair, wearing a flowing bloodred caftan. Her hair was done up in a matching head scarf. One equally red curl hung down the middle of her forehead, directly between her highly arched, painted eyebrows.
GH Hamel was one of the few authors Dorothy had seen in person whose book jacket photo exactly matched her actual appearance. Certainly, no one could ever miss her in a crowd—even in New York.
“Hello, darling,” Georgiana said to Summer. “Aren’t you a looker! Dashiell has told me so much about you.” She smiled, her heavy gold bracelets clattering as she grasped Summer’s wrist with long, red-taloned fingers. A large bloodstone displayed in an intricate gold setting adorned her the middle finger of her right hand.
“Um, nice to meet you.” Summer seemed nervous, physically caught between Dash’s adoring little girl and his intimidating mother.
Not intimidating, Dorothy corrected herself. Dramatic, maybe. Perhaps Georgiana had been on the Broadway stage before she’d embarked upon her writing career.
“And you are the lovely Dorothy Westin—and you, of course, are Dorothy’s very close friend, Ernie Conlon.” Georgiana settled back in her chair, looking a tad smug.
Goodness. Dorothy felt her face grow warm as she glanced at Ernie. The two of them were indeed dear friends, but strictly nothing more. Ernie was married to a wonderful woman, Grace, who had Alzheimer’s. The Conlons had a full-time caretaker living with them now, so Ernie was able to leave the condo for short spells, but he was entirely devoted to Grace, of course.
“Nice to meet you.” Even Ernie’s hand looked small in Georgiana’s grasp.
“I’m such a big fan of all your books,” Dorothy said. “Especially the last one, Good Night, Sweetheart. I was on the edge of my seat.”
Georgiana took a lengthy sip of her Manhattan. “Thank you. I always try to maintain suspense at the highest pitch possible, until the very final page. That’s what keeps my readers coming back for more.”
GH Hamel wasn’t the most modest person Dorothy had ever met. But the author was enormously successful and clearly worked hard at her craft, so she’d earned the right to boast a bit. She just had one of those large personalities.
Much like, say, Gladys Rumway.
“Now, Mother,” Dash said, handing Dorothy a glass of Chardonnay and Ernie a Scotch on the rocks. “I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about writing tonight.”
“True,” Georgiana said. “Trust me, I had plenty of literary discussion at that delicious independent bookstore I stopped at on the way from the airport—what was the name of it, now? Ah yes. Murder by the Sea.”
“So, did anyone recognize you?” Summer shook her head as Juliette-Margot offered her a silver hors-d’oeuvre plate of escargots steamed in heavy garlic and butter.
“Well, of course.” Georgiana seemed a bit taken aback by the question. “They were surprised, I suppose, but very glad to see me. I signed a few stacks of my new book for them—hot off the press from my publisher. They were still in the boxes at the back of the store, in fact. Technically, the on-sale date is—”
“Mother,” Dash warned.
Dorothy hid a smile. Georgiana had only been in town for a few hours, and her son already sounded tired.
“So you didn’t tell them when you were coming?” Ernie asked.
Georgiana gave a dismissive wave. “Oh no. I rarely give advance warning of my promotional appearances. So much more amusing that way. And I never have to worry about people not showing up for one of my signings.”
My, Dorothy thought. What an unusual approach. And perhaps a bit inconvenient for the poor booksellers.
The author leaned forward in her chair. “I jest, of course. I like to keep booksellers on their toes and make sure my books are highly visible. Also, it helps keep the crowds and the writer’s cramp from all those signings at manageable levels.”
Somehow Dorothy doubted that GH Hamel preferred the presence of fewer fans. In fact, she suspected Georgiana failed to schedule her bookstore visits because she enjoyed the high drama and flurry of a spur-of-the-moment arrival.
“I’ll be sure to sign a copy of my new book to you, though, Dorothy,” Georgiana added. “I’m going in more of a historical direction on this one. The title is Murder in the Moorlands, and it’s about a penniless young American woman who must solve a nineteenth-century murder at the family seat in Devonshire to earn an unexpected inheritance. In the process, she wins the heart of a handsome duke.”
