Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Nadine and some of the waitstaff looked on helplessly as Gladys passed around a handy gizmo from her purse that just happened to have a corkscrew attachment.

  Major points for you, Mrs. Rumway, Summer thought. You had to admire that kind of moxie. That’s what Dorothy always called it, anyway. Rochelle, her third stepmom, called it chutzpah.

  Someone had cranked the cheerful holiday music again, in a futile effort to calm people down. Detective Caputo’s team needed to speed things up on the info-gathering front, or the whole restaurant could be destroyed by a bunch of little old ladies.

  No, that wasn’t what she’d meant. Totally un-PC, and Dorothy would kill her. A bunch of really energetic seniors.

  Summer tried to make herself invisible by taking the long way along the wall as she headed toward the table she and Dorothy had shared by the window. That seemed like ages ago.

  While she was at it, she should check by Zoe and Aleesha’s table, too. Maybe one of them had dropped something that would offer a clue as to why they’d been having lunch at Waterman’s.

  It couldn’t really have been because Zoe wanted to meet her, right? How could the girl have known she was going to be at a fashion show lunch today, anyway? It was supposed to be a surprise for Dorothy, so the only person she’d told was her friend Dash, when they were at that club Beach Patrol the other night.

  They’d been sitting at a funky tiki bar on the second level, the one with the hula dancers flashing orange-and-green lava lights. And she’d had to kind of yell a little over the pounding music from the dance floor.

  Was Zoe Z hanging out there, too? Um…well, maybe. Summer might have been paying more attention to the electric blue drinks than the other clubbers around them.

  Summer checked her and Dorothy’s table, and every inch underneath it. She even got down on her hands and knees, in case she was missing anything. But her phone was hot pink and the biggest one you could buy, so it was pretty safe to say it was now officially gone.

  Someone had to have snagged it. That was super annoying. Had she left the Find My Phone app on, or turned it off so no one could track her? She couldn’t remember.

  There was nothing left at Zoe and Aleesha’s table except a lingering blanket of expensive but gross perfume. If she stayed here any longer, she’d need a gas mask.

  The tunes suddenly died, right in