Mistletoe, Merriment, And Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Since I had two kids. And the big three-oh is coming up soon. So enjoy that food. You can’t eat like that forever,” I said, raising my glass in a mock toast.

  Ben wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and asked the waiter if he could have the recipe for the waffles. I blinked. “You’re cooking? Not just microwaving leftovers? You’re cooking with actual pots and pans?”

  “Of course,” Ben said, his forehead wrinkled. “You don’t think I live on takeout, do you?”

  “Ah—well, yes, I did. Do you even have a waffle iron?” I asked. I’d never seen his small apartment near the base. I’d pictured it as spartan.

  “Sure. The person who lived there before me was a foodie. Worked in one of the restaurants on the beach, but got a job in New York and couldn’t take all his stuff. The landlord was going to send it to Goodwill, but I said I’d take it. I did the ramen noodle and pizza thing in college, but I like to eat, you know? There’s nothing like a good steak or spaghetti Bolognese.”

  “Bolognese? You make spaghetti Bolognese?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said as the waiter returned with a printout of the recipe. Ben thanked him and tapped the page. “Cinnamon. I knew it. And vanilla sugar . . . interesting.”

  I sat back in my chair. “My brother, a foodie. Who knew? Aren’t you the same kid who refused to eat roast because Mom cooked it with a bay leaf?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Ben said, but he was smiling.

  “I know,” I said, leaning forward. “It’s for a girl, isn’t it? You want to impress Angela, don’t you?”

  Ben folded the paper and tucked it away in his pocket. “Not especially for Angela, no.”

  “Really? I got the impression she was very interested in you.”

  Ben shrugged. “So, how are the kids?”

  I noted the obvious conversational dodge, but went with it. I figured I’d already ribbed him enough over the cooking issue. If he didn’t want to talk about Angela, I knew my brother well enough not to press him. “We’ve already talked about the kids and about Mitch. I want to hear about you. What’s going on with you?”

  “Flying. I had a TDY to Japan last month. That was cool. I got Mom a tea set.”

  “She’ll like that. What else?”

  “Not much. Just the same old thing.”

  I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Guys,” in exasperation. “Would it kill you to give a few details?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I go to work, I go out with the guys, I go to the gym. You know, normal stuff.”

  “And people think the life of a pilot is so romantic.”

  Ben snorted. “Yeah. It’s just like the movies. Top Gun all the time.”

  My phone chimed. It was the kids, but they didn’t have long to talk. They were simply calling to check in because Aunt Summer made them. Summer had insisted the kids visit her for a sleepover, so she could have them all to herself. After a few hours at the beach yesterday, they’d gone with her, practically skipping away through the hotel lobby without a backward glance. Nathan informed me that Aunt Summer didn’t have a night-light, but it was okay because she’d left the bathroom light on all night. Livvy’s news involved a report on the status of the cookies they’d baked (delicious) and their plans for the day (beach, movies, and more cookies).

  I hung up and clicked through the various screens on my phone. “Still nothing from Angela,” I said.

  “Really? No texts?” Ben asked.

  “No. I think it’s odd that I haven’t heard from Angela at all.” I had bought several handbags from her and she had always been prompt in her replies to any questions I had. Lately, she’d sent me an occasional e-mail, sometimes updating me if she had a new bag for sale, but more often than not, to share one of the funny stories or photos that make their way around the Internet. We’d gradually become what I thought of as “cyber” friends, people I knew online, but had never met. Recently, there had been an uptick in the cute puppy photos she e-mailed. She was seriously thinking of getting a dog and wanted my take on having a big dog since we owned a rottweiler. I’d advised her to get a smaller dog since she lived in an apartment, but she’d replied almost instantly, “Purse dogs are too cliché for words, Ellie. No itty-bitty outfits or jeweled collars . . . if anyone’s wearing jewels, it’s going to be me! What do you think about a Weimaraner?”

  “Do you know if she got a dog?” I asked. Ben was checking his phone and murmured, “Hmm?”

