Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  Monica pressed a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me,” she said. “Look!” She shoved some paper at me. “Freddie came through!”

  “Freddie?” I asked.

  “My contact, remember? My tech guy? Angela’s texts.”

  “So you really did get a call?” I asked, gripping the back of a rolling chair to steady myself and breathe now that my lungs seemed to be working again.

  “Yes,” she said, her forehead wrinkled. Then her face cleared. “Oh. You thought . . . I see,” she said, and then it was her turn to look imposing. “You really think I’d ditch you? Now? When everything is about to come together?”

  “Well, you did skip out on Pete . . .”

  “Because Pete is an idiot. I’m a reporter. These,” she slapped the papers with the back of her hand, “are collaboration. Text messages between Angela and Ruby about the photos. Angela told Ruby that she contacted Pete. She told Ruby that she’d taken care of everything and they’d have their money soon.” As another paper emerged from the printer, she said, “We have my texts with Angela on my phone and her texts with Pete. Angela wanted a bidding war, but Pete offered more than I did. Two million. I guess she figured that was high enough. She gave him her name and address, and told him to meet her there at noon today.”

  “Pete could have arrived early and searched her apartment for the photos,” I said.

  Monica’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder if he planned to swipe them all along.”

  “Could be, but whether or not that was his plan, when he saw Angela was dead and he heard me talking to Jenson about the purse and how Angela wanted me to deliver it to her apartment, he must have figured out the photos were in it. Then, he followed me back to the hotel and stole the memory card along with my computer.”

  Monica slapped the papers against her hand. “These are a second source, which we need to prove what happened. Just because I work for Celeb doesn’t mean I don’t do my homework,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Forget it,” she said easily, her attention already on the pages. “This is just what we need.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Mitch said. He’d been waiting silently in the doorway.

  “Last one,” Monica said as she pulled the page from the printer.

  “Let’s go, then,” Mitch said.

  “Copies! We need copies,” I said, gathering the two stacks of paper.

  We ran two copies of all the documents while Mitch tapped his foot, jiggled his keys, and made other nonverbal gestures to communicate his impatience. I left one copy of the documents at the front desk in a sealed envelope with Detective Jenson’s name on it. I seized the stack of originals and the second set, then we sprinted through the lobby and into the parking lot.

  “How are we getting inside Green Groves?” Mitch asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, jogging along beside him. I handed the second copy of the papers to Monica, eyeing her night-out-on-the-town dress. “I hope we don’t have to climb over a wall.”

  Digital Organizing Tips

  Use Online Helpers

  Take advantage of some of these free digital organizing tools:

  Dropbox is a free online digital storage service. It’s handy because you can drop files into your account from your computer, then access them on another computer.

  Note-It lets you create sticky notes for your computer.

  Create your own list at PrintableCheckList.org. Super simple and easy to use.

  You can find generic grocery lists at many sites online or customize one at grocerylistmaker.com.

  Store and share your photos with online photo sharing sites like Flickr, Photobucket, and Shutterfly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mitch drove as Monica and I scanned the pages. The van was silent except for the rustle of paper and the posh voice coming from the GPS as it navigated us to Green Groves. I was shuffling the most important papers into a smaller stack when the GPS announced that we had arrived at our destination. I frowned in confusion at the mass of cars clogging the entrance and the bright glow of lights illuminating the sky beyond the imposing gates.

  I’d expected Green Groves to be closed, and the gates locked tight. I’d researched the place online and knew the extensive grounds were enclosed on three sides by a high wrought iron fence. The fourth side of the property abutted Sandy Bay. Although Green Groves wasn’t a working plantation and had been built more as a showcase of the owner’s wealth, it still followed the usual pattern of locating the plantation home near water. Water had been the main highway of the day, and Green Groves’s location on Sandy Bay meant easy travel to and from the plantation for the owners.

  “The Festival of Fireworks,” I read aloud as I saw a sign. “I’d forgotten about that. There was an advertisement for it in the lobby,” I said to Mitch. He followed the line of cars to the parking area, and we stepped out of the van. Night had brought some relief from the stifling humidity, but it was still warm. I knew the grounds surrounding the home were famous for being spacious but hadn’t grasped how large the estate was. Majestic live oaks, their twisted branches draped with Spanish moss, stretched out in every direction, seeming to go on for miles. Even at night, the whole landscape was tinged with various shades of green, from the emerald green of the grass underfoot to the gray-green of the Spanish moss.

  I looked around at the kids jumping excitedly and tugging on parents’ arms. I wished we were here with Livvy and Nathan, with nothing more to do than fight the crowds for a pretzel and admire the fireworks.

  “The kids wanted to come,” I said as we crunched along the path of crushed shells through the entrance, which cut straight through the forest of live oaks to the white pillars of the antebellum house in the distance. Lights had been threaded through the tree branches, which met overhead and created a tunnel-like corridor that was lined with vendors offering arcade games, Tshirts, and food.

  “I can see why,” Mitch said. “It’s a carnival.”

