by Sara Rosett
“Ma’am, you can go now.” I jumped. I hadn’t realized the guard was by my window. He’d removed the cone and was motioning me forward. I paid him, and he said, “You don’t see that every day, do you?” As I took my change, he leaned toward me and said in an undertone, “Too bad you weren’t quick enough to snap a picture or two. Might have gotten them in a magazine. I can’t do that,” he said, straightening. “I’d get fired, but guests . . . guests can do what they like.”
“No more pictures for me,” I murmured as I pulled away. “That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”
I exited the parking garage and merged with the slow moving traffic on the beach road. I’d accomplished nothing. The hours were slipping by and I wasn’t any closer to finding the memory card. A brown sign indicated the antebellum home and grounds of Green Groves were half a mile away. The grand home built in Southern Colonial style and set in the famous gardens had been on my list of sights to see. Those plans of carefree days with sunscreen, surf, and sightseeing seemed to be a universe away. My world had narrowed to helping Ben, but I’d been running around, flitting off in different directions without any clear plan.
That was my problem, I realized suddenly. I hadn’t thought anything through. I’d run off as soon as a thought crossed my mind, letting my worry and fear for Ben drive my actions. I needed to regroup, assess what I’d done, and make a logical plan. I needed to take my emotions out of the situation (as much as I could, at least) and apply my organizational skills.
I drew a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. First, I needed to see if there were any messages for me at my hotel. Ben might have managed to leave one for me or—worst thought—Mr. Sandpaper Voice might have called back. It only took a few minutes to get to the hotel. I hurried to my room. The light on the phone was dark.
I checked my watch and blew out a sigh that sent my bangs flying. Five o’clock. I’d wasted hours and had practically nothing to show for it. I plopped down on the couch and rubbed my temples, ignoring the mess of the hotel room. Only one thing mattered right now. I picked up the hotel-provided notepad and pen and began to make notes.
Angela had been murdered. Only the police thought that Angela’s death was an overdose. Ben, Chase, and Cara had all said Angela would never use drugs and even Detective Jenson had said he didn’t think she’d slipped, eliminating the possibility of accidental death. If he were interviewing Angela’s friends and family, he’d get the same information. He’d have to reassess. But it didn’t matter what the police thought, I reminded myself. I had to move forward with the information I had, which indicated that Angela’s death had to be linked to the photos.
I supposed there was a small possibility that she’d been killed for some other reason—an unbalanced exboyfriend or something along those lines—except that Ruby was in the hospital and quite possibly could have been killed as well, which argued strongly that the photos were at the center of all that had been going on.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Chase wasn’t involved in trying to get the photos. He wouldn’t need to snatch Angela, and he didn’t even take the purse when he left his office abruptly. No, it had to be someone else, someone like Mr. Sandpaper Voice.
He must have intercepted Angela last night when she was on her way to deliver the purse. Did he know about the photos on the memory card in the fake purse? Is that what he thought he was getting when he snatched Angela? She had to have been taken forcibly. I couldn’t believe that she would willingly leave her phone behind. She wouldn’t have missed our meeting, either. She didn’t show up because she couldn’t. He must have either thought she had the photos with her or that he could get her to tell him where they were.
Mr. Sandpaper Voice had said Angela didn’t cooperate with him, at first. She must have held out, but by late this morning she’d called me, nervous and distraught, and insisted that I take the fake purse to her apartment right away. Had Mr. Sandpaper Voice killed her after she made the phone call? I felt ill, just thinking of it. I rubbed my eyes, then forced myself to go back to my notes.
The killer must have dumped Angela’s body in the apartment complex pool, but things didn’t go according to plan after that. I hadn’t left the purse on the porch as instructed. I’d kept it with me, walking inside her apartment, then I’d rushed to the parking lot when the woman discovered Angela’s body. The killer had miscalculated. He should have made sure he had the purse before he killed Angela. And he probably hadn’t expected her body to be discovered so quickly.
But how did Mr. Sandpaper Voice know I had the purse? I felt a chill run through me as I realized he must have seen me with the purse and followed me back to the hotel. I let out a shaky breath. No wonder he was so angry when Ben brought the purse without the memory card. He’d already tried to get it once and failed.
Which brought me to the main point. Who had taken the memory card from my hotel room? As awful as Angela’s death was, I couldn’t focus on that. Ben was my priority. As soon as he was safe, I’d take all the information I had about Angela and her death to the police, but not until I knew Ben was okay. To go near the police before then could endanger him even more.
Who could have known about the photos and taken them from my hotel room? I jotted down a few more names, Honey, Cara, and Ruby, simply because they knew Angela and were involved in the situation. Ruby couldn’t have taken the memory card because she was in the hospital when it was stolen. Cara seemed genuinely scared and confused about the whole situation, and Honey seemed to know Angela only in a passing acquaintance sort of way—they said hello at the mailbox and chatted, but she didn’t seem to be a close friend who Angela would confide in. I tapped my pen against her name.
Would she know about the memory card and the purse? It didn’t seem like a subject that would come up during a casual chat at the mailbox. And how would she know Angela’s e-mail information to send me the request to meet in the lobby?
