Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Awfully extravagant flower arrangement.”

  “That was the idea. A reminder of the other extravagances she could indulge in if she took my offer.”

  “You said you’re on Suzie Watch. Are there any other tabloids here?”

  “Nick and Suzie are here, and rumors are flying that they’re planning a secret beach wedding. Are you kidding? Everyone is here. All the tabloids, all the entertainment news outlets, and the British press—oh my God, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if they knew about the photos.” Monica’s phone rang. She answered, but kept checking on the view through the gap in the curtains.

  I bit my lip. Cara had said Ruby and Angela argued about a bidding war. Had Angela contacted several paparazzi to get the highest possible price? Maybe it was a member of the paparazzi who took the memory card from my room. But how would they know I had it? How would they know it was in the purse? I jumped up and paced over to the side of the cabana, too antsy to sit still.

  Monica’s voice oozed seductively as she said, “Tony, you are a dear. What would I do without you? No, I’m glad you called. I’m losing light, anyway. It’s perfect timing.” There was a pause, then Monica said, “Well, I’ll try to get back tonight to show you just how appreciative I am.” Her voice was soft and breathy. “Bye,” she whispered as she looked at me and rolled her eyes. She clicked her phone off. “So impressionable, kids these days,” she said in her normal voice. “He’s going to be disappointed when he finds out my appreciation comes in cash, not kisses.” Monica shut her laptop and began to pack her belongings. “Suzie and Nick have reservations at El Mar. Eight-fifteen. Then,” she stopped to consult a page she pulled from her tote, “Suzie is the honorary guest at the city’s fireworks display at Green Groves. After that, Tony says they’re off to Club Fifty-two.”

  “Monica, what if Angela contacted other members of the paparazzi—”

  “Press,” Monica corrected.

  “Okay, another member of the press. And, instead of sending flowers to persuade her to give them the photos, they staked out her apartment?”

  Monica zipped her camera into its case and settled it on her shoulder. “I suppose that could have happened,” she said, clearly not happy with the thought.

  “But no one would have seen her because she didn’t come home last night,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Er—just some info I picked up during the day. Anyway, what if this papa—I mean press person watching Angela’s house decided to take a look inside? That could explain the breakin.”

  “Okay, if they’re breaking and entering, they’re paparazzi,” Monica said. “It could happen,” she admitted. “Those photos would be quite a motivation.”

  I paced away a few steps, still working out my thoughts. “Then, because the photos weren’t in the apartment, the person stuck around, hoping Angela would return. They saw all the commotion—the police, Angela’s death, my attempt to give the police the purse.”

  “Purse? I’m lost,” Monica said.

  “That’s how Angela sent me the photos. They were in a purse she sent me by mistake. But the police didn’t want to take the purse. I was standing outside at the apartment complex when the detective gave it back to me. Someone could have overheard the conversation and assumed the purse contained the pictures because . . .” I stopped and peered at the cabana ceiling. “Yes, I’m sure I mentioned Angela’s phone call to me when I tried to give the purse back to the detective.”

  Monica put her hand on her chest. “You almost gave the photos to the police?”

  “I didn’t know I had them at that point.”

  “Still!”

  “Anyway, he didn’t want them, but if someone was watching and listening, they would be able to figure out that there was something about that purse—that Angela thought it was valuable in some way. She’d called me that morning, sounding scared, and wanted me to return the purse to her apartment. Since the police didn’t want the purse, I brought it back to the hotel with me.”

  “So someone could have followed you back to the hotel and taken it from your room,” Monica said.

  I nodded slowly. “By then, I’d found the photos. I wish there was some way to find out if Angela contacted anyone else in the media.”

  Monica tilted her head and looked at me thoughtfully. “How well did you know her?”

  “She wasn’t a close friend,” I said, and Monica’s lips turned down in disappointment. “I knew her mostly through online things—e-mail, Facebook, that sort of thing,” I added.

  Monica cheered up. “That’s just what we need. Quick, give me her social media accounts,” she said as she dialed a number. “And her cell phone number.”

  “What? Why?”

  Monica made a circular, hurry-up motion at me with her hand as she said into the phone, “Freddie, honey! Of course I haven’t forgotten you. No, I’d love to drop by next time I’m in Atlanta. I haven’t been home in ages. Listen, I need a favor.”

  By this time, I’d found Angela’s e-mail and phone number. I read them off to Monica. She tilted the phone away from her chin and raised her eyebrows as she asked, “Social media?”

  “Facebook under her name, probably Twitter, too. I don’t know what else she had.”

  “You get that?” Monica asked Freddie. “Right. In Sandy Beach, Florida.” She smiled. “I know, darling. I’m practically on your doorstep, but I’m stuck here until Suzie and Nick make a move. Think of some way to lure them up to Atlanta, and I’ll be there.”

  She kept flirting, but I tuned her out. I’d set my account to send me alerts when I received Facebook messages, and I had a new one from “Evan Benworth.” I turned away from Monica and quickly brought the message up. All fine here. Confined to my cabin, but should have a chance to explore soon.