  Aromas of grilled meat and fried foods wafted toward us. I saw signs for pretzels, hot dogs, hamburgers, ice cream, funnel cakes, and cotton candy. And, it seemed anything from ice cream to Oreos could be deep-fried. “Deep-fried Oreos,” I murmured. “Sounds repulsively good. I think I might have to try those.”

  “They’re to die for,” Monica said, and I gave her a surprised look. “What?” she asked.

  “You turn down a Hershey’s kiss, but you’ll eat deep-fried Oreos?”

  “It was a long time ago,” she said wistfully. “I grew up in Atlanta, one of the fried-food capitals of the world.” We moved down the aisle between booths of food, games, and souvenirs.

  We emerged from the tunnel of live oak branches into an open, grassy area. Ahead of us, still about half a mile away, stood the two-story plantation house, its pristine white pillars and portico rising above the circular sweep of the shell drive. A large stage had been set up to our right.

  I gripped Mitch’s arm. “Look at the banner,” I said, and Monica pulled her camera out of her bag. She clicked off a few shots of an enormous banner with a picture of Suzie Quinn tilting a can with a familiar soft drink logo to her smiling lips.

  Suzie herself sat at a table on the stage, signing autographs for a line of fans that snaked down the stairs from the stage. On the ground, the line twisted between elastic dividers. It doubled back, winding back and forth across the grass, making me think of my last trip through airport security. A few people sat with Suzie on the stage, including two of the security guys I’d seen in Monica’s photos. There were also a few more normal, less bodybuilder, types in business suits, whose job seemed to be hurrying people through the line and preventing anyone from saying more than one sentence to Suzie.

  Monica hissed, “There’s Dwight.” She nodded toward a cluster of people on the edge of the stage. I pointed out his Western shirt and cowboy boots to Mitch. Everyone else was either in a business suit or beach casual. We all shuffled across the grass to the cover of the
trees. Once we were positioned behind the wide girth of one of the oak trunks, Monica propped her camera on a gnarled branch and began clicking away.

  “Do you see Ben?” I asked. I knew it was unlikely that he’d be up on stage, even in the wings, but I couldn’t help asking.

  “Don’t know what he looks like,” she said.

  “Here, let me check,” I said, and she handed over the camera somewhat hesitantly. “I won’t drop it.” I quickly found the group and zoomed in on them. “No, he’s not there.” No tall, dark-haired, lanky guy in his mid-twenties stood with them.

  There was a distant whistling sound, then a loud crack. I jumped, and Monica quickly pulled the camera out of my hands. “What was that?” I asked.

  “Fireworks,” Mitch said. He glanced at his watch. “They must be running late. The sign said fireworks over Sandy Bay are from ten until eleven.” Another whine split the air followed by a boom, this one louder than the last. The tree branches were thick, and I couldn’t see any sparks of color when I glanced overhead.

  “The fireworks viewing is down there,” Mitch said, pointing to a group of people who were headed toward the house, following the signs that led them around the right-hand side of the plantation to the path that dropped down to the bay. The area where we were didn’t clear out completely. Plenty of people still circulated along the drive. Some people had spread blankets in the grassy area and were feasting on their deep-fried goodies while others stayed in line for an autograph.

  Mitch checked the stage and said, “Since Dwight is up there, I’m going to check out the place he told you to meet him. See if I can watch from a distance.”

  “I’ll go, too. I’ll need to find the best place to get photos,” Monica said.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Mitch said.

  “The more evidence we have for Jenson, the better,” I said. “If Monica can get a shot of Ben being brought to us and get the exchange on film, then we’ve got proof for Jenson. Do you have a video option on that camera?”

  “Of course,” she said, but she didn’t look excited about the idea of shooting video.

  “You’ll be able to get some stills from the video, right?” I asked, but in a slightly distracted way as I glanced around. I had that funny feeling you get when someone is watching you.

  Monica said, “Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I get it.”

  I swept my gaze over the crowd of people. Most were moving at a lazy pace, taking in the scenery or eating as they walked.

  “What is it?” Mitch asked.

  “I don’t know. I feel like someone is watching us.” I shifted so I could see around the rough trunk of the oak. “It’s Jenson,” I said as our gazes locked. He’d changed into a new guayabera shirt, this one black with white stitching, and wore jean shorts with a pair of sturdy sandals. His hands were in his pockets and he was staring in my direction intently, his sandy eyebrows lowered. A slim, dark-headed woman in a sleeveless shirt and linen shorts had paused beside him, her attention on a brochure. A teenaged girl in short-shorts and a T-shirt with the same dark hair as the woman trailed behind the couple, making her discontent with the situation clear though her body language of sloped shoulders and a mulish expression.

  “Who?” Mitch asked.

  “The detective,” I said. “Looks like he’s here with his family. He wants to talk to Ben about Angela’s death.”

  “Great,” Mitch muttered.

  “I know.” I clenched my hands into fists as Jenson said something to the woman, then strolled toward me. “No. Go away. We don’t have time for this.”

  Mitch glanced around. “Has he seen me?”

  “I don’t think so. You and Monica are both hidden by the tree, I think,” I said.

  Mitch looked back at the lighted tunnel of tree branches.

