Permanently Booked

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Parker didn’t seem to hear him, she was so worked up. “And I’m finalizing details for a beachfront reception at Tangerine du Sol, courtesy once again of Maxwell & Perkins,” she went on, throwing her Algonquin Club—monogrammed napkin down on the table cloth. “What more do you want from me, Carrie? Blood?”

  Everyone, including Dorothy, looked on in shock as the slender publicist grabbed her bag and flounced off toward the bar, where she would no doubt console herself with her smartphone and another pomegranate cosmo.

  “Wow.” Ernie gave a low whistle, and Dorothy shook her head at him, very slightly.

  For once, Carrie had nothing to say.

  When Georgiana stood up from the table, looking highly amused, and excused herself for the powder room, Dorothy quickly followed. She needed to talk to her, and there was no point in putting things off.

  The author was powdering her nose when Dorothy pushed open the heavy oak door of the ornate ladies’ lounge. “Georgiana,” Dorothy said, placing her purse on the marble counter, “I couldn’t help but sense there was something you weren’t telling me earlier. About Lorella Caldwell. You did know her back at Wellsmount, didn’t you?”

  Georgiana glanced at her briefly in the mirror. “What makes you think that?”

  “Georgiana.” Dorothy crossed her arms. “I took it upon myself to do a bit of yearbook research,” she fibbed. “And I know full well that you’re not younger than Lorella. In fact, you’re nearly four years her senior.”

  The author sighed heavily and pointed to a floral satin love seat behind them. “Take a seat,” she said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You’re right, Dorothy,” Georgiana said, taking her e-cigarette holder from her fringed black-and-red clutch. “I don’t know how you managed to get a hold of those yearbooks, but it’s true. I did once know Lorella—at least, as well as anyone could.”

  Dorothy nodded from her perch on the edge of the love seat, relieved but not surprised that her suspicions had proved correct. Probably better to say nothing yet, and let the woman talk.

  “Lorella was always something of a recluse,” Georgina said, sweeping over to a chair across from Dorothy. “A mousy, tweedy little thing, really. But smart. She might have been the most dedicated young woman at Wellsmount, in fact. Other than me, of course. She spent most of her time in the bowels of the library, and we struck up an acquaintance while I was researching my thesis. Lorella worked night and day as assistant to an older, very well regarded professor.”

  “Interesting,” Dorothy murmured. How odd that she had become a professor’s assistant again, later in life.

  “At the time,” Georgiana went on, “I even thought the two of them were having an affair, despite the difference in their ages. But the professor was married, with a son. The wife objected to him and Lorella spending so much time together—they had a mutual interest in romantic poets—and that was the end of it. Or so she said.”

  “But Lorella taught at Wellsmount later,” Dorothy said. “Did she and her lover—or mentor, should I say—serve on the faculty at the same time?”

  “That was much later,” Georgiana said, with a wave. “They kept up a limited friendship and correspondence of sorts while she was in graduate school. Until he died of a heart attack, alone in his office. On New Year’s Eve. Intriguing, wouldn’t you say?”

  Was she implying the professor hadn’t been alone after all? Or that Lorella was somehow involved in his death? Dorothy wondered.

  “But here’s the kicker.” Georgiana slapped her silk-covered knee. “He left a fair amount of money to his former assistant. His wife was furious.”

  This was beginning to sound rather like one of the highly dramatic author’s books, Dorothy told herself, annoyed. And what did this story have to do with Georgiana herself? “So,” she said, treading carefully, “did Lorella confide in you, then, in any way?”

  “Not really.” Georgiana shrugged. “I pieced all of this together. More or less. The year I graduated—summa cum laude, naturally—she was a lowly freshman.”

  Somehow Dorothy did not feel confident about many of these details. Much of her story sounded like pure speculation. “Georgiana,” she said, with a frown, “why didn’t you mention any of this earlier? And in light of…what happened…you really do need to tell Detective Donovan everything you know about Lorella. Any detail, no matter how small or long ago, might prove helpful for the investigation.”

  The author drummed her long red nails on the arms of her chair. “I suppose.”

