by Sara Rosett
“Should be any minute now,” Ben said, which seemed to satisfy Nathan. Uncle Ben’s word carried more weight than mine did. Nathan nodded and settled down, crossed his legs, and looked at the dark sky expectantly.
“Thanks for coming to the fireworks with us tonight,” I said to Ben.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m sure there are other places—trendier, more exciting places—you could be.”
“I’ve had my fill of excitement on this vacation, thank you very much,” Ben said.
The whine of a rocket cutting through the air signaled the beginning of the show. Both Livvy and Nathan dropped onto their backs to watch the fireworks, oohing and aahing.
I’d had a day to recover from my watery encounter with Suzie. I was sporting a bright red stripe of skin around my neck where Suzie had throttled me. Ben was also fine. Nick and Lee hadn’t even made it to Ben’s hotel room.
The police had been on the lookout for Suzie, Nick, and Lee. They’d spotted them on the beach road when they dropped Suzie at the beach. Some of the police followed Suzie to the beach and the others followed Nick and Lee. The police caught up with Nick and Lee in the hotel atrium. They’d lost Suzie in the mass of swimsuits and bathing caps of the triathletes. It was their dark uniforms I’d seen moving up and down the beach as they looked for Suzie. They’d nabbed her as soon as she stepped out of the water. She was an excellent swimmer, but even she had to come ashore eventually. With the water clear of swimmers after the “shark scare,” she was a pretty easy target to track since she was the only person still in the water.
A burst of white flowered in the sky above us. The bright explosion lit up a leggy young woman with jet-black hair moving around the blankets. Several smaller explosions went off in a series of staccato bursts as green and blue fireworks bloomed overhead. In the flashes of light, I waved, and Monica caught sight of me. She picked her way through the crowd, then dropped down onto our blanket.
“So, is this the real you?” I asked, taking in her shorts, chambray shirt, and flat sandals.
“Yep, this is plain old me,” she said.
I introduced her to Ben, whose attention was no longer on the fireworks.
“I brought you something.” She handed me a white paper bag. “Deep-fried Oreos.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I said as I opened the bag and pulled out one of the still warm, crispy circles. I handed the bag around so that Mitch, Ben, and the kids could sample them, too.
I took a bite as she said, “Those are Triple Double Stuff—the absolute best.”
Ben ate a bite and said, “That is amazing . . ..”
“Amazingly bad, but in a good way,” I added, savoring the crispy shell and the chocolate. “So you’re not on Suzie Watch tonight?”
“No, there’s not much to watch. She, Nick, and Lee are in police custody. They’ll be charged tomorrow.”
“With what?” Ben asked, leaning forward.
“That is the question, isn’t it? There are so many possibilities,” Monica said, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I’ve heard through a source that only Suzie’s fingerprints were on the envelope of powder, so that’s pretty incriminating.”
“But she was at lunch with Nick when Angela was killed. Dwight was there, too. It’s in your photos.”
“Yes, but apparently, the thought of going to jail for murder has broken the spell Suzie had over Lee. I managed to recruit a source close to the police, who says Lee is talking, giving them all the inside details so he can get a deal and avoid jail. Lee says that before Susie left for her lunch date with Nick, she waited for Angela to make the call to you asking for the purse, then Suzie administered a puff of the powder—a special gift from her dealer—to Angela, which put her in a compliant, suggestive state. Suzie told her it was a nice day for a swim. Lee said he didn’t think about it at the time, he was so freaked out about the job he’d been tasked with—getting Angela back to her apartment and picking up the purse. Lee says he parked in front of the apartment’s swimming pool and left Angela in the car. She was groggy. He says his plan was to retrieve the purse, then escort Angela inside the apartment and leave her there.
“But the purse wasn’t there,” I said. “Because I hadn’t arrived yet.”
“Right. Lee found the apartment unlocked and ransacked—”
“Courtesy of Pete Gutin,” I added.