  I quickly sent a message to him. Be careful.

  “What are you doing?” Monica asked as she attempted to look over my shoulder.

  “Keeping in touch with a friend.”

  She gave me a long look, then said, “Those photos are mine. I’ll help you find them, but don’t think you can double-cross me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good,” she said, briskly. “Freddie will call us back when he finds something.”

  “And Freddie is?”

  “Excellent at digging up what people have been doing online.”

  “You trust him?” I asked, wary of what I was getting myself involved in.

  “Known him for years. Used to push me off the swings when we were in grade school. Don’t worry. He’s discreet—and smitten with me—so he won’t do anything that will put us in danger.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  I bit the inside of my lip. I didn’t have a couple of hours. It was after six-thirty. The media angle was all I had. “Monica,” I said as a thought struck me, “when you’re photographing Suzie, you probably catch other media people in your photos, right?”

  “Sure. Especially somewhere like a restaurant or the hotel, where everyone knows she’ll be.”

  “And you know most of the media people who follow Suzie around?”

  “Yes,” Monica said.

  “I need to look at your photos of Suzie.”

  She narrowed her eyes as she watched me for a moment. “You think you might recognize someone who you saw hanging around Angela’s apartment today—in my photos? That the person might be media?”

  “It’s the only possibility I can think of right now.”

  “Worth a shot,” she said. “We’ll have to do it on the fly, because I need to get to that restaurant, and my photos don’t leave my sight. You’ll have to go with me.”

  “Fine,” I said, glad she agreed so quickly. “What about photos of Suzie and Nick leaving the hotel?”

  She made a face. “No. Security is too good around here—that’s why they stay here. The hotel shuttles them through diffe
rent entrances and exits. The details are very hush-hush. Not even my contact can get them for me. I never know where they’ll be, so it’s not worth my time to stick around here. Better to be in place where they’re going. Now, I need somewhere to change. I don’t think I can get by the attendant in the hotel’s restaurant again. Guess it will have to be the Burger King on the main drag.”

  “You’re not staying in the hotel?” I asked, pointing with my phone in the direction of the Park Palms.

  “Are you kidding? Way too expensive. My boss sprung for the cabana because I can’t sit on the beach and take photos of the hotel without drawing attention, but a room here? No way. I’m at a Holiday Inn Express out on the Interstate.”

  “You can change in my hotel room,” I said, thinking it would be better to keep her close. “I’m just down the street.”

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  Chapter Thirteen

  We drove separately back to my hotel, with me in the lead and her following in her black Jetta. Not wanting to waste a minute of time, I’d driven directly to the Park Palms earlier, instead of going to my hotel and walking over. I kept an eye on her in my rearview mirror. As soon as we were off the Park Palms property, she pulled off a wig and shook out her shoulder-length black hair. When we arrived at my hotel, I parked and walked over to her car. She was bent over the trunk, digging through several canvas tote bags. “Where is my party girl bag? I know I put it in here,” she murmured.

  “So you’re not a grandma. I didn’t think so,” I said, picking up the wig of tight white curls. The bright sunlight showed the heavy layer of powder on Monica’s skin, but even without any mascara or lipstick, she was striking with dark arched brows, high cheekbones, a slim nose, and full lips. As she pawed through the clothes in her trunk, I saw a flash of a brown shirt with the UPS logo, as well as a white lab coat.

  “All that grandma disguise has to do is fool someone for a few minutes. It’s not supposed to stand up to close inspection. It’s one of my best disguises, too. No one looks twice at an old woman. Agatha Christie knew exactly what she was doing when she created Miss Marple.” She latched onto a blue canvas tote and said, “Ah, here we go. Party Girl, the blond edition.” She quickly checked the bag. “What about you? Want to borrow something so you’re not recognized at the restaurant or the club? Might be a good idea. I’ve got boho chic and goth girl.”

  “Ah—I’ve got something upstairs that I can wear.”

  She ran a glance over me and said doubtfully, “Are you sure? It’s always better to have the element of surprise.”

  I quickly ran through the possibilities in my suitcase. I hadn’t planned to party at nightclubs during this vacation. The closest thing I had to a night-on-the-town outfit was a floral print sundress. “Boho chic,” I said reluctantly.

  “Not goth?” Monica said with a teasing tone. “I have a very nice studded collar in there and lots of leather.”

  “Please, this is Florida in July. I’m not crazy.” I took the bag. “Well, not completely insane,” I amended as we walked across the parking lot. “I’m only halfway around the bend.”

  I let Monica have the bathroom first when we got to the room, calling out that there were towels and washcloths in the cabinets under the vanity. She had set me up with her laptop, and I began scrolling through her photos. They were all time stamped, which gave me an idea. Before looking at each one in detail, I went to the photos with the time stamp around eleven today. I quickly skimmed through the pictures during the window of time between eleven and two o’clock.