  Georgiana was still hiding something, Dorothy was sure of it. She might even know something about Lorella’s murder. In fact, at this point the famous mystery author herself could very well be the guilty party.

  Dorothy eyed the hand-fired, heavy-looking vase on the small coffee table between them—and the distance to the door, just in case. At this point, she wasn’t going to question Georgiana’s change of travel plans to arrive the day of Lorella’s death.

  It would be foolish to completely tip her hand regarding her suspicions right now. Not to mention, possibly dangerous. She might be quicker than Georgiana, but the author was probably stronger.

  “Whether or not you and Lorella were close, Georgiana, you owe it to her to help find her killer, don’t you think? We all do.”

  Georgiana’s eyes blazed. “Of course I want justice for Lorella,” she said. “She was a good woman. And solving murders is what I do, fictionally speaking. But…”

  “But what, Georgiana?” Dorothy prodded gently.

  The queen of mystery suddenly looked a lot smaller. “I suppose, since Lorella is gone now, it won’t matter so much if I break my vow of secrecy. But I suspect she’d expect me to keep it beyond the grave. She’ll come back and haunt me now, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps if she knew the circumstances,” Dorothy pointed out. Goodness, this was a ridiculous train of reasoning.

  Georgiana sighed. “You are a persistent woman, Dorothy Westin. So here it is: Lorella was also an author at Maxwell & Perkins. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. She was the fabulous, somewhat risqué, and famously secretive romance writer—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Dorothy said. “Angelina St. Rose.”

  *

  Summer didn’t care that Detective Donovan and Jennifer had said an early good-night to take his slightly tipsy grandma back to Hibiscus Pointe. Not one single bit.

  Why did Peggy always wreck things for her? Now here she was, stuck on a Saturday night, sitting by herself at a table in the middle of a bunch of dirty dishes.

  Dorothy and Georgiana had gone off to the ladies’ room—they’d been gone forever—Ernie had joined a poker game off the grill room with a bunch of guys, Parker was still at the bar, and Carrie was circulating at the other tables, offering people coupons for her next book.

  Professor Bell had disappeared somewhere, too. Probably lurking somewhere outside the ladies’ room, waiting to pounce on Georgiana with his manuscript. Dash’s mom would be lucky if he didn’t try to slip it under the stall door.

  She should have kept a better eye on him. Maybe she should go track him down right now, just in case he was up to something. She’d been distracted by the whole Jennifer-Garrett-Donovan thing. That was stupid.

  “Oh, Summer, I am soooo exhausted.” Carrie plopped herself down back at the table, right next to her. “Think I need to take off my shoes. But everyone’s been dying to talk to me about Debut for Death, so it’s worth it, I guess.”

  Summer’s Saturday night had just gotten worse. Much, much worse. She didn’t need company that badly.

  “Is there any more water left here? My voice keeps going hoarse.”

  “Sure, here you go.” Summer reached for the pitcher of ice water in the middle of the table and placed it in front of Carrie. The girl was like one of those old-school dolls where you pulled the string and they blabbed and blabbed. Chatty Carrie needed to promote herself more online. That way, at least she’d never know when people shut her
off.

  Hopefully, Dash had gone to get the valet. She didn’t even feel like going out later. She’d spilled tomato sauce on her dress, anyway.

  “So, where did you get that amazing ring?” Carrie asked, pointing, as Summer reached for her phone to text him. “Can I try it on?”

  What was it about the stupid ring? This was really weirding her out now. Or maybe she was just feeling guilty about borrowing it from Lorella’s condo. She should have put it in her purse when everyone started noticing it.

  “Hey, you know what? I forgot, I was supposed to meet Dash in the bar, like, ten minutes ago. I’ll be back, okay?” Summer pushed back her chair and made her escape.

  Well, she tried to, anyway. Carrie scooped up her stinky shoes and followed her, hobbling a bit, toward the bar.

  “Do you even know what wearing a ring like that means?” Carrie whispered, behind her, as they hit the main hallway.

  Summer stopped and glanced down at the enormous bloodstone on her finger. The gold setting glinted off the light from all the chandeliers, and the gem suddenly felt hot and heavy.