Monica said, “When Lee got back to the car, Angela was gone. She’d decided to take a swim as Suzie suggested. The drug reduced her motor skills so that she wasn’t able to swim, and she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to just float until someone arrived who could help her.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. We were silent for a few moments.
Monica cleared her throat. “I heard the police picked up Pete at the Miami airport, by the way. He’s on his way back here. Jenson says he’ll be charged with robbery at the very least, and it doesn’t look like he’ll get to keep the money from his sale of the photos.”
“So he’s not going to spend his ‘retirement’ on a beach in the Caribbean?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Mitch leaned forward, tossing his crumpled napkin into the paper bag. “Since I came in late, I’m still a little confused on how the whole thing went down.”
Monica and I glanced at each other. She waved a hand in my direction. “You were there at the beginning.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, let me see if I can get it all straight. Angela, Ruby, and Cara were at Club Fifty-two. Angela took the incriminating photos of Suzie, which Ruby knew about, but Cara didn’t. Angela contacted two papar—ah—press people and offered to sell them the pictures. Monica and Pete. Angela and Ruby argued because Ruby wanted to sell them back to Suzie.”
“Blackmail might be a better term,” Ben said.
“True. Anyway, Ruby contacted Dwight, who set up a meeting with her. I’m not sure what happened on the balcony,” I said, looking toward Monica.
“I interviewed Ruby today. Amazingly, now that Suzie and Nick and their entourage are in police custody, she’s recovered her memory. She said once Dwight figured out she didn’t have the photos on her—Angela had the only copy—he threatened her until she told him Angela had them. Then he pushed her over the balcony.” Another cavalcade of fireworks lit up the sky overhead, and we were all silent for a second, watching it. I shivered, remembering how I’d seen her body fall.
Monica sighed and said, “At least she’ll make a full recovery. Anyway, she shut up and stayed in the hospital, using her amnesia story to keep herself safe. My source informs me that Lee says Dwight called him and told him where to find Angela. Lee followed her as she left the store. He caught up with her on the sidewalk and tried to convince her to give him the photos, but he didn’t have any money, and Angela walked away. He didn’t want to come back empty-handed, so he managed to get her in the car and take her to the hotel.”
“That’s rather extreme,” Mitch said.
Monica shrugged. “The relationships the personal assistants have with their ‘stars’ can be warped. The stars often treat their PAs like dirt and demand they be on call twenty-four hours a day. Many PAs don’t really have a life outside of their work. They’ll do anything for their star. It’s a weird relationship. The PA usually knows the star better than anyone, yet they aren’t a friend. They’re an employee. It goes back to that king and court syndrome we talked about,” Monica said to me.
“So you’re saying that Lee would do anything for Suzie . . . even kidnapping and murder?” Mitch asked.
“Pretty much,” Monica said. “Lee says Dwight asked Angela questions all night, but that she wouldn’t tell him anything. She finally gave in and told them everything the next day—that Ellie had the photos in the purse. Dwight knew the power of having access to someone’s digital identity and got her e-mail account information.”
“I wonder why they didn’t use the powder on Angela in the first place?” Ben speculated.<
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“They didn’t have it until that morning. Sources told me that Suzie’s dealer dropped by and left it with her then.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t they use it on Ben? I’m sure you weren’t exactly cooperative.”
“I let them think I was cooperative,” Ben corrected, “but I had my own agenda. When I saw the envelope, there wasn’t much powder left. Maybe they were saving it in case I became less compliant.”
“So once they figured out Ellie had the photos, she became their target,” Mitch said.
I nodded. “Except Pete realized I had the photos and stole them from our hotel room. After I figured out that Chase and Cara didn’t have the photos, I remembered the flower delivery, which led me to Monica.”
“And the rest you know,” Monica said.
“So her brother, Chase, wasn’t involved?” Mitch asked.
“No. Except for sending the wrong purse. He had no idea about the photos. He was too wrapped up in the pill mill,” Monica said.
“What will happen to him?” I asked.