I stood and paced around the tight confines of the room, running through everything that had happened—Chase’s quick exit, Cara’s jittery ignorance, the whir of camera shutters aimed at Suzie, the mom holding up her iPhone to take a picture of Suzie.
I stopped pacing. Angela’s phone. That’s what I’d wanted to ask Cara about. I quickly dialed her number and sighed with relief when she answered.
After we exchanged hellos, I asked, “You said something about Ruby’s phone being dead, so Angela was the only one taking pictures. Did she use a camera or her phone?”
“She always used her phone.”
I closed my eyes. Angela’s phone. The one Ben and I had in our hands this morning, the one we’d given back to Chase. “Would the pictures still be on her phone, do you think?”
“No, she always uploaded them to her computer right away so she could post them on Facebook.”
But she hadn’t posted these photos. They might still be on her phone or in her broken computer. I thanked Cara for the info, then hung up and headed back to the van.
Digital Organizing Tips
Organizing Pictures
Photo files can be some of the most disorganized files on a computer. Generally, photos are downloaded into folders according to the date the photo was taken, which is a method of organizing, but it’s not very effective. Few people remember the exact month or day a particular photo was taken.
To get your photos organized, use the same principles of folder organization. Create broad categories, then, instead of using only the date, name folders with the subject of the photograph. Include dates or years for clarification. For instance, “Joe’s Birthday Party 2011” or “Joe’s 16th Birthday Party” are specific names and will let you know exactly what is in the folder.
Renaming individual photos can be time consuming but will help you find your photos quickly.
Delete duplicates as well as out-of-focus or unflattering photos.
If your computer isn’t backed up online, burn your photos to a disk, then
label and store in a cool, dry area.
Chapter Eleven
Honey invited me inside her apartment, craning her neck, clearly hoping to see Ben behind me. “Where’s your cute brother?” she asked.
“He got held up . . . in traffic,” I said, which was absolutely true. He had been held up and there was tons of traffic around when it happened. “Thanks for letting me wait for him here.” I figured I had a better chance of getting Honey to talk to me if she thought Ben would arrive shortly. I’d told Honey that we were supposed to meet Chase at his apartment. When I’d arrived, a quick scan of the apartment parking lot had shown Chase was out and that Honey was home—so handy to have the parking slots labeled with the apartment numbers.
There was a shiny new deadbolt on Chase’s apartment door, which dashed my hopes of sneaking into his apartment or convincing Honey to help me get inside. I’d hoped she might have exchanged keys with Angela at some point in the past, but since it looked like that wasn’t going to be an option, I decided I might as well talk to Honey and hope that Chase came home while I was here. Maybe I could convince him to let me see Angela’s phone. It was five-thirty, and I hoped he would return home for the evening.
“That was fast,” I said, indicating the new deadbolt.
“The manager called a locksmith earlier today. She is on her toes now, doing everything she can to convince us all that this is a safe complex, despite the police cars and yellow tape. Come on in.” Honey waved me through the living room and into the small kitchen area. “This is Bruno,” she said, indicating a German shepherd that was ambling toward me. Honey rubbed the dog’s ears as he walked by her. “He’s sweet, like me,” she said with a wink.
I eased forward, the back of my hand extended. I had a big dog myself, so the size of the animal didn’t bother me, but it was always good to be cautious. Bruno sauntered closer, giving my hand a sniff, and I could see the gray in his muzzle. He ducked his head under my hand, clearly wanting to be petted. I rubbed his ears and along his back, then he moseyed over to a large cushion in the living room and collapsed with a gusty sigh. I never would have thought Honey would have a German shepherd. Something more along the lines of a fuzzy lap dog with bows and painted toenails would seem to be more her style.
Honey had on a hot pink swimsuit cover-up with spaghetti straps and enough gold chains to rival Mr. T. “I’m just back from the beach,” she said, gesturing at a canvas bag and pink sunhat with an enormous brim sitting near the door. It looked like something a glamorous Hollywood starlet would have worn in a black and white film. I apologized for dropping in on her, but she cut me off. “Nonsense. What’s going on next door is so interesting. Would you like some lemonade? It’s homemade,” she added as she walked into the kitchen.
“Sure,” I said, following her, noticing that the flower arrangement that had been delivered to Angela was now on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. I edged down the bar. I’d completely forgotten about the flowers. Hadn’t the card said something about a find? Wasn’t that the word that Cara said Angela used to describe the photos?
Honey was busy pouring two tall glasses of lemonade and cutting slices of lemon. I craned my neck, looking for the little plastic fork with the card. It was on the far side. Honey arranged the lemon slices on the sides of the glasses along with sprigs of mint, then turned to a cabinet. Without letting myself think about it, I reached out while her back was turned and snatched the card.
“Wasn’t that sweet of Chase to give those to me?” she said with a nod of her head in the direction of the flowers as she set a glass on the bar for me. I agreed and slipped the card into my pocket. Honey arranged several shortbread cookies on a plate, put it beside my glass, and shook her head. “Said he didn’t want to keep them,” she said, obviously perplexed at why anyone wouldn’t want to keep a beautiful flower arrangement.
