“Good morning, sweetheart! You’re up and about early. I’m so glad you called. You’ll never guess what happened after I talked to you yesterday. I won a hundred-dollar gift certificate to Bay Harbor. We can have dinner there for our anniversary.”
“I’ll call you back, Hamm.”
“What? Wait.”
I didn’t have time to explain or feel bad about hitting the disconnect button. I jabbed my forefinger on the second icon in my favorites list and waited.
“Mmmmm?”
“June!”
“Yeah. Wha—”
“June, wake up. It’s Francie. Someone is shooting at me down on the beach. Call the police.”
“What?” She sounded clear and alert now.
“Call the police, June! I’m being shot at. I’m in the beach office just outside the hotel.”
“Oh, okay.”
“What do you mean, okay? Get help!”
The line went dead. All sounds from outside stopped as well. I inched along the wall to the edge of the window facing the beach. Should I take my chances and look out to try to see who was after me, or should I dial 911? The sound of shattering glass interrupted my decision-making moment. I only had time to punch in 9 before I noticed the smoke billowing out from beneath a storage closet door. The gravity of my situation struck me as explosions split the air. I almost missed the strained voice coming from across the room.
“Fireworks. Those are fireworks.”
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer, but I recognized the voice. I crouched down remembering my stop, drop, and roll, and staying below the sulfur-tinged smoke, I made my way across the room and peered around the reception desk.
“Angelina, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. The air was heavy with the noxious smoke. Soon there would be no safe spot left in the cramped office. The fireworks that had been stored in the utility closet in preparation for the Fourth of July celebration were hissing and popping against the thin paneling of the adjoining wall. I had to get us out, and fast.
It appeared Angelina had been hit on the head. She was hovering on the verge of consciousness as I struggled to help her up from the desk chair and out the door Between the oppressive smoke and the weight of her limp body, I wasn’t sure I could make it.
“I’ve got all my life to live; and I’ve got all my love to give, and I’ll survive. I will survive . . .”
* * *
“Francie, wake up!”
“Turn off the alarm, June.”
“Francie, thank God! You’re okay.”
“Is it time to get up?”
“Francie, don’t you remember the fire? You were trapped in the beach office with Angelina, and the fireworks stored there somehow ignited.”
“Oh, that’s not good. Is it time for breakfast?”
My eyes finally focused in on June, hovering over me in a pair of men’s plaid boxers and a ribbed tank top, her hair spiked up in all the wrong places. She had my purse and her knapsack crossed over her shoulders and her laptop clutched to her chest. It looked like she’d left the hotel room in a rush. I was on a blanket on the sand, not snug in my downy bed. The resort’s private beach was filling with sleepy-eyed, disoriented guests, forced out of their beds at the insistence of the shrieking fire alarm.
As the sea of sleepy hotel guests in various states of dress and undress inched closer to the office, I could hear their chatter, like nails on a chalkboard, questioning and speculating about what had happened. It was all coming back to me. I’d been in the office when the fireworks exploded. Something had caused a spark that lit the fuses. Now I remembered. It was a gun, a gun directed toward me. The more alert I became, the more fear and panic tried to overtake me.
Sirens from the fire trucks at the scene still competed with the hotel’s fire alarm for most migraine-inducing sound of the morning. I massaged my temples, trying to remain calm. I watched the firefighters as they went about their business. Some stood at attention, hoses aimed like muskets at the fiery enemy. Others, armed with shields worthy of the best medieval knights, stormed the office, well-protected from the kamikaze missiles, rockets, and shells that would have made for a memorable Independence Day celebration, but in this context managed only to call up images of an air raid from an old war movie. I tried to stand. I needed to get away from here and whoever was using me for target practice. When I wobbled to my feet, the stars I saw were not from the fireworks. I slumped back down to the blanket and waited for the wooziness to pass.
The buzz of speculation wound down, and the hotel guests were given the all-clear to return to their rooms. June and I watched a few more minutes as the firemen wrapped things up. I finally convinced the hovering medic who kept trying to shove an oxygen mask onto my face to go find someone else to bother. I was feeling much better—physically, at least. Other than a dry throat and a bout of coughing, I was okay. My emotional state was another matter entirely. I was hanging on by a thread. What else could happen? Just when I decided the answer was nothing, I was once again surrounded by my three least favorite people. Officers Stark and Rymer stood off to the side, flipping through notepads and glancing at their watches, while Detective Reed began the questions. I could sense her frustration as, once again, I had no answers for her. I didn’t see anyone on the beach. I didn’t know where the shots came from, and most of all, I had no clue who would be using me for their morning target practice. She was gentler with her interrogation than during our previous encounters, as I’m sure she could see I was trembling and didn’t want me to lose it on her watch. I was beginning to think the lady might have a heart. She confirmed that there was, in fact, a bullet retrieved from the splintered wood near the office door, and it would be analyzed, but that did little to assuage my anxiety or to answer the question of why I was being targeted in someone’s disturbing game of cat and mouse.