“He’s another deal maker. He’s giving up his partner, the doctor, and his suppliers in exchange for several years in prison.”
Ben said, “I’m still surprised that Angela only made one copy of the photos and then put it in the fake purse.”
Monica shrugged as she said, “She must have thought it was a hiding place that no one would find and that it was safer than leaving the photos on her phone or computer.”
“And the purse would be much harder for Ruby to get to than her phone,” I added. “They had disagreed about what to do with the photos, and they were worth a lot of money.”
“Oh! You’ll be interested in this,” Monica said, suddenly turning to dig through her bag. She extracted a sheaf of papers and handed them to me. “That’s the listings from an online auction of all of Angela’s designer clothes and bags. Her dad says the proceeds from the auction will go to set up a foundation to fight drug abuse.”
Ben said, “I think she’d like that.”
“I think so, too,” I said. I made a mental note to get in touch with Angela’s dad and tell him to keep the real Leah Marshall bag. Chase had said he’d get it to me, but I thought it should go in the auction.
Suddenly, there was a surge in the fireworks, which had been going on in the background as we talked. It was the finale and the sky filled with starbursts of red, white, and blue.
Nathan hopped up from the blanket where I think he’d been dozing, but he looked wide-awake now.
We packed up the blanket and gathered our trash, the kids still talking about the fireworks. Ben boosted Nathan up on his shoulders, and we joined the crowd moseying to the parking area.
Nathan looked down at me. “When do we have to go home, Mom?”
“Not for another three days.”
“Good,” he said with a nod. “This has been the best vacation ever. I don’t want to go home.”
Mitch wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and I slipped my hand around his waist as I said, “I wouldn’t quite agree with Nathan.”
“No, but the next few days have a lot of potential.”
“That they do,” I said, and Mitch gave my shoulders a squeeze.
“No more intrigue. Just sun, sand, and the water,” I said. “And a few more of those deep-fried Oreos,” I added.
“And milkshakes,” Nathan said.
“No more excitement,” Mitch agreed.
“Right,” I said. “We’ll have a really boring, uninteresting time for the next three days.”
“Dull, even,” Mitch said.
“Sounds good to me.”
Author’s Note
The first smidgen of the idea for this book came to me when I visited the Florida Gulf Coast with my family. Sandy Beach is loosely based on the city of Destin. I took liberties with the typography of the city, but I didn’t change a thing about the beaches. They really are so beautiful it’s almost hard to believe they are real: astoundingly clear water and pure white sand. We were stunned to have our very own “shark encounter” on our first day at the beach. It was one of those “I have to put this in a book someday” moments.
Sadly, the pill mill aspect of the story is based on real events. I first read about pill mills in the Tampa Bay Times, which described how Florida’s crackdown on the illegal drugs had caused pill mills to use alternate “waiting rooms” in an effort to hide their activities from the police.
For information on the tabloid aspect of the story, these books were invaluable: Tabloid Valley: Supermarket News and American Culture by Paula E. Morton; The Untold Story: My Twenty Years Running the National Enquirer by Iain Calder; Tabloid Love: Looking for Mr. Right in all the Wrong Places by Bridget Harrison; and Fame Junkies: The Hidden Truths Behind America’s Favorite Addiction by Jake Halpern.
To see photos of Florida’s beaches, some articles I used for research, and other miscellaneous inspiration, look for the Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder board at Pinterest. You’ll find me under “SRosett.” Hope to connect with you on Pinterest, Facebook, Goodreads, or Twitter!
Acknowledgments
I’m amazed that this is the eighth Ellie book. Thanks to Michaela, my wonderful editor, for her continued support for the series. The team at Kensington is terrific, and I’m so fortunate to work with such wonderful people. Thanks to Faith. I so appreciate your positive outlook and your encouragement. A huge thank you to the reviewers, librarians, and readers who have spread the word about this series. I appreciate every mention, review, like, and tweet! Thanks to my writing buddies and online friends, the Deadly Divas and the Girlfriends Book Club. And, as always, the biggest thank you goes to my family: Glenn, Lauren, and Jonathan. I truly couldn’t have done it without you.