I took a shortbread cookie and asked, “So what is going on next door?”
Honey picked up her glass and motioned for me to follow her to the dining area, which had windows that looked out onto the porch and sidewalk leading to the parking lot. I grabbed my lemonade and joined her as she pulled back a ruffled white curtain and pointed one of her burgundy talons through the slats of the blinds. “See that car right there?” she asked, indicating a brown four-door car parked in one of the visitor slots across from Angela and Chase’s apartment. I could see two shadowy figures inside the car.
I nodded as I sipped my lemonade, which was surprisingly good—just the right blend of tart and sweet. “This is terrific lemonade.”
“Never use that powdered stuff,” she said with a shudder. “You’ve got to boil water to dissolve the sugar, then add the lemon juice.”
“Freshly squeezed?”
“Of course,” she said, like there was no other way to do it. She turned her attention back to the window. “I’ve seen that car off and on for the last few days. They come and park for a while, then leave. They arrived,” she paused to consult her watch, “around two-thirty, just after the police left. They’ve been there ever since.”
I glanced at my watch. “Three hours is a long time to sit in a car on a hot afternoon.”
“Isn’t it?” Honey said.
“Have you seen anything else that seemed strange?” I asked. “Did you see anyone at Chase and Angela’s apartment yesterday or last night?” It seemed like Honey kept a close watch on her corner of the apartment complex.
“No one. Nothing.” Honey retrieved the shortbread cookies. She put them on the table and waved me into a seat. I took another cookie. They were delicious, too. It seemed Honey was a regular Martha Stewart in the kitchen.
“What about Chase? Did you see his car last night?”
“No, his parking slot was empty until he arrived today, shortly after you came to the apartment.”
I squashed an internal sigh. I’d been hoping that Honey would have some tidbit of information—like a sighting of someone prowling around the apartment or some little overlooked detail—that would put a whole new spin on everything.
A shadow moved across the curtains from the parking lot toward the apartments. “Oh, there’s Chase,” Honey said. Before she’d finished speaking, several more figures moved by the window after Chase, their shadows quickly flitting over the curtains.
Muted voices sounded. The words were rapid and there was a strident quality to them that I could hear, despite being inside. Honey and I looked at each other.
“That sounds like an argument,” I said, and Honey nodded. We both moved back to the window where we could see two men, one on each side of Chase, marching him down the sidewalk. I was only a few steps behind Honey when she scurried to the front door and threw it open.
We were in time to see one of the men put his hand on Chase’s head as he put him in the back seat of the brown car. The sound of a camera shutter clicked rapidly, and I tracked it to an Asian guy standing under the carport a few feet away from the brown car. “He’s being arrested,” Honey whispered through her fingers, which covered her lips. The shutter continued to whir as one of the guys who put Chase in the car straightened his tie and adjusted the lapels on his suit coat, then joined the other suited man in the front seat of the car, and they drove out of the complex.
The guy with the camera swung toward us, and I automatically backed away, but Honey didn’t move. He came over to the sidewalk, the camera around his neck swinging with each step and tangling with a lanyard. When he reached Honey, the lanyard stopped swaying, and I could read the large print beside the photo: PRESS.
“Joe Zoltiff. Sandy Beach Journal. Did you have any idea that your neighbor was involved in a pill mill?”
“What?” Honey said, her hand transferring from her lips to her collarbone. “Pill mill?”
“Yes.” The man pulled a long narrow notebook out of the breast pocket of his plaid shirt. “There’s a coordinated law enforcement sweep going on today involving local police and the DEA.”
“But that ca
n’t be right. They’ve got the wrong guy,” Honey protested. “He works at a restaurant, The Hideaway, down by the water. He doesn’t have anything to do with drugs.”
“But he did work at a medical office . . . ,” I murmured, more to myself than to Honey, but she heard me and spun around.
“He did?”
“It’s on his Facebook page,” I said.
“But that doesn’t mean anything now. He might have worked there in the past, but he doesn’t work there now,” Honey said to me, then turned back to the guy with the camera. “Chase Day is the best neighbor. He always helps me bring my groceries in and he took Bruno out for me, too,” she said, almost defiantly.
The reporter looked slightly confused. “Um, okay. Can I quote you on that—that he helped you with the groceries?”
“Yes, please do. Honey DeStefano,” she said as she jabbed at his notepad as she spell her name for him. Then she grabbed his arm. “Come inside,” she said, dragging him toward her door, which was still open. “I’m sure there’s a mistake and you—you’re a member of the press—you can sort it out. Have a seat,” Honey said, gesturing to the dining-room table.
I had followed them back inside because I wanted to hear what was going on. While Honey prepared another glass of lemonade, Bruno wandered over. The reporter must not have noticed the dog, because he suddenly jumped onto the seat of the dining-room chair. The dog applied his nose to the tips of the guy’s sneakers, gave a hearty sniff, then moseyed back to his cushion.