  “She was thinking of getting a dog and wanted to know what I thought about Weimaraners.”

  “A Weimaraner?” Ben asked, looking up from his phone, perplexed.

  “The gray dogs with the blue eyes. Very distinctive. But that’s all I know about them and that’s what I told Angela.”

  Ben nodded in a distracted way, then said, “She hasn’t replied to my text, either.”

  “Is that unusual?” I asked.

  “Very.” Ben checked his watch. “Want to go for a walk down the beach road? You’re not getting the kids until later, are you?”

  “No, they’d run at the sight of me. Livvy informed me I’m not to arrive a minute before noon so I don’t cut into their time with Summer.”

  “Okay then,” Ben said, standing up. “Angela works in a store about half a mile down the beach road. She usually works Saturdays. Why don’t we walk by and see if she’s there? She probably ran into friends or something and got distracted last night.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let me run upstairs and grab the purse she’s going to exchange for me.”

  The sun was already hot when we emerged from the hotel. I slipped on my sunglasses. The crowds were light and we were able to walk side by side. Boogie boards, racks of T-shirts and postcards, along with all sorts of sea-related kitsch, like seashell wind chimes and plaques declaring MY OTHER HOUSE IS A BEACH HOUSE, spilled out of the stores onto the sidewalk. The smell of sunscreen permeated the air, except when we walked by the fudge shop. I breathed in deeply. “Got to come back here later,” I said as the aroma enveloped us.

  “You and your chocolate,” Ben said, shaking his head.

  “It makes me easy to buy for,” I said, moving to the side as several kids trotted down the street, their flip-flops slapping the ground. Their parents followed at a slower pace, pulling a beach tote with cooler, toys, folding chairs, and a huge furled beach umbrella.

  “They look like they’re prepared for a siege.”

  “You just wait. Soon that will be you.”

  “God, I hope not,” Ben said. “At least, not for a long time.” Then he gestured to a small store called The Sea Cottage. “We’re here,” he said. “After you.”

  The store had wide wooden floor planks in a pale blond wood. White walls and images of the gulf made the small space feel bigger than it was. Stacks of clothes in taupe, pink, gray, and cream sat atop tables of weathered white wood. Gauzy scarves and long necklaces dangled from driftwood displays on a glass counter at the back of the store. A light airy soundtrack, mostly of flutes, played softly in the background. It was the kind of store that catered to wealthy middle-aged women, and it surprised me that Angela worked here.

  A girl in her early twenties came around the counter. Her name tag identified her as Cara. She had a thick swath of bangs combed across her forehead that dipped into the crease of one eyelid and a faint trail of freckles along her cheekbones. She wore a white short-sleeved cotton shirt, tied at the waist, open over a pale pink tank with gray pants. Three inches’ worth of thin gold bracelets jangled on both wrists as she moved across the wide plank floorboards. “Can I help you?”

  I said, “We’re looking for Angela. Is she here?”

  Cara’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “No. Are you friends of hers?” Now that she was close to us, I could see that she had a piercing near the corner of her mouth and several along her earlobes, all empty of jewelry.

  Ben hesitated, so I said we were.

  “Well, you can tell her she better call in or she’s not g
oing to have a job.”

  Ben asked, “So she was scheduled to work today?”

  “Yes. And I’m not covering for her anymore.” Her heavy bangs slipped over her eyelashes and she tossed her head, flicking them back in place. “And after I closed for her last night, too. Like I’ll be doing that again for her.”

  “So what time did she leave last night?” I asked.

  “After eight-thirty. We’re not supposed to close up alone, but she got a phone call and said it was like super important, so I told her to go ahead.” She sighed in exasperation and crossed her arms over her waist. Her short nails were painted a glossy black and stood out sharply against her pale skin.

  “That was probably me,” I said, glancing at Ben.

  “So have you tried her phone?” Ben asked.