In case you missed the last delightful Ellie Avery mystery . . .
Keep reading to enjoy an excerpt from Mistletoe, Merriment, and Murder
Available from Kensington
Chapter One
Wednesday
“Look at me, Mom,” squeaked a voice beside me. I glanced up from the green frosting I was slathering on a Christmas tree–shaped sugar cookie and saw my five-year-old son, Nathan, wearing the pale blue bed sheet that I’d made into a shepherd costume for the annual children’s Christmas pageant. I had accomplished this sewing feat despite the fact that I’m not exactly handy with a needle and thread. Until a few weeks ago, fabric glue had been my go-to option when it came to creating Halloween costumes, but the pageant with its numerous rehearsals coupled with Nathan’s rather energetic nature called for something sturdier. I was still stunned that it had worked. I’d actually made sleeves. I was grateful that zippers would have been anachronistic.
With the loose folds that draped around his neck and the strand of rope that Mitch had found in the garage for a belt, Nathan had looked authentically pastoral. Now, though, Nathan had the neckline hitched up over his head into a tight-fitting hood that dropped almost below his eyes. He held his shepherd crook—a converted broomstick—horizontally in a fierce two-handed grip. “Luke, come over to the dark side,” he said in a breathy whisper and swished his “light saber” back and forth.
I closed my eyes for a moment, half frustrated and half entertained. “Honey, I don’t have time to play Star Wars right now.” We’d had a marathon viewing session of the original Star Wars trilogy after Thanksgiving dinner this year and the movies had made a huge impression on Nathan. “Remember, I’ve got company coming. Daddy’s taking you and Livvy to get a pizza, so you need to go change.”
He whipped the hood off his head and his dark brown eyes, so much like Mitch’s, sparkled. “Really?”
“Yep. And, no, you can’t take your shepherd’s crook with you,” I called out after his retreating back.
With a quick glance at the clock, I went back to frosting cookies, slapping the icing on as fast as I could. I had two hours before the squadron spouse club descended on our house and I still had to make the cider, move chairs, start some music
, light candles, check the bathroom for toothpaste blobs in the sink, and wrap my present.
Livvy strode into the kitchen, her ponytail bouncing. At least she wasn’t in her angel costume. She had a book in the crook of her arm, her butterfly-shaped purse slung over her shoulder, and a coat of clear lip gloss on her rosebud mouth. “I don’t see why I can’t stay here,” she said as she plunked down on a bar stool. She’d had a growth spurt during the summer and I still couldn’t believe how tall my eight-year-old was. She tugged at the cuffs of her sweatshirt, which was sprinkled with sparkly snowflakes. “I mean, I understand why Nathan and Dad have to go—they’re boys, but I’m a girl. I should get to stay, too, right?”
“Well, honey, it’s all grown-ups. Truthfully, I think you’d be bored. We’re just going to eat and talk.”
“And open presents,” she said accusingly.
“Another reason you can’t stay,” I said gently. “You don’t have a present for the gift exchange and everyone has to have one for the game to work.”
“But they’re just white elephant gifts,” she said quickly. “You said the rule was they had to be worth nothing and as horrible as possible.”
Of course she was quoting me exactly. Our kids had excellent recall for statements Mitch and I had made—certain special selections only, usually having to do with promises of ice cream and other special treats. Christmas was just weeks away and Livvy and Nathan were in agony. It seemed each day another package arrived in the mail for the kids from our far-flung extended families. It wasn’t easy for them to watch the presents pile up and know it would be weeks before they could open anything. “I could find something in my room to give away,” she said in a wheedling tone.
“I’m sure you could, but you’re not staying tonight. You’re going with Dad,” I said in a firmer voice. The lure of opening a present—even a white elephant gift—was a heavy draw for her, but since no other kids had been invited, I didn’t think it was right to let Livvy stay.