“Thank you, it sounds fascinating,” Dorothy said. “I so enjoyed that setting in The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Yes.” Georgiana frowned. “But that’s where any remote similarity to the Sherlock Holmes tale ends,” she added, with a sharp adjustment of her head scarf. “Each of my books is a unique, precious gem, to which my fans and reviewers—not to mention my sales—attest.”
Oh dear. Dorothy’s face grew warm. She hadn’t intended to insult one of her favorite authors. “Of course,” she murmured. Georgiana herself was certainly unique.
Dash stood up. “I’m going to check in with Julian in the kitchen. He’s usually the sous-chef, but he insisted on preparing everything himself tonight. You know, so I could spend more time chatting with you all and Mother.”
“I’ll go with you,” Summer said, quickly.
“No, no, my dear,” Georgiana said. “I need to hear everything from you and Dorothy about your highly intriguing adventure this morning. A murder right here at Hibiscus Pointe, imagine. One never knows what dastardly deeds are done, behind the gilded gates of these Florida communities.”
“Juliette-Margot, come with Papa to the kitchen.” Dash frowned over his daughter’s delicate blond head at his mother. “Grandmère needs more ice for her drink.”
“Thank you, darling,” Georgiana called over her shoulder. “Two ice cubes, please, remember? Medium-sized.
“So give me all the details, ladies,” she added as soon as Dash and Juliette-Margot were out of earshot. “Did you know the victim? How exactly did you find the body? Was it a terribly gruesome scene?”
Beside her, Dorothy heard Ernie sputter slightly over his Scotch. GH Hamel certainly seemed eager for details. “I’m afraid we can’t offer you much information,” she said. “Neither Summer nor I knew Lorella—well, that’s not entirely true. I had just started working with her in our little Hibiscus Pointe Library—and everything unfolded so quickly…”
The front door chime—Beethoven’s Fifth—sounded from an artfully camouflaged speaker over Dorothy’s head, thankfully cutting her off.
“I’ll get it!” Summer called loudly, from the direction of the foyer.
“Hi there, I’m C
arrie Dunbar.” Dorothy could hear the newcomer’s perky voice all the way out on the lanai. “I’m a new author—well, sort of new—with Planet Press, and this is my assistant, Parker Pruce. We just heard GH Hamel was here, and I’m her hugest fan. Do you think we could meet her?”
*
Summer hesitated, glancing behind her for help. Dash and Julian were still in the kitchen. “Um, I think Georgiana’s a little busy right now. This is kind of a private party.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” the young woman said, pushing straight past her. Mud-brown hair, no makeup, a T-shirt that said Write On! Ask Me About My Book, and mom jeans that didn’t fit. She looked about Summer’s age, but it was hard to tell. “We’ll just say hello for a second.”
Jeez. What was her name? Carrie Something.
“Hey, Carrie, wait, you can’t go in there!” Summer called after her as the woman bolted straight down the foyer toward Dash’s living room. She must have seen there were guests out on the lanai.
And she sure moved fast for someone who didn’t look in shape.
“Sorry,” the other woman—Parker?—muttered, behind Summer. “I tried to talk her out of it, but she was just so excited.”
Summer sighed. “Yeah, I can tell. Come on in.”
Carrie’s tall, superskinny assistant was dressed all in black, a weird choice for Florida, especially when it was still daylight. Black linen jacket, black pencil skirt, black heels, funky black glasses. Her hair was jet-black, too, professionally relaxed and cut in an asymmetrical bob that angled lower in the front.
No way she’d gotten that style in Milano. New York, probably. Everything about Parker looked sharp, narrow, and pointed. Her dark skin was flawless.
“And who have we here?” Georgiana sat straighter in her palm chair, raising one crazy eyebrow way above the other. She reminded Summer of the normal witch’s snooty mother-in-law in Bewitched. Endora.
“You have no idea what an honor this is.” Carrie rushed forward and stuck out her hand to Dash’s mom. “I’m an author with Planet Press, Carrie Dunbar, and I’m kicking off my first live promo tour here in town. My book is A Killing Fog—maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Permanently Booked Page 6
