Murder at the Miramar
by
Dane McCaslin
With the dreaded Family Reunion looming over her head – and a broken heart to boot – Augusta Josephine Burnette takes matters in hand and leaves her hometown for a job in a seaside resort. The setting is elegance incarnate, but the atmosphere says something else entirely. With her innate sense of adventure (and just plain nosiness), AJ sets out to unravel exactly what – and who -the Mirmar Resort is hiding. AJ begins to think that time spent with her crazy family might not be as lethal as the time spent at the Miramar, and she makes an effort to leave. Thankfully, her cousin Ellie, a self-described psychic, has come along for the ride, and between the two of them, a very underhand plan is brought to light – and a murderer is nabbed.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
The Prologue, or a Brief Explanation of How I
Ended Up Where I Did
If you’ve ever wanted to get out of an awkward circumstance but had no idea how to go about it without incurring an emotional wound or two, welcome to my world. I happen to know how complex it can be, having had not only the bad luck (read ‘poor choice’) to be involved with a commitment-phobic man but also the threat of a full-blown Burnette Family Reunion hanging over my head like a pall. Being the modern young gal that I am, I opted for a commonsense approach: I turned tail and ran.
I’m getting a bit ahead of the story, though, so let’s get the pleasantries out of the way. My name is Augusta Jerusha Burnette. I know, I know: it’s a terribly old-fashioned handle for a woman of my age – I’ll be twenty-five on my next birthday, for the inquisitive minds out there – and I’ve always been a bit peeved at my parents for opting to use my christening as a peace offering to my mother’s Great-Aunt Augusta Saddler and my father’s eldest sister Jerusha. As you might imagine, it really settled nothing because the order of the names became a new source of conflict.
Families. Can’t live with ’em, and can’t … well, I think I’ll leave it at that.
I am from a minuscule town in the northern part of my state (which shall remain anonymous, to protect the innocent and wicked alike) and, aside from the odd family feud or two, have never had too much in the way of turmoil in my life.
Until David Grant waltzed in, that is, casually snapping up my heart and turning my ingrained moral code on its head. In spite of all the admonitions concerning the wicked wiles of men, I still fell head over heels for a man who not only took my affections but also absconded with my trust: the cad was married, or as he so succinctly put it, ‘in a relational flux’. Be that as it may, I still harbored a pathetic bit of hope that he would make his flux permanent in my favor and we would settle down, raise beautiful children, and live happily ever after.
As my best friend, and cousin, Ellie Saddler might say, ‘Double ha.’
In due course, it was David’s continuous spineless attitude toward commitment that sent me packing. The man rented a nice condo and had planted the idea that I might, indeed, be asked to share it. Someday, he had added somewhat vaguely. And then he proceeded to let me know, in a not-so-subtle manner, that ‘someday’ actually meant ‘never’ and that, while he’d love to ‘remain friends’ (cue the nausea), he’d decided that he needed to ‘find’ himself.
This continuing David-shaped instability, and the upcoming Burnette Family Fiasco, as I tend to think of our reunions, added together to inch me ever closer to the edge of self-imposed madness. So when I came across a classified ad for an ‘Assistant to the concierge’ at a beach-side resort clear at the other end of the state, I applied post-haste and, before I knew it, was wending my way to a summer without commitment-phobic men or family squabbles.
Par for the course, though, I managed to make the proverbial leap from the frying pan and straight into an inferno: the Miramar Resort was keeping a lot of dirty little secrets.
Chapter One
Lest you get the odd idea or two that I was raised in a family where running away from life was the norm, I suppose I should set the record straight, as they say. Ellie and I were first cousins through my mother and her father, who were siblings of the Saddler variety. Since I was an only child and Ellie had two brothers, it was only natural that we should pair up and face the world together.
We’d grown up in a town that is small enough for everyone to know who you are and where you live, which made mischief-making something of a challenge when we were kids. It was a normal childhood, though, filled with school plays and Brownie meetings and church twice on Sunday. We had chores and responsibilities, and never left the house without first making sure the beds were made and the dishes washed.
The Burnettes, my father’s side of the family, leaned toward the tree-hugging end of the societal conundrum, so naturally he was concerned with things like saving the spotted owl, growing our own food, and halting world over-population, hence my gig as an only child. I was by no means lonely, though; Ellie was closer than any sister could be, and, like sisters, we alternately fought and made up, a pattern we never broke. When my chance came for flying the coop, Ellie was my biggest cheerleader, one hundred per cent behind my decision to leave, especially when she found out that ‘friends and family’ could join me at a hugely reduced rate.
The resort itself was, according to the website, “situated on a long stretch of near-perfect beach and tucked in neatly at the bottom of a sheer cliff”, and was luxury incarnate: sunken tubs in every suite; generous king-size beds piled high with six-hundred thread count sheets and fluffy duvets; and freshly baked cookies available around the clock. Who wouldn’t want to spend some time there, especially at pennies on the dollar?