Finally, Detective Reed was finished with her questions. I was able to satisfy her I didn’t need medical attention and wouldn’t be leaving the resort. I suggested to June that we do the only thing I could think of at this point. “Let’s head back to the room. There’s no reason to stick around and watch the aftermath. I was hoping to start this day off with some peace and quiet, but this is about as far away from calm as it could get, and to tell you the truth, the sight of a burning building brings back memories I’d rather not revisit.”
Not nearly enough time had passed since June and I had been locked in a burning building—a warehouse full of counterfeit designer merchandise instead of an arsenal of fireworks—and narrowly escaped our own premature demise. Just the sight of this fire was making me fidget. June put her steady arm around my waist and gently guided my steps back toward the hotel.
June was quiet and so was I. The walk was providing me just the right mental backdrop to try and sort some things out. Angelina had been taken away in an ambulance before I could talk to her. As much as I prayed she would be all right, I also needed to see her and find out what she might know about what was going on. I didn’t like that my name was being mentioned in connection with a fire for the second time in as many months.
22
As You Like It
Can one desire too much of a good thing?
As You Like It
When we got back to the hotel, my first thought was to go back to our room, crawl under the covers, and hope for a do-over. I changed my mind, however, when the hypnotizing aroma of strong, cinnamon-infused coffee tickled my nose. I spotted the coffee shop at the same time I caught a glimpse inside the sparkling display window of She Devil, the most exclusive women’s apparel boutique in a twenty-mile radius. I nodded in the direction of the gourmet coffee and bake shop, and June did nothing to dissuade me. We gave our order to the unenthused barista and took our cinnamon bun lattes and freshly baked pastries out to the porch that encircled the entire perimeter of the hotel. We laughed as June fought me for the sticky bun, which was roughly the size of my head and plenty big enough to
satisfy us both.
I was finally starting to feel more like my old self, but there was still room for improvement. Looking across the courtyard at the inviting aquamarine water of the pool, I had an epiphany. The best ideas my friend and I ever had evolved over sinful foods or extravagant spending—or both—so I decided we needed to crank it into high gear, Francie-and-June style.
“Soak up that caffeine, my friend, because we are about to give our credit limits a real workout.”
“I like the way this is headed, Francie. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we don’t step one foot farther into this resort until we relieve She Devil of two amazing swimsuits, cover-ups, and some fabulous coordinating accessories.”
“Now that’s the kind of workout you’re not going to have to talk me into.”
Side by side, we stepped over the threshold into shopping paradise. As if on cue, a retro remix of “Brown-Eyed Girl” filled the air. It was our song. Hamm sang it to me on our second date, and it’s been part of our special history ever since. I couldn’t resist grabbing a handful of ridiculously expensive and skimpy swimsuits to try on in a Pretty Woman-style fashion show medley.
I’m certain the shopkeeper was affronted by the guffaws and giggles coming from the dressing room as we modeled the suits that looked perfect on the mannequins but not so great on our real-life figures. Finally, the waspish retail clerk called a stop to our exploits. We were told to choose a purchase or go to the nearest Walmart to continue our shenanigans. As much as I was offended by her snooty insinuation, I couldn’t pass up a darling halter suit with a black-and-white-polka-dot top and a red, skirted bottom. Hamm was going to love me in it—as long as I intercepted the credit card bill before he saw it. June handed her American Express card over for a black, one-piece, strapless suit with a white cat’s face appliqued across the entire top. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but on June it worked.
Having completed our first mission, I had one more shopping emergency to conquer. I needed something shiny.
Less than a full hour after my terrifying fight for life on the beach, I was feeling much more in control of myself and my surroundings.
“Next stop, poolside breakfast and mimosas.”
“I like the way you think. I really thought you would be making a beeline for the nearest cab to get you off this island by now. But I can see you’re determined to prove them all wrong. I’m proud of you, Francie.”
The poolside area was deserted at this hour except for one painfully pink man whose protruding belly just screamed for aloe. A blue and white cabana on the south side of the pool had not yet been reserved, so I whipped out my buzzing Master Card and secured it for the day.
We got comfortable on the cushioned loungers and slathered on the sunscreen. After all, we didn’t want to end up looking like our pool mate. The morning sun warmed my exposed skin and brought the extra benefit of comfort to my frazzled psyche. This was more like it. I looked down and admired my new ankle bracelet, its tiny anchor charm sparkling in the sunlight.
“Is it too early for nachos?”