  She was more annoyed now than creeped out, though. “No,” she answered Carrie. “What?”

  Carrie glanced up and down the empty hall. “Those superexpensive rings are given by Maxwell & Perkins to their best authors,” she said. “After they sell their first million books, usually. You can’t just buy one.”

  “There are plenty of cool rings like this out there,” Summer informed her. “I know, because my mom happens to own a jewelry store.” Well, Harmony did used to have that crystal place on the Santa Monica Pier. “She had this made, just for me.”

  “Oh. It’s just a coincidence, then.” Carrie looked doubtful.

  “Yep.” Summer strode into the bar without looking back and slid onto a red leather-backed stool next to Parker, who was well down Cosmo Road by now.

  As she’d expected, Carrie joined them, but at least she wasn’t talking about the ring anymore. She and Parker made up after their little spat, and Summer got to order another drink in peace.

  Temporarily. “Hey, I was thinking, Summer,” Parker said, slightly slurring her words. “Carrie has that TV interview tomorrow, and she really needs a makeover, if she’s going to appear live next to Georgiana. You know, a little jazzing up. I mean, this is Milano, so she has to look supergreat. And it’ll help build her confidence.”

  Summer reluctantly turned toward Carrie. Right now, after hearing her publicist diss her style, the girl seemed completely deflated. Obviously, Parker had hit a nerve.

  “You always look awesome,” Parker went on. “You have to know all the best places in town, right? I’m going to be so busy, between the TV prep and the beach party arrangements, so…what if you took on setting up the makeover for us?”

  “Sorry, I really can’t,” Summer said. “I’m superbusy right now, with…stuff.”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m going to look like a total freak, then, right?” Carrie’s head ping-ponged between Summer and Parker. “Maybe we should cancel the TV thing.”

  “You could make some major cashola,” Parker murmured to Summer, half into her drink glass. “Stylist services are pricey in this town.”

  Beside her, Carrie sniffled in a disgusting, sniveling way. The girl was desperate. And Summer could use the dough. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll look into it, and give Carrie a call tomorrow so we can set things up.”

  “Oh, I can’t thank you enough!” Carrie beamed instantly. “You’re saving my life.”

  “No problem.” Summer threw down a few bucks for the bartender and hauled it out of the Algonquin Club bar. She couldn’t deal with either of those crazies for another second and it looked as if Professor Bell was nowhere in sight.

  Luckily, Dash’s car was parked outside the restaurant entrance, with him behind the wheel—and both his mom and Dorothy in the passenger seats, ready to go.

  As she headed toward the Mercedes, Summer twisted Lorella’s ring off her finger and tucked it carefully into the inside pocket of her bag. She was never wearing the stupid thing again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Georgiana had been unusually quiet in the car on the way home from the Algonquin Club, Dorothy noticed. Since their conversation earlier in the ladies’ lounge, in fact, she hadn’t said a single word.

  No one had said much on the drive, come to think of it. Dash seemed to be eager to make it back to Hibiscus Pointe as quickly as possible, and even Summer had seemed preoccupied.

  She hadn’t had a chance to tell her sleuthing partner yet what had transpired with Georgiana—and what she’d found out about Lorella.

  “What would you think about spending the night at my place, dear?” Dorothy asked her, as soon as Dash had dropped them both off in front of Hibiscus Gardens. Georgiana hadn’t even said goodbye. “We need to discuss a few things for the case. I had a very interesting conversation with Georgiana this evening.”

  “Sure,” Summer said. “I’m feeling pretty beat. I think Carrie wore me out. I wouldn’t mind having a glass of wine, though. So, what did you find out?”

  “Something quite intriguing about Lorella,” Dorothy said. “Let’s get to the condo first so we can be more comfortable.”

  But as soon as Dorothy unlocked the door, she knew that would be impossible. Mr. Bitey had torn half the living room to shreds, in some sort of jealous rage.

  “Whoa,” Summer said as she stepped over a trail of torn Kleenex, “he really did a job on the place this time. Maybe you need to call those cat rescue people and have them come get Guinevere.”

