Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “I think so,” Ben said, nodding slowly. “Angela could have told him about the photos, that they were mistakenly sent to you, and that she was going to pick them up last night. Even though her laptop was damaged, Angela and Chase probably had the same Internet service provider with different e-mail addresses on the same account. He probably knew her e-mail password—or could find out what it was with a forgotten password request.”

  “I can’t believe he’d be worried about photos at a time like this,” I said.

  “I have a feeling Chase is one of those people who sees the gray in everything. He’s kind of shady himself.”

  “How do you know that? I thought you only met him once,” I asked, but at the same time, I was thinking of the feeling I got that Chase wasn’t happy that Ben had called the police about the breakin.

  “Couple of things Angela said. She was worried about him. He had some friends that she thought might be into drugs and there was an incident at his work, a theft. I don’t know the details, but it happened right before one of our dates. She was really stressed out. He could have been arrested. She said someone with his past would have a hard time convincing the police he didn’t do it, which I took to mean that he’d been in trouble with the police before. But it turned out the thief was someone else. She was so relieved. I could tell she thought he was guilty. So if he did know about the photos, which wouldn’t be impossible, then I could see how he’d put securing them above grieving for his sister. They’re valuable. People do crazy things for a lot of money.”

  “How much money do you think they’re worth?”

  My e-mail dinged before Ben could answer. I had a new message, again from “Angela.”

  It read, I’m here! I’ve got your purse.

  Digital Organizing Tips

  Password Tips

  As more of our daily activities go digital, we have more passwords to remember. Here are a few ways to keep track of all those user names and passwords:

  High tech—Some Web browsers like Firefox will remember passwords for you, if you enable them to do so. There are password manager programs, which remember passwords you create or randomly generate passwords for you, then automatically fill in each sign-in page with the appropriate information. Password apps are available for your mobile phone or mobile devices.

  Medium tech—You can create your own password manager, a spreadsheet with three columns: Account Name, User ID, and Password. Save it to your hard drive and e-mail a copy of it to yourself in case your computer crashes.

  Low tech—Use the old-fashioned method and write your passwords down on a piece of paper, but don’t keep the list under your keyboard. Find a more secure location for it. You might store it in a home safe or even in a file in your filing cabinet with an innocuous label, such as Keyword File.

  Chapter Seven

  “How is he doing that?” I asked, rotating the computer so Ben could see the new message. “Her computer is broken, but even if Chase had another computer, he still couldn’t be e-mailing us from the lobby.”

  “He could if it was a laptop or if he used a phone app. If he knew Angela’s password, it wouldn’t be that hard. Once he logged into her account, he could change the settings and link her e-mail to his phone.”

  “But then that would be traceable. The police would be able to see he’d done that.”

  “It doesn’t matter because right now the police think that Angela’s death was an overdose or suicide, so there’s no need for them to look on her computer, which, as you said, is broken anyway.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I argued. “Why would Chase e-mail us on her account? We know she’s not sending the e-mail. We know she’s dead.”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said impatiently. “Maybe he’s trying to play on our curiosity—get us to bring the purse to the lobby to see who is sending the e-mails. Maybe it’s a long shot, a last-ditch effort to get the purse, in case the police reevaluate Angela’s death and decide it wasn’t an overdose. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. He is doing it, and we have to get down there.” Ben reached for the purse.

  I was quicker and swiped it up. “It looks like someone killed Angela for those photos. It might be the same person, a dangerous person.”

  “All the more reason to get down there,” Ben said. “I’m not going to give them the photos, just the purse. We’ll keep the photos up here. It will take a few minutes for them to realize the photos aren’t there. By then, I’ll be long gone. Besides, it’s a hotel lobby—a public place—nothing’s going to happen to me there.”