  “No, I texted her,” Cara said, and I wondered how many more years I had before Livvy began using that tone, which implied we were stupid for even asking the question. “No personal calls at work,” she explained.

  “Does she usually text you back?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Right away. Her phone is like glued to her hand, you know,” she said.

  I exchanged a glance with Ben. “Maybe she’s at home. She could have overslept or maybe she’s sick.”

  Cara’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “You think she’s okay, don’t you? I mean, it is kind of weird that she didn’t call or anything today. That’s not like her.” Her irritation had ebbed away, replaced with concern.

  “She’s probably just delayed,” I said, going into soothing mom–mode. “Or her phone battery is dead.”

  “No, she would never let that happen,” Cara said as she raked her dark fingernails through her bangs. “She might miss a call.”

  “So she had her phone with her when she left last night?” I asked, wanting to make sure Angela knew we were trying to reach her.

  “Yeah, she was like texting as she walked out the door,” Cara said. “Maybe she got her big payoff,” Cara said in a quiet voice, more to herself than to us.

  “Payoff?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah, she was talking about getting some big find. She kept saying she’d have tons of money soon,” Cara said.

  “Was she listing something online, something exclusive?” I asked, wondering if Angela had found some rare designer outfit or bag, maybe a Birkin or something along those lines.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. She said it wouldn’t be like her allowance from her dad, but really big money. Like enough to buy a house on the water or travel anywhere she wanted. She said when it came in, she was booking a flight to Paris for the fall shows.”

  Even the most expensive Birkin bag wouldn’t pay for a house with a water view. “Was it an investment, something like that?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Cara said. “I didn’t believe her. I thought it was all talk, but now that she’s a no-show . . . well, maybe it wasn’t all made up.”

  We left the store and retraced our steps toward the hotel. “That didn’t seem like a place Angela would work,” I said. “She seems more like the pulsing music and bright colors kind of girl.”

  “Yeah, that’s what she likes when it comes to clubs,” Ben said. “But Angela said she needed the money. Her dad works overseas. He does something in electronics or computers. He sends money to her and her brother every month. She’s not that good at managing it and usually runs through it pretty fast. She’ll get her money from him and buy some designer dress or purse, then a few weeks later, she’s out of money.”

  “Does she go to college?”

  “She took a couple of classes last semester, but she wasn’t into campus life. I think she mostly hangs out on the beach and works in the store when she needs extra money to make it until the next check from her dad. Then she hits the clubs at night. If she runs through her money, which happens quite a bit, she sells some of her designer duds on eBay to tide her over until the next check arrives from her father.”

  “Designer duds?” I asked. “I would recommend not describing designer clothes as duds, especially around Angela.”

  “Yeah, I got the lecture. I guess you could say I view clothes as something to wear and she thinks of them as . . .”

  “An art form?” I supplied.

  Ben nodded. “That’s one way to put it. We’re not on the same wavelength.” I looked at him out the corner of my eye, but didn’t ask anything else. I could see from his face that he wouldn’t have any more to say on the subject, but I had to wonder if Angela’s rather carefree approach to life was why Ben seemed to be distancing himself from her. It had taken Ben a few years to find his niche. After high school, he’d worked in sales for a plastics company, then he’d found a job as a tour guide for a company that coordinated trips abroad for high school students. That ended when the economy shriveled and parents’ disposable income dried up. He’d returned home with a host of useful phrases in five foreign languages and a list of the best restaurants to eat at in European capitals—so maybe his interest in food wasn’t that unexpected, I thought tangentially. He’d enrolled in college when he returned from his tour guide stint. He’d graduated with honors and a degree in engineering, then secured a slot for pilot training through his participation in the Reserve Officer Training Corps. Ben was more focused than he appeared at first glance. It sounded like Angela was more of a party girl than I’d realized.

  “Where’s her mom?” I asked.

  “South Beach. Divorced. Sounded like it was messy. Angela said she hadn’t talked to her since her high school graduation.”

  “Wow,” I said, trying to imagine a life without family connections. We might not live close to our families, but we talked on the phone and visited as much as we could.