I’ll admit right off the bat that I was a bit nervous about making the move, even if it did mean getting shot of a problem or two. I’d moved out of my parents’ house a couple of years back, following a disastrous stint at the local college (disastrous because I had issues with actually getting to class) and was currently working in the local restaurant/casino. While ‘floor hostess’ was the official job description, I didn’t do a lot of hostessing per se. My work days generally consisted of running errands for one of the floor bosses who seemed content to make my life a dash for lattes and dry-cleaning. I didn’t complain, though; the pay was good, especially for our neck of the woods, and I could still crash at my parents’ house whenever I felt the need for pampering and a meal that consisted of something more than a frozen dinner tossed into the microwave.
Before I knew it, it was time to leave the familial hometown and take wing for more exotic climes. David’s farewell was absolutely inane and somewhat pathetic (“I’ll try to give you a call, if I get a chance”) and Ellie’s hug was g
leeful.
‘You’re going to have a blast, AJ. I can just feel it.’ Ellie claims to have psychic abilities. I think she’s nuts. Most of the time she’s way off, but she blithely explains that away by saying that ‘the spirits changed their minds’.
Whatever. I love her anyway.
The drive along the coastal highway was beyond gorgeous. We’d just come through one doozy of a winter, and I wanted to get as far from cold weather as possible. I had sunshine for most of the way, and the play of light on water created a horizon that appeared to be made of sparkling diamonds and sapphires. Squat trees hugged the cliff just below the highway, and their touch of green was enough to cut the glare. I found myself smiling widely as I drove, my hair swirling around my face and neck in the breeze that blew in through the open windows. Life, it seemed, was about to two-step its way up the golden staircase.
Eight hours, three large coffees, and two much-needed pit stops later, I arrived in the coastal town of San Blanco, a luxurious slice of real estate that came with a very large price tag and its own series of pristine seafront vacation destinations. My particular target, the Miramar Resort, sat smack dab in the middle of a fancier adaptation of the usual ‘Hotel Row’; a sprawling mansion turned ‘bed and breakfast’ on one side and a well-known golf resort on the other. The elegant façades, combined with a spectacular sunset that tinted the ocean and sky with unbelievable colors, promised a long, lazy summer full of good people, good food, and – best of all – good money.
The valet standing at the front entrance of the Miramar waved me around to a side portico after I had explained who I was and why I was there. I parked and walked in through a double door, still pretty la-di-da for being merely the hired help’s access. I glanced around the quiet interior, eyeing the understated elegance that surrounded me. The foyer in which I found myself standing was decorated in a soothing palette of coast-inspired colors, the several paintings on the walls reflecting the muted taste of the designer. There was a faint aroma of the famous cookies that were a part of the resort’s signature service, and I suddenly realized that it had been quite a few hours since my last stop for something besides coffee. A freshly-baked oatmeal raisin was sounding pretty good right about then. Or maybe a peanut butter cookie. Or maybe …
A slight noise just behind me turned me on my heel, and I found myself looking into the eyes of an elegantly dressed woman. Her quick glance over my own travel-wrinkled ensemble reminded me that it had been a while since I’d looked in a mirror, and it was all I could do to keep my hands from tugging at clothes and hair. Oh, well. If whoever-she-was didn’t like the way I looked, tough luck. I didn’t sign up for a fashion show.
‘Welcome to the Miramar,’ she said in a modulated voice that held just a trace of an accent. ‘My name is Esmeralda Ruiz, concierge for the resort. And you are Augusta Burnette, I presume?’ She held out s slim hand.
She pronounced my first name with a long vowel sound which, I had to admit, made it seem a bit more exotic than it actually was. I thrust out my own hand in greeting.
‘Just AJ, please, Ms Ruiz,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m glad to be here. The place is fabulous!’ I winced inwardly. I sounded more like a crazed tourist than an employee.
Her face, softened by a sudden smile, lost its look of self-importance and I felt myself relax. ‘I agree, AJ. This is a most wonderful place. And I am glad that you’re here; I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work lately.’ She rolled said eyes in exasperation, but the smile belied her words. I got the feeling that this woman was a dynamo who would welcome a challenge or two.
‘Now, let’s get you settled. Do you have luggage?’ Esmeralda looked down at the floor as if expecting a suitcase or two to be sitting there.
‘I left it in the car,’ I answered, motioning toward the doorway. ‘If you’ll tell me where to park, I can move it and get my bags at the same time.’
Esmeralda Ruiz made a sound that was part snort, part sniff. ‘Nonsense. We have staff for things such as that. Let me have your keys and Fernando will take care of it for you.’ She held out her hand and I relinquished my keys, cringing inwardly when I thought of the travel clutter that had erupted in my car. I had a sneaking suspicion that Esmeralda’s car would be pristine both inside and out.
I waited while she made a quick call from the lobby phone. Speaking rapidly in Spanish, she was apparently not only directing Fernando to move my car and bring in my luggage, but also giving him a tongue-lashing about something else. I turned my head to hide the grin that had snuck onto my face. Esmeralda Ruiz certainly seemed to rule this place with a fist of iron barely covered with the proverbial velvet glove.