  “That is crazy—” I broke off as my phone rang. I saw it was Mitch. Good. Maybe he could talk some sense into Ben. “Just a second,” I said, answering the call as I quickly moved to the sliding glass door in the bedroom portion of the suite. It stuck, so I set the purse down, tucked the phone into my shoulder, and used two hands to wrench it open. I stepped out on the balcony, the only place I seemed to be able to get reception. The muggy air and brilliant sunshine hit me, and I immediately started to sweat.

  “Mitch, I’m so glad you called. We’re having a bit of a crisis. I need you to tell Ben to calm down.” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the door to the hallway slowly swinging closed. I looked down at the carpet just inside the sliding door where I’d dropped the purse. It was gone. I closed my eyes, tempted to mutter words that I wouldn’t allow Livvy and Nathan to say.

  “Ellie? Are you there?” Mitch asked.

  “I’ll call you right back.”

  I flew out of the hotel room and ran along the corridor, which had rooms on only one side. The other was open to the atrium area below. I stopped for a second and leaned over the edge then immediately regretted it. We were near the roof and looking down from the high floor made my stomach spin. There was no way I’d be able to pick out individuals or recognize someone. I hurried to the closest glass elevator, scanning the one on the opposite side of the hotel. I didn’t see Ben anywhere. He’d probably taken the stairs.

  I decided to take my chances with the elevator. There was no way I was pounding down ten flights of stairs. In the elevator I’d be able to see, and I doubted I could catch up with Ben on the stairs, anyway. The StairMaster was my least favorite piece of gym equipment.

  I punched the DOWN button, practically jumping from foot to foot, doing a good imitation of Livvy and Nathan on their way to the beach yesterday. Livvy and Nathan! I’d completely forgotten to call Summer back. I’d meant to call her after the police interview. She was probably wondering where I was. I’d have to call her as soon as I dragged my brother back upstairs, but before we talked to Detective Jenson. I had a feeling the conversation with the detective might take awhile. The elevator pinged and I was in, repeat-punching the DOWN button before the doors finished gliding apart.

  Thankfully, the elevator swooped down, only stopping once on the way. I burst out of the doors as soon as they opened, earning a severe look from an older couple in sunhats who smelled of coconut sunscreen. I slowed down long enough to make sure I didn’t topple them over, then jogged to the lobby.

  I paused by the waterfall, letting the feature, which was at least eight feet tall, hide me. In the far corner, near the sliding glass hotel entrance doors, I spotted Ben talking to a guy holding a large box. He was a kid of about twenty with gold-rimmed glasses and rumpled brown hair, wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops with thick soles. He looked like a young Magnum P.I. impersonator.

  So, not Chase. Interesting.

  Ben gripped the purse in two hands, like an old lady afraid she’d be mugged on the bus. I got a moment’s satisfaction out of the thought that he did look silly carrying around an obviously female bag. The young Magnum guy gave the box to Ben, then snatched the purse when Ben held it out. Without another word, the Magnum wanna-be turned and ran out of the hotel, angling his shoulders to fit through the barely open sliding glass doors. Ben hurried after him, checking the box as he ran. It must have been empty becau
se he dumped it on the floor, then pulled out his phone.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you chase him,” I muttered and took off after Ben.

  I cleared the glass doors and stepped into the sticky heat, squinting as I scanned the sidewalk, but I didn’t see them. I spotted the blue Hawaiian shirt on the far side of the parking lot. Ben was a few steps behind him, his phone up, ready to snap a picture.

  I took off after them. A ripping sound cut through the air, and I saw bits of thread and fabric flutter to the ground in the Magnum kid’s wake as he literally tore out the purse’s lining.

  I hurried to close the gap. There were several rows of cars between the two men and me. Ben circled around a hatchback and clicked off a photo of the kid. Young Magnum’s head whipped around. He dropped the purse and sprinted toward Ben. Ben took a step back, hands raised, palms facing the kid. He still held his phone in his hand as he said, “Hey, man, no need to get—”

  The kid was about the same height as Ben, but he was stockier and had the advantage of momentum. He angled his shoulder into Ben’s chest and hit him squarely, knocking Ben to the ground. Ben dropped his phone and it landed on the asphalt, shattering into pieces that spun away from the impact point. I could see Ben gulping, trying to suck air into his lungs.