  I knew what he was thinking. “You and Monica go on. I’ll get rid of Jenson and meet you . . . somewhere,” I said, looking for a place that would be easy to get to, but that wouldn’t leave us in the open.

  Mitch said, “Let’s meet at the van. It’s too open here.” I agreed, and he and Monica left at a quick clip. “Left side, down the terrace steps to a fountain with dolphins,” I whispered, and then immediately felt silly because it wasn’t like Jenson would hear me. He was still several yards away. Without looking back, Mitch raised a hand in acknowledgment as he and Monica reached the main drive and blended in with the people moving under the archway of lights.

  “Evening, Mrs. Avery,” Jenson said. “Friends of yours?” he asked, looking in the direction Mitch and Monica had gone.

  “My husband and a friend,” I said. “They’ve gone to get . . . something to eat. Deep-fried Oreos, I think.”

  “I see. They’re excellent.”

  Had everyone but me eaten fried Oreos? How had I missed out on this culinary experience?

  Jenson pivoted on his heels, taking in the crowd. “Your brother here, Mrs. Avery?”

  I licked my lips. “He’ll be . . . arriving later.”

  “How much later?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “So you’re saying your brother is meeting you here—at midnight?”

  “Yes. That’s the plan, anyway,” I murmured under my breath.

  “This event shuts down at midnight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tell you what,” Jenson said as he checked his watch. “That’s not too long from now. I’ll just stick with you until then.” Several explosions thundered through the air.

  Before I could protest, Jenson waved his wife and daughter over, introduced them, and told them he had to stay and they should go ahead to the fireworks without him. His wife gave him a slightly exasperated look, but it seemed she wasn’t really upset.

  “I don’t want to spoil your evening,” I said. “You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll have Ben call you the minute I see him.”

  “It’s fine. Happens all the time,” his wife said with a wrinkle of her nose at him. “It’s why we take two cars everywhere we go. See you at home, babe.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then tapped his arm as she added, “I expect it to be before six a.m. Come on, Kayla,” she said to the teen, who had been texting during our exchange. She dragged her gaze away from her phone long enough to wave at her dad, then went back to her phone as she followed her mom.

  Jenson had his hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels and said, “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. How about we get in line for those fried Oreos?”

  I blew out a breath, coming to a decision. “As much as I’d like to try one, there’s something I need to show you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Circumstantial,” Jenson said, replacing the last paper back in the stack I’d handed him. We were sitting in the minivan. I was in the driver’s seat, and Jenson was in the passenger seat. It was the most out of the way place I could think of to take him. I didn’t want Dwight to see me chatting with Jenson. Jenson wasn’t in a uniform and there wasn’t any sign of a badge, but I still wanted to be careful. Faintly, I could still hear the fireworks whistling skyward and the dull thud as they exploded.

  On the walk to the van, I’d tried to summarize what had happened from the purse mix-up to the news that Dwight had someone poised to take my kids. Since Jenson was sticking with me, I figured my only option was to tell him everything. It was actually a relief. Well, it had been a relief until he’d thrown out the “circumstantial” word.

  “But it’s all there . . . Dwight and Suzie’s e-mails, setting up Angela, the texts between Angela and the tabloids, even Ruby’s contact with Dwight before she was pushed off the balcony.

  Jenson tapped the edges of the pages, lining them up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Avery, but this doesn’t prove anything. It could be supporting evidence, but it’s not a smoking gun. Anyone can set up an e-mail address and name it whatever they want. Anyone could set up an e-mail account as,” he paused to consult the top paper, “dfellows@gmail.com.”


  “But the e-mails can be traced, right? If you trace them to the Park Palms suite where Nick and Suzie are staying . . .”

  “Even if we can trace the e-mail, that doesn’t pinpoint one person.”

  “Well, what about the fact that he’s holding my brother?”

  “Do you have any record of his calls? How did he contact you? Cell phone?”

  “No. The hotel phone,” I said miserably. “And I wasn’t smart enough or quick enough to try and record it. I could have done that with my cell phone. But he did call. The hotel will have a record of incoming calls, but that would probably take time to track down.”

  “Yes, and you’re sure that time is of the essence here?”

  “Yes. Absolutely sure,” I said. A series of explosions rumbled, and we both tensed.

  “It’s the finale,” Jenson said as the air filled with pops, whines, and explosions.

  The clock on the dashboard read eleven o’clock. Jenson shifted position in the seat, propped an ankle on one knee, and said, “Now, back to your brother . . . you said he told you he could leave at any time?”

  “Yes,” I said with an internal groan, knowing where this conversation was going. “But that was in the beginning. The last time I talked to him, he said he’d underestimated the people he was dealing with. He outsmarted them into thinking they’d drugged him, but I don’t know what they’d do to him if they knew what he’d been doing . . . sneaking around, looking at their computers and phones.”

  Jenson stared at me for a long moment, then blew out a long sigh. “Clearly, you are distraught and worried about your brother,” he said, as if running through a mental pro and con list. “There is nothing in your brother’s past that would indicate he’d concoct such an elaborate scheme or participate in a murder, but—”