  “I know,” Ben said.

  We walked a few paces in silence, then I asked, “Do you think we should call her home phone—just to check? Or is that kind of weird, for us to check up on her? For all we know, she could have gotten an unexpected inheritance and jetted off to the French Riviera.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s where she is,” Ben said, taking out his phone. “She doesn’t have a home phone, just her cell. That’s why it’s odd that she’s not answering or texting. She might go a few minutes without calling back, but, like Cara said, she’s always texting. I’ll try her cell phone again.”

  Ben walked a few more paces, then stopped and scanned the sidewalks. A bald man nearly bumped into him, but Ben didn’t even notice the man’s glare as he stepped around him. “Do you hear that?” Ben asked. “That music?”

  I could faintly hear the notes of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “That’s her ringtone,” Ben said, looking around. I scanned the people in our immediate area, but didn’t see anyone reaching for their cell phone. The song cut off in midnote and Ben pulled his phone away from his ear. “It just went to voice mail. That’s got to be her phone.”

  “Call it again,” I said, but Ben had already hit redial.

  The notes sounded again and we both moved down the street a few steps, then paused over one of the large flowerpots that lined the edge of the street. “It’s louder here,” I said, pushing begonias aside.

  “Here,” Ben said as he ended the call and simultaneously put his phone in his pocket and picked up a small phone with rich, dark soil almost obscuring a shiny gold case.

  Ben flipped the phone open. I edged over to him and focused on trying to read the screen in the bright sunlight. I grabbed Ben’s arm and lowered it, so that it was easier to see. “Thirty-six missed calls. Fifty-two text messages,” I said in astonishment.

  “I think that’s normal for Angela.”

  “But Cara said she had her phone with her when she left the store. She got all those calls and texts overnight?”

  My mind reeled. I was old, I realized. I couldn’t imagine having that many missed calls, much less texts. I doubted I’d have that many calls when we returned from our vacation. />
  Ben punched some buttons and scrolled through the incoming calls. “There’s mine,” I said. “Eight thirty-seven.”

  “Lots of incoming calls after that. Several from you and me through this morning.” He switched over to the list of SENT calls. “Nothing after eight-thirty last night.”

  I studied the street, looking toward my hotel. It wasn’t in sight because the street curved gently back on itself and our hotel was hidden behind several other high-rise hotels. “How far do you think it is to the hotel?” I asked.

  “Maybe a quarter mile.”

  “What are the chances that she dropped her phone by accident?”

  “And she didn’t realize it?” Ben said. “Zero.” He shook his head. “If she’d dropped her phone or lost it, she’d go back and look for it. And if she couldn’t find it, the first thing she’d do is go buy a new one today, even if it was a cheap disposable one.” He punched some more buttons. “I’m calling her brother.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I said, leaning against the flowerpot as Ben pulled up the number from Angela’s contact list. After a moment, he said, “Chase, this is Ben. We met a few weeks ago in June when I came to pick up your sister.” He explained how Angela hadn’t arrived at the hotel last night, her no-show at work, and how we’d found her phone with no outgoing calls or texts since last night.

  I examined the strap on the fake Leah Marshall purse as he talked. This morning, I’d switched to a Fossil crossbody wallet bag in light tan so I’d been able to take the Leah Marshall purse out of the box and carry it on my shoulder.

  I listened to Ben’s one-sided conversation. “Right, but would she go off without her phone?” he asked.

  His jaw tightened. “Without calling in to work or telling you?”

  “Was she home last night? Oh, well, don’t you think—”

  He threw his head back, studied the sky, then paced away and back, murmuring, “Right. Okay, well, I don’t agree with you . . . but you’re her brother. Sure. You’re on your way there now? I’ll meet you.”

  Ben turned to me and said, “He doesn’t get it. He says she’s checked out before—just picked up and left without a word to anyone, so we should just ‘chill.’ He thinks she’ll be back in a day or two.”