Permanently Booked

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  “Or they offered to give her a break on her rent,” Dorothy said.

  “Well, they’re not doing anything like that for anyone else.” Summer tossed the eviction notice back into the bag over her shoulder. “I work at the pool for free and you know what the deal I got was? They said they wouldn’t kick me out because I was ‘underage.’ Not yet, anyway.”

  “Remember, positivity,” Dorothy said lightly. “Perhaps Jennifer can tell us whether Trixie had some kind of special financial arrangement.” She doubted that, though. As recent events in particular had shown, the Resident Services director took the confidential aspects of her job very seriously.

  Which was a good thing, really. Except when one needed to establish motive for murder.

  “I heard Roger telling Jennifer there was some kind of major delinquency problem with someone’s account,” Summer said. “Maybe it was Trixie, then, and not me. Phew. I still need to double-check with Joy that we’re okay, though.”

  “Mmm.” Dorothy riffled through another stack of Trixie’s old mail. “These go back quite a ways,” she said. “I wonder why she even bothered to keep them. Unless she planned to pay them off eventually, of course.”

  “Nah,” Summer said, with a wave. “She’s a hoarder, probably. Did you see all that crazy stuff she got into the RV?”

  “You looking for something, ladies? No one lives here anymore.”

  Dorothy turned toward the voice from the doorway. A tired-looking, dark-haired woman dressed in the navy-and-tan uniform of Housekeeping Services set down a bucket filled with bottles of bleach and Faux-Breeze.

  “Oh, hello. We were looking for Trixie Quattrochi,” Dorothy said. “To wish her well on her trip. But it looks as if we’re too late.”

  The housekeeper wiped her arm across her perspiring face. “Yeah, you are. And she’s not coming back. Good riddance, I say. That one never let me in here to clean, and now look at the place.”

  “Pretty bad,” Summer agreed. “Hey, did you find anything interesting in here when you were clearing things out?”

  “Depends on what you call interesting.” The housekeeper shuddered slightly. “I didn’t look too close, after that stuffed dead raccoon. A coupla antler lamps. And, oh yeah, a box of big plastic owls. The guys took everything straight to the incinerator. They’re on their way back for these last few bags.”

  “We could get rid of them for you,” Summer offered, just as two men in Hibiscus Pointe uniforms arrived with a rolling Dumpster and threw the bags in.

  “I guess we’d best be going.” Dorothy took one more glance around the now-empty condo. Trixie must have managed to take all her flashy jewelry, at least. Except, apparently, for the overly large turquoise and amber necklace peeking out from the side pocket of the housekeeper’s dress. “We’ll be out of your way.”

  “Where to now?” Summer asked as she and Dorothy stepped out into the hall. “Trixie didn’t have any neighbors. This part of the Towers is being renovated or something, because no one else lives here. I checked it out on Wednesday night after we got back from Dash’s party.”

  Dorothy sighed. This entire section of condos did appear uninhabited. No floral wreaths on the doors. No welcome mats. No fancy gold nameplates. “Why don’t we go back to the Gardens and see if we can talk to any of Lorella’s neighbors?”

  Earlier, the entire end of the hall in proximity to the deceased librarian’s condo had been crime-taped by the Milano PD—and then blocked by a folding metal grate. Overkill, perhaps, Dorothy thought. But effective in keeping out rubberneckers.

  Not to mention—very inconveniently, she might add—amateur detectives.

  They had just made their way over to Hibiscus Gardens and turned the corner toward Lorella’s former residence when Summer muttered something under her breath. “Look who beat us here,” she said. “Ol’ Mr. Bill.”

  Dorothy sighed. Sure enough, the security chief was headed their way from the other entrance, lugging a medium-sized plastic animal carrier. She waved, and he gave a small, pained smile as he continued toward them down the hall.

  Bill stopped and knocked on a door just two condos down from Lorella’s. The person who answered unlatched a thick gold security chain and poked out her white, pink-curlered head. “Oh, good, you’re here just in time,” she said. “My show is about to start.”

  Dorothy rushed over behind Bill, who set down the animal carrier and wiped his brow. “Oh, hello,” she said to the woman. “I’m Dorothy Westin, and this is my friend Summer. Could we talk to you for a moment?”