  The kid had collapsed on top of Ben. He pulled himself up, angled his arm back, and planted a punch squarely in Ben’s face. I gasped. The ferocity of the hit shocked me. I started moving again, pressing my hands against hot metal as I sprinted between the cars.

  The kid stood, pulling Ben up by the shirt to a standing position. Ben moved slowly, shaking his head as if to clear it. His lethargic movements made my stomach lurch. I rounded the hood of the last car, finally reaching the same row. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there. I’d be useless in a fight. I’d taken a self-defense class years ago, but that only covered how to get away. I had no idea how to attack someone. Despite my mental misgivings, my feet pounded down the asphalt, fired on by a basic protective instinct. I’d do what I could. That was my brother.

  Ben staggered back a step, shook his head again, then he put his hands back up in the “surrender” mode and walked a few steps with the kid behind him to a low-slung metallic blue sports car, one aisle over. I switched course and dodged through another row of parked cars. A horn blared as I stepped into the next aisle, and a bright yellow Volkswagon Beetle swerved around me. The driver, a teen with her curly red hair in a ponytail, wearing a swimsuit top and shorts, shouted at me. Ignoring the driver, I skipped around the back of the car as it accelerated away.

  Where was Ben? I spotted him ducking into the sports car from the driver’s side. I frowned and shaded my eyes. It looked like . . . yes, he was crawling over the console into the passenger side. I couldn’t see him very well, but he looked dazed, as if he was trying to get his bearings.

  I broke into a run, but then jerked to a stop as Mr. Hawaii slid into the driver’s seat. The bright sunlight flashed on silver. He had a gun tucked up against his brightly patterned shirt, the barrel pointed squarely at Ben.

  The car’s engine growled, then it whipped out of the parking slot, turning away from me as it cut off another car to join the slow-moving traffic on the beach road.

  I stood there for a second, my mouth literally hanging open. That was the craziest thing I’d ever seen. I forced myself into motion. I sprinted to the end of the parking lot, hit the sidewalk, and dived into the crowd. Shoulders swiveling, I pushed through the pedestrians to the next corner, but didn’t see the sports car.

  I stood there, hands on my hips, surveying the road. The traffic moved slowly, but it was moving. The car would have arrived at this corner in a few seconds, probably while I was standing still in shock, trying to process what I’d seen. They could be on the Interstate by the time I got back to the hotel.

  I turned, pushed my way back to the hotel, questioning myself. The sun was so bright. Maybe I made a mistake—who pulled a gun on people in broad daylight, in the middle of a tourist area? This was a nice, upscale part of town, not some gritty neighborhood where people fear drive-by shootings. Maybe it hadn’t been a gun? I shook my head. I couldn’t think of anything else that would draw the hands-raised reaction from Ben.

  I picked up the pieces of Ben’s shattered phone from the parking lot and the battered purse, then returned to the coolness of the lobby. It seemed like another world with the ding of the elevator and the burble of the fountain the only noises. I marched to the front desk, pulling out my cell phone.

  There was no one there. I called out, craned my neck, and looked into the room behind the desk. Empty. I’d have to call the police myself on my cell phone. I turned around, headed for the glass doors again, then slowed, my fingers running over the keypad, as I thought about how long it would take to explain the situation over the phone to an emergency dispatcher. I had no license number of the car, not even the make and model, only a general description. I’d been so amazed by what I’d seen that I hadn’t taken in very much detail. And Ben was a grown man—it wasn’t like he was a kid who’d been snatched. They might think that I was seeing things—heck, even I thought I was seeing things—and put off searching, reasoning that Ben might have gone off on his own, just like Chase thought Angela had left on the spur of the minute.