  There were several photos of Suzie and Nick arriving at a restaurant around eleven-thirty. They dined on the terrace facing the beach, and Monica had caught them eating appetizers, feeding each other bites of their entrées, and spooning up some sort of chocolate dessert, which made me want some chocolate. I plucked a Hershey’s kiss from the floor where they’d rolled when the coffee table was upended.

  I removed the silver wrapping, popped the chocolate into my mouth, and let it dissolve as I flipped through the photos, taking in the time stamps. They hadn’t walked out the door until almost one. I felt a sense of relief mixed with disappointment. At least I knew Monica had nothing to do with Angela’s death. She’d been busy photographing Nick and Suzie, who were also in the clear.

  “When did Suzie arrive in Sandy Beach?” I called out.

  Monica’s head, now with straight, honey blond hair framing her face, popped around the doorframe. She’d washed off the layer of powder and now had full makeup on: eye shadow and liner, blush and lipstick. She looked stunning. “Three days ago, same as me. They’ve been holed up in the Park Palms most of the time, except for going out to eat and going to clubs at night. Tony said they did check on a deep-sea fishing trip but haven’t booked anything.” She unscrewed the mascara tube she held in her hand. “God, I hope they don’t do that. I’d have to rent a boat and follow them out there. I’d probably puke over the side the whole time.”

  She disappeared back into the bathroom but called out, “So how did you find me?”

  “I saw the flower arrangement you sent Angela with your name on the card. Another friend of Angela’s told me she’d said she had a ‘big find.’ Your card used the same word, ‘find,’ which I figured couldn’t be a coincidence.”

  “And then you played me on the phone to find out where I was,” she said, her head bobbing out of the doorframe again as she shot me an appraising glance. “Not bad. I’m usually not that gullible.”

  “Well, I didn’t have anything else,” I said as I clicked through the photos. She went back into the bathroom, and I ate some more chocolate. Finally, photos with the exterior of Club Fifty-two came up. I checked the date. Yep, three days ago. The photos had to be from the night Angela got her pictures of Suzie. “Did you get any pictures inside Club Fifty-two?” I asked.

  Monica reappeared. “No.” She pouted. “Nick recognized me and told the doorman specifically not to let me in. I was busted, even when I tried to get in using a disguise. Didn’t work,” she said, shaking her head as she clipped a gold bracelet on her wrist. “Thus, the new disguise,” she said, waving her hand from her blond hair to her shimmery, short green dress and high black heels.

  “Your turn.” She hooked her thumb toward the bathroom. “You can look at the photos in the car while we wait. I know just the spot. I scoped it out earlier today on my way back from the Y because I had a hint about where they’d be dining.”

  “Help yourself to some chocolate,” I said on my way into the bathroom.

  “No way.”

  “You don’t like chocolate?”

  “Love it. It’s my hips that don’t like it,” she said.

  I changed into my own cranberry tank, then slipped Monica’s gauzy printed top, with a lace border edging the scooped neckline, over my head. I pulled on a pair of dark jeans, glad for all those miles I’d put in with the stroller brigade. I didn’t look too bad. I’d never be as skinny as Monica—just like I’d never be twenty again, but I thought I’d be able to get into the club. “Here,” Monica said when I came out of the bathroom. She dropped several long necklaces over my head. “Perfect. Now, shoes. Do you have some boots with heels?”

  “No,” I said, and Monica gave me a look. “Florida, remember? Hot. Muggy. No boots. I do have some espadrille we
dges.”

  “I suppose they’ll have to do,” Monica said, packing her laptop. I pulled the shoes out of my suitcase and slipped them on, then returned to the bathroom and swept my hair up with a clip, but left a few strands floating around my face. I leaned over the large vanity and added a few swipes of eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss, then stepped back. On the whole, I thought my best friend and go-to fashion guru, Abby, would approve. Thinking of her made me want to call her and tell her everything that had happened, but there wasn’t time, and she was busy with her son’s first Cub Scout campout this week. I’d have to fill her in later and, boy, would that be a conversation—just like the one I’d have when Mitch got here. I had no idea what I would say, but I didn’t have time to worry about it right then. I’d have to figure it out when the time came, which was still hours away.

  Monica was standing by the door impatient to go when I came out. I shoved the room keycard into my purse and was on the way to the door when the room phone rang. My breathing went funny as I changed course and picked up the phone. “Hello.” It came out as a whisper.

  “Ah, Mrs. Avery, you’re a hard woman to catch.”

  I recognized the voice immediately—gravelly, abrasive with a layer of maliciousness that made my stomach clench.

  “Perhaps I should give you my cell phone number,” I said.

  “That won’t be necessary. Don’t like them, myself. Too easy to track and record things on cell phones. This old-fashioned connection will do fine for us. Now, why haven’t you been in to take my calls?”

  “I’ve been busy, trying to get what you asked for.” Monica picked up on the tension radiating from me. She went still and watched me with wide eyes.

  “Good. Glad to hear you’re so dedicated,” the scratchy voice continued. “I’m not sure your brother appreciates what a loyal sister he has. He’s holding up remarkably well. How is your little quest going?”

  “I almost have it,” I lied, and tried to put as much conviction into my voice as I could.