  “Sorry, I really can’t,” the woman said as the theme song for Afternoons with Eleanor drifted out from a TV inside, along with the faint odor of cigarette smoke. “And don’t let the…”

  Something fast and furry brushed Dorothy’s ankle, and Bill jumped aside. Behind them, Summer reached down just in time to nab a small, skinny gray cat.

  “Got him!” Summer said triumphantly.

  “Her,” the woman in curlers corrected.

  Dorothy reached out to give the animal a pet, but it shrank back against Summer and ducked its head. Poor thing.

  The woman opened the door a bit wider and Summer tried to hand the frightened kitty, paws frantically flailing, over to its owner. “Here you go.”

  “You can keep her if you want, young lady,” she said. “Because I can’t.”

  “What? You mean, for good?” Summer threw Dorothy a panicked look that mirrored the cat’s.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Bill picked up the carrier again. “She was Lorella Caldwell’s cat and I’m taking it to the Milano Animal Shelter.”

  Oh dear, Dorothy thought. No lost or unwanted pets lasted long there. “You’ll do no such thing,” she said, extracting the shivering cat from the crook of Summer’s elbow. “I’ll keep her until we can find her a good home.”

  “Fine. Her name’s Guinevere, by the way.” Margaret pulled her floral housecoat closer around her tiny frame. “The cops must have let her out the sliding doors onto Lorella’s porch and she got over on mine and broke all the vines in my upside-down tomato planter. I just ordered it off the TV, too. She’s a nuisance, if you ask me.”

  Bill was already halfway back down the hall. “Thanks, Mrs. Westin,” he called. “You’re a generous woman.”

  “Wait, ma’am?” Summer said, sticking her sneaker inside the woman’s door just as it began to close. “We really need to talk to you for a sec. About your neighbor, Lorella?”

  “Didn’t know her.” The woman nudged Summer’s foot back with her own matted lavender slipper. “Just her cat.”

  Dorothy’s mouth dropped open as the door closed firmly and the clatter of metal chain was drowned out by wild applause from the studio audience of Afternoons with Eleanor.

  Well, that, it seemed, was that.

  *

  “Easy-sleazy,” Summer announced as she slid open Lorella’s glass door and stepped into the dead woman’s condo. “What did I tell you? The cops messed up. Everyone always forgets to lock the porch entrance.”

  At least Lorella’s place was on the ground floor of a two-floor complex. Any higher, and she wouldn’t have even tried.

  “Good job,” Dorothy murmured. “Be careful of Guinevere, now. She must be even more frightened now.”

  Summer peered warily into the cat carrier, and the little animal blinked back at her. She was kind of cute, actually. Not all ornery, like Mr. Bitey. “She’s okay.”

  Maybe she could convince Dash to adopt the kitty for Juliette-Margot. She’d already gotten them that turtle, though. And cat fur might not go so well with the Hamel-LeBlancs’ designer furniture and white rugs.

  Lorella’s condo was small and superneat, even after the cops had gone through it—if you didn’t mind all the books stuffed in every room. The place was full of clunky, ugly old furniture—the creepy, dark, carved kind that would have been perfect for…well, one of those creepy Tudor houses. Or maybe Professor Bell’s office.

  That was what the
place reminded her of, except Lorella’s bookshelves were perfectly organized. But that wasn’t a huge shock. After all, the woman was a librarian.

  Summer felt a little guilty as she and Dorothy snooped around, but she tried to be as respectful as possible about the dead woman’s stuff.

  There wasn’t much in any of her drawers, and hardly anything in her closet. Mostly heavy materials like wool and tweed. She must not have gone outdoors, like, ever.

  No makeup in the bathroom, either, except for a jar of superthick face cream that looked as if it had been bought in 1948, a tub of generic petroleum jelly, and one classic red lipstick.

  The tube was Chanel. And beside it stood a bottle of Chanel No 5—the perfume version, not the less expensive toilet water spray.

  Nice, Summer told herself. Lorella had some secret indulgences. She tried the lipstick out on the mirror. It really was a cool, vintage-type color, but she hardly ever wore red.