  I reversed course and headed for my room, glad I’d slipped my keycard in my pocket earlier. Detective Jenson’s card was on the coffee table. I’d call him.

  I pushed into the hotel room and stopped short, surveying the second decimated room I’d seen that day. My gaze went straight to the desk, which was empty, except for the desk lamp and complimentary notepad and pen.

  “No, no, no.” I stepped into the room toward the desk, then jerked to a stop. If the laptop was gone, someone had been in here . . . could still be here.

  I reached back and caught the door before it closed and stood motionless, listening. Nothing, except the whisper of fabric as the bedroom curtains stirred in the breeze from the open sliding glass door. The bathroom door was ajar and I could see there was no one in there. I stepped into the room and let the door sigh slowly closed.

  The desk was the only tidy place in the room. The cushions were off the couch. The coffee table had been overturned, sprinkling silver-wrapped chocolate kisses across the carpet. My suitcase had been upended in the bedroom, and all the cabinet doors in the bathroom were open. I did a quick search of the room for the laptop and memory card. It was futile, I knew, but I picked up couch cushions, patted along the edges of the bed, even checked the cabinets in the kitchenette and bathroom.

  Nothing.

  The laptop was gone. I went back to the desk, looked under it again and beside the couch, but the only thing there was the power cord, still plugged uselessly into the wall. Someone either slipped into the room before the door completely closed when I pursued Ben—making sure the door closed had been the last thing on my mind—or someone had climbed over the balcony and come in the sliding glass door. Considering how high we were, I was betting on the first situation. Then, another thought struck me and I hurried over to the door to turn the deadbolt. Could someone have conned the front desk into making a duplicate keycard for this room? I hoped our hotel had higher security standards than the hotel across the street.

  I turned on all the lights and walked slowly around the room, studying the patterned carpet, hoping that the memory card had fallen out when the laptop was taken. I knew the possibility of that happening was miniscule, but I looked anyway. Twice.

  I was on the second pass of the room, crawling on my hands and knees, peering under the furniture, when I saw a pair of sunglasses under the couch. I pulled them out and sat back on my heels to examine them. Sleekly designed, the silver frames curved seamlessly into the earpieces, which were a blend of silver and bright green. I fingered the heavy nosepiece before slipping them on. They were men’s frames and too big for me, but the sturdy nosepiece anchored them in place. I took them off and looked from t
hem to the desk, then to the couch. The desk was only inches from the end of the couch where I’d found them.

  It was possible the sunglasses belonged to the person who’d taken my laptop and the memory card. If someone set the sunglasses down on the desk while they gathered up the laptop, it was possible they might have knocked the sunglasses off the desk and left without realizing they didn’t have them. I’d done it myself just the other day. My favorite pair of sunglasses was sitting on the kitchen counter at home. I folded the earpieces closed and stood up. It was also possible that they belonged to any prior occupant of this room.

  I put them in my crossbody bag, then dropped onto the couch and wondered what to do. My laptop was gone and that normally would have upset me, but it paled in comparison to the loss of the memory card. Without that card I had nothing to take to the police. I had no way to convince Detective Jenson that Angela had very sensitive information, information that might have put her in a dangerous position.

  And how would I explain what happened with Ben? What had happened with Ben? He’d been . . . what? Kidnapped? Snatched? Because he snapped a picture with his camera phone? Because the guy was angry about the empty purse?

  I rubbed my forehead. Okay, prioritize, just like in organizing. What was most important? Ben, no question. I angled the coffee table upright. There was no need to worry about fingerprints now. I’d already touched every surface in the room during my frantic search for the laptop and memory card. I plucked Detective Jenson’s card up from the floor and pulled out my phone. Two missed calls from Mitch. I needed to call him back. I was sure I hadn’t sounded calm and in control when I’d abruptly cut off our conversation earlier, and he was probably worried. I guess I’d missed the calls in all the commotion of chasing after Ben, or they’d come in while I was still in the hotel where my phone didn’t get reception.