“I think they’re still serving the breakfast menu, Francie, but nachos sound like a great plan for later.”
The waiter delivered our pitcher of mimosas and our breakfast to the cabana just as June got her iPad booted up and connected to the hotel Wi-Fi. I’d settled for a fruit and cheese plate which turned out to look more like a party platter. Six different kinds of cheese with mini croissants and a nice selection of the freshest fruits in season. I was in breakfast heaven. If June’s smile was any indication, she was pleased with her selection of chocolate chip silver-dollar pancakes and orange slices—a healthy choice for sure—with chocolate dipping sauce. It was nice to sit in silence and enjoy the simple things in life.
When I had my fill of cheese and my face was warm and rosy thanks to the combination of sunshine and mimosas, I decided it was time to get down to business. Research was June’s expertise, but I can navigate Facebook, Twitter, and Google like a pro. It was time to get my cyber-stalk on and find out more about the people we’d met so far.
Twenty minutes later, I was back to popping cheese cubes into my mouth, more out of frustration than a renewed hunger. “I hope you’re having better luck, June. I think we’ve come upon the last group of people in America who don’t make it their life’s goal to post, tweet, or update everything they do. I can’t get anything on Angelina and Damien beyond legal documents regarding their real estate purchases and a marriage certificate from fifteen years ago. Same with Gabriel. Just a bunch of professional pages for his theater group. I did manage to find a clown group based in Sandusky, but all I accomplished was making a donation to their balloon fund. Are you having any luck?”
I looked over to gauge June’s progress, but she was asleep, softly snoring while her iPad screensaver twirled and displayed the time. I nudged her shoulder. It was time to pack up and get to our first workshop of the day.
23
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?
And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
The Merchant of Venice
“Okay, day. Bring it on.” June was fueled up, rested, and ready to go. “I think our first session is pretty appropriate, considering.”
“Hmmm? What’s that?” I didn’t even recall what we’d signed up for.
June held the flyer out toward me, pointing to our selection which she’d circled in purple ink. I accepted it, making a mental note that my friend’s penchant for color coordination never ceased to amaze me. Her ink pen was the exact shade of violet as the streak in her spiky blond hair, which in turn matched the shade of her body-hugging minidress. Her lime-green tennis shoes were the finishing quirky touch that gave June her unique style. She could pass as Tinkerbell’s modern counterpart.
Theatrical Weapons and Combat Staging was scheduled to begin at 9:30 in room 384. “Seriously, June? Do you think we could pick something else? I’m not feeling the whole weapons-and-combat thing. After this morning, I’m not sure gunslinging is at the top of my to-do list.”
“It might be exactly the right thing, Francie. Come on. Maybe fighting a make-believe assailant on the stage will help you remember more of what happened on the beach. Maybe you’ll even figure out who it was.”
I agreed, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything better to occupy the next couple hours.
“Great, Francie. Anyway, according to the blurb there are other weapons being demonstrated besides guns. Maybe we’ll end up in a swashbuckling pirate scene.”
The seminar was about to start, so all we had time for was a bagel and a banana on the fly—not that we were hungry, but it’s so hard to pass up free food. The room was filling up quickly. We had to maneuver our way through knots of people and squeeze past four seated attendees before finding two open spots in the middle of a row near the back of the room. No sooner had we settled ourselves in our chairs, than the earsplitting screech of microphone feedback assaulted us.
“Sorry about that. Welcome everyone. If you could all find a seat, we can get started.” Our presenter stood at the podium in front of the room, tapped several times on the mic, and fiddled with the controls on the side of the wireless device, adjusting the volume.
I’m not sure why I was surprised, but I hadn’t expected this session to be led by a woman. I fished my itinerary out of my bag and scanned the list until I located the information I wanted: Theatrical Weapons and Combat Staging, presenter: Dr. Alex Covington. Shame on me for assuming Alex plus weapons expert equaled man. Dr. Covington was not especially tall, but her straight posture and fit frame combined to make it clear that she was not a lightweight. She wore straight-leg black pants and a sleeveless, black, stretchy top that showcased her well-defined biceps.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have some great activities in store for you this morning, but before we can get started, there is some important safet
y information we need to discuss.” Assistants in hotel uniforms walked down the outside aisles with stacks of handouts, and I heard groans as the packets were handed down the row from person to person. When I got mine, I scanned the information and recognized a lot of it as the same safety and accountability guidelines I had used in the past. While the others were skimming the reading material, I took in my surroundings. We were in a typical convention meeting room, but a few modifications had been made to facilitate this session. The front of the room was transformed into a split stage; props were utilized to create a simple, wide staircase to the left, and two floor-to-ceiling mirrors stood on the right. Interesting.
Deviled!: Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2 Page 9