  “That shade is called Pirate,” Dorothy said. “I used to wear it myself,” she added, sounding a little sad.

  “Yikes, it looks like blood.” Summer quickly tried to wipe the lipstick from the glass with her finger. “The cops will know someone was here if they come back.”

  “It looks as if Lorella turned the master closet into a little office,” Dorothy said, stepping back into the bedroom. “There’s even a desk in here.”

  “Her computer’s gone,” Summer said, joining her friend and running a hand over the desktop. “See, no dust over this big, square spot.”

  “Except now there’s a streak of red lipstick,” Dorothy pointed out.

  Oops. Summer reached for a few tissues from the dispenser on the desktop and rubbed it off. “Hey, there are some files boxes behind here,” she said, ducking under the desk. “Like the ones Lorella was using at the library. Nothing’s labeled—just a bunch of folders and a few Moleskine notebooks. Probably all her old professor notes. The police must have gone through them already, I guess.”

  “I’ll be right there, dear. Maybe we can take a few with us, and come back later to double-check the rest for clues, just in case.” Dorothy was busy perusing the headboard of Lorella’s bed, which had bookshelves built into it. No surprise here. The librarian must have run out of room for all her books.

  “Just look at all these Angelina St. Rose titles,” Dorothy added. “My friends and I used to head to the bookstore to buy the latest ones the minute they arrived.”

  “Huh.” Summer crossed the room to peer over her friend’s shoulder. “I actually read some of those when I was a kid. My first and third stepmoms were big fans. They didn’t want me to have them, though.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” Dorothy said. “Angelina St. Rose is a bit racy for younger readers, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess,” Summer said. She’d read some of her stepmoms’ other books that were a lot worse.

  As Dorothy continued to look at all of Lorella’s books, Summer made her way through the rest of the bedroom. Beneath a fake red rose in a vase, a small ivory and gold jewelry box caught her eye. She carefully lifted the lid.

  Rats. It was empty. Summer was about to put the lid back on, but her finger caught a tiny tab. Some kind of secret compartment? She pulled on it gently and her mouth dropped open. Underneath the blue velvet liner was a gorgeous bloodstone ring in a fancy gold setting.

  Where had she seen a ring like that before?

  “My, that looks like the one Georgiana was wearing at the party,” Dorothy said, coming up beside her with a tote bag of file folders.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Summer said. How could she have forgotten that? The ring Dash’s mom had worn was a little bigger, maybe. But otherwise the same. How could Lorella Caldwell and GH Hamel possibly have anything in common?

  It was a really weird coincidence that the quiet librarian and the famous mystery writer had the exact same taste in jewelry.

  But they didn’t. Georgiana wore huge, swingy earrings, and from what Summer could tell, Lorella had owned a single pair of pearl posts.

  She took out her phone to snap a picture of the ring as Dorothy headed toward the sliding doors. “Let’s go, dear,” her friend said. “We still have a lot to do before the book club meeting. But we’ll come back.”

  “Okay.” Summer put her phone away and slipped the bloodstone onto her ring finger. Pretty tight. But hey, her pinky was a perfect fit.

  Maybe she should take this with her, in case it was needed for evidence somehow. The cops had probably missed it in that secret compartment. And she could always put it back later, when she and Dorothy returned.

  Summer pocketed the ring, picked up the pitifully meowing Guinevere in her carrier, and followed her sleuthing partner through the sliding doors.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dorothy checked her reflection in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She had chosen her freshly dry-cleaned, peach linen suit—the one that always made her feel attractive and confident—to wear for the book club kickoff.

  A bit formal, perhaps, but as her mother had always insisted, it was better to be overdressed than underdressed for special occasions.

  Unfortunately, she could very well be late to her own party. Her mother had a few expressions for those occasions, as well—which did not, as Dorothy recalled, include “better late than never.” But she’d been at her wits’ end this afternoon, wrangling two very unhappy felines.

  “Bitey, stop that!” she scolded as she walked into the living room and discovered the orange tomcat chasing poor Guinevere around and around the ottoman. Fortunately, Mr. Bitey was not quite as nimble as the tiny gray kitty. “Get over here, young man.”