  “No,” Dorothy said as she spotted Lorella’s small gray cat hanging on for dear life to a curtain valance. “I believe I’ll have them cart Mr. Bitey away.”

  After a quick hunt, she located her skulking pet pawing at the throw cushions of the armchair in her bedroom. “Bad kitty,” she said to him, and deposited the protesting tomcat in her own bathroom after tying back the shower curtain. “You’re in time-out. Again.”

  Summer, bless her heart, was sweeping up dirt on the carpet from some overturned flowerpots that Dorothy usually kept on her balcony. If only she hadn’t decided to bring them in out of the hot sun earlier that day.

  “Thank you, Summer, but don’t worry about cleaning up,” she said. “I’m going to leave everything until tomorrow morning. We have something much more important to do.”

  “Like what?” her friend asked, leaning back on her heels in her good pink dress and brushing a smudge of dirt from her face.

  Dorothy told Summer about her conversation with Georgiana in the Algonquin Club powder room, and Lorella’s secret life as the famous romantic suspense author Angelina St. Rose.

  “Ohh…” Summer stared down at the Maxwell & Perkins ring on her finger. The potting soil had made it a lot darker. “I guess Carrie was right, then. It all makes sense.” She relayed to her friend what the young author had told her about the signature bloodstone.

  “So it’s not just that Georgiana and Lorella knew each other,” Dorothy said. “They actually had a good deal in common.”

  “But I still don’t see why Georgiana was trying to keep Lorella’s secret after she was gone.” Summer frowned. “Unless…”

  “Unless she had something to do with her death, perhaps,” Dorothy finished.

  Summer got to her feet, with a vain attempt at smoothing her dress, and shook her head. “There’s no way Dash’s mom would be involved in something like murder. I mean, okay, she writes about it, but that’s a whole different thing.”

  “True, but I can’t think of any other explanation,” Dorothy said. “Can you?”

  Summer sighed. “Not really, I guess.”

  “Lorella’s secret identity must have had something to do with her untimely death,” Dorothy said. “That’s why we should go back over to her condo right now and take another look around. Maybe there’s something both we and the cops missed earlier—and we certainly need to take a closer look at those files.”

>   “Um, right now?” Summer eyed the mini wine rack on the breakfast bar. “Can’t we just wait until morning? We can get up really early.”

  “No,” Dorothy said. “We don’t know when they’ll start clearing Lorella’s apartment, but it’s sure to be soon. And if we need to bring any of those files back with us, it’s better to go in the dark. I believe you left a pair of flip-flops here the other day. They’re in the guest room.”

  A few minutes later, armed with the sturdy flashlights Dorothy kept for storm emergencies, she and Summer let themselves in through the sliding glass doors from Lorella’s ground floor concrete porch.

  “Still open,” Summer said cheerfully.

  “Let’s check those file cabinets first,” Dorothy suggested. “I’m sure they’ll be able to tell us something, now that we have a better idea of what to look for. Notes, royalty statements, correspondence…”

  They headed through Lorella’s dark condo, their flashlight beams occasionally crossing as they played into corners and over the walls. “Over there,” Dorothy directed. “There’s a cabinet in the alcove behind the desk, remember?”

  “I feel like Nancy Drew.” Summer switched her flashlight to her left hand and pulled on the top file drawer.

  It was empty.

  *

  “Totally gone,” Summer announced in frustration, after she’d yanked open the drawers of every last file cabinet in Lorella Caldwell’s—aka Angelina St. Rose’s—condo. “Every single folder.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Dorothy sighed. “We should have taken them earlier. Or at least given them a closer look while we were here.”

  “The cops must have come back for them, I guess,” Summer said.

  “We can’t be sure of that,” Dorothy said. “I suppose, once we talk to Detective Donovan…”

  “And let him know we were sneaking around in here before?” Summer said. “No way. That’ll just make him really mad.”

  “Well, that’s possible, but we do have to let him know about those files. Especially if Georgiana doesn’t tell him about Lorella’s—and her own—connection to Angelina St. Rose.”