Note to self, I thought. Stay on her good side.
With that chore taken care of to her satisfaction, Esmeralda replaced the handset and turned to me with an appraising look. Eyes narrowed to darkened slits, she stood with arms crossed and a slim forefinger tapping her chin. I had no idea what she was looking at and thought I knew exactly how a bug under a microscope would feel. ‘Aha!’ she exclaimed with a suddenness that made me jump. ‘The Palo Verde Suite! That will be perfect for you and close enough to me that I can reach you any time. Follow me, if you will, please.’
And with that pronouncement, she began to stride rapidly down the carpeted corridor, heading deeper into the resort’s interior. It was all I could do to keep up. I crossed my fingers that Fernando could find me; I needed a shower in the worst way and he now held all my worldly possessions in his hands. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, I admit. But he did have all my clean clothes. And my cuddlier-than-asoft-puppy bathrobe, which I had a sudden hankering for.
Esmeralda made two abrupt turns then paused outside a polished wooden door. A plaque on the wall beside it read, ‘Palo Verde’, so I put two and two together and got home sweet home. Using a card key pulled from her pocket, Esmeralda opened the door and stepped back to let me enter first.
Somehow I managed to keep my jaws from gaping apart as I looked around my new digs. A stone fireplace dominated the room, flanked by a pair of plush-looking chairs. Along one wall a couch stretched out in absolute luxury, and a corner cabinet held a flat-screened television and DVD player. There was a small alcove containing a table with two chairs, and a door that led to the bedroom, I presumed. All in all, it was gorgeous, a far cry from my first apartment back home. I turned to face my new boss, who had been watching me as I surveyed the suite.
‘I almost don’t know what to say, Ms Ruiz,’ I began. (‘Please. Call me Emmy,’ she interrupted.) ‘This is absolutely lovely. Do all the resort employees have rooms like this?’ I gestured around me, my question taking in the suite and its furnishings.
She laughed, a delightful sound that seemed to suit her. ‘Oh, no. It is only you and I who live in. The rest of the employees are locals. I must say that I am so glad to have the company of a woman this time.’ A trace of tension had crept into her voice; Emmy was thinking of something – or someone – that was not the most pleasant of memories. As quickly as it had appeared, though, the edgy tone was gone, and she was once more the perfect hostess.
‘I will leave you to settle in, AJ. Fernando will be here shortly with your luggage. If you want, you can ring for room service. The menu is changed daily but I’m sure that our chef can prepare something for you. Get some rest and I will call for you in the morning.’ With a friendly smile, Esmeralda Ruiz backed out of the suite and was gone.
Chapter Two
After a deep sleep fueled by complete exhaustion, followed by a leisurely shower under pulsating streams of steaming water, I was ready to rock and roll. Sometime during the night, a note had been slipped under my front door indicating that breakfast was served in the Palmetto Room, along with a map to the resort and welcome note from the hotel’s manager.
I read through the information with an open mouth. In addition to having my meals cooked for me three times a day – and unlimited fresh cookies – I was to have room service. And a weekly cleaning by hote
l staff. I could not believe my luck: I had landed the job of my dreams. I might not feel too inspired to return to my hometown after all, I thought with a grin. What my parents would say I had no doubt. What Ellie would say was a given as well. What David would say – actually, in the light of how he had treated me, it really didn’t matter what he might say. (Here I mentally stuck out my tongue at his image – childish but satisfying.)
Emmy didn’t appear until I had finished my breakfast and sat relaxing, perusing the local paper. She looked as elegant as she had the night before, but I could see a tiny smudge in the corner of one eye where she had applied her concealer rather too thickly. Well, she did have a huge responsibility as concierge for one of San Blanco’s busiest resorts, and I was pretty sure that the last assistant had left some time ago. I mentally straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin: I was ready to help take on some of the tasks that Emmy had been doing alone. I smiled a greeting as she slipped into a chair across from me.
‘Good morning, Emmy,’ I said. The sunshine, the breeze that wafted in through the room’s open French doors, and the delightful breakfast had combined to work their magic on my usual grumpy morning self, and I felt ready to tackle the world. Or at least to take on the Miramar.
Emmy returned my smile, although hers seemed slightly forced. She was tired, I thought, and redoubled my efforts to appear cheerful and competent. I had a sneaking suspicion that I was part of the reason she’d had a late night.
‘So, what’s my first task?’ I leaned over my plate to scoop up the blueberry muffin remains on my fingertips. Whoever the baker was, she or he had it all over my sweet mother’s attempts. I could actually hear my waistband shrieking in pain as it was strained to its limits. It seemed Emmy had heard it as well but she, apparently, thought it was coming from another direction entirely. She shot to her feet, staring out through the open doors at a small group of people who had circled around another person who was crying and screaming, and in general making quite a fuss.
Murder at the Miramar (Augusta Burnette Series) Page 1