  He didn’t pay a scrap of attention, but Guinevere made a break for it and tried to hide behind Dorothy’s shoes.

  “All right, that’s it,” Dorothy informed both rascals. The three of them would be here the entire afternoon, at this rate. Fortunately, Summer was already over at the Magnolia Events Room, helping Jennifer and Parker set up.

  She reached down to grab Guinevere and carried her toward the powder room, with Mr. Bity hot on their heels. Thank goodness she hadn’t worn hose, as she’d initially considered, or they would be in shreds by now.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you,” Dorothy told the little gray cat as she placed her on the powder room floor and firmly shut the door. “But you’ll be better off in here.” She’d already put down food, water, and a makeshift litter box for her guest.

  As Dorothy left, she could hear Mr. Bitey scratching at the powder room door, but she’d just have to deal with the damage later. She had exactly ten minutes to get over to the Towers.

  “Hi, Dorothy!” Carrie Dunbar, her braids rather unsuccessfully bobby-pinned on top of her head, smiled broadly from four feet away in the hall. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Dorothy touched a relieved hand to her chest. “Heavens, you gave me such a fright.”

  “Oh, I’m really sorry. I heard you talking to those people inside your condo, and I was just about to knock. Sounded as if there was something crazy going on in there.” Carrie picked up the canvas book tote—custom-printed with the same tiara-ed photo as her business cards, Dorothy noted—from the carpet beside her, supporting it with both hands. “Wow, this thing is heavy. I’ve got so many of my books in here, you know? Parker said we had enough already, but I figured we might need some extras.”

  “Mmm.” Dorothy headed toward the elevator at a brisk clip. Hopefully, she had remembered to tuck that travel-sized bottle of Tylenol in her purse.

  Carrie practically skipped along beside her, even with the loaded book bag. “I wanted to walk in with you, Dorothy, since you know everyone. I’m on the agenda, right? I know A Killing Fog is my new book, but I really want to give a sales boost to my first one, Debut for Death, too.”

  “Of course,” Dorothy murmured, stabbing at the elevator button.

  “I have a few ideas to present them both, maybe right after Georgiana’s,” Carrie we
nt on as the doors finally opened. “What would you think if I started with—”

  “You know, Carrie, this is just a small, introductory book club meeting, really,” Dorothy broke in. “No doubt all of our new members will be eager to learn more about your novels, but overselling things might not be wise, at this point.” Or at any point, she added silently.

  “Oh.” Carrie looked a half-smidge deflated. “Right.”

  “Why don’t you consider redirecting your energies a bit, dear? Maybe toward promoting literature and reading in general?” Dorothy suggested. “For a start, of course.”

  “Uh, sure.” Carrie readjusted the weight of her book bag to one hip, hitching up the side of her pleated tan skirt. “By the way, Parker and I are putting together a few fun, low-key promo events this week at some trendy spots around Milano. Do you and Summer want to join us? And maybe, since you guys know Georgiana and her family so well, you could get Georgiana to come along, too.”

  “Why, thank you,” Dorothy said. “We’ll see.”

  Mercifully, an empty Hibiscus Pointe shuttle bus picked them up as they emerged from the building and delivered them directly to the Towers. If Dorothy had been forced to listen to this young woman’s chatter for another five minutes, she might very well have thrown herself under it.

  When she and Carrie arrived at the top floor of Tower B, Dorothy was astounded to see that the Magnolia Events Room was packed with residents—and outsiders, too. Gracious, how did that happen?

  Lorella would have been so pleased.

  “Great turnout,” Carrie said. “I can’t believe all these people are here to see me.”

  “And GH Hamel, perhaps,” Dorothy reminded her, lightly. “Not to mention they’re expecting a book club launch.”

  The young woman had the good grace to blush. “Oh, I meant that. But isn’t Parker just the best publicist ever? It must have been all those flyers. I am so glad I hired her. She’s worth every penny.”

  “Yes, she’s certainly doing a marvelous job,” Dorothy said, scanning the crowd. The publicity assistant was circling the crowd with her tablet, handing out promotional bookmarks and obtaining signatures for something. Carrie’s email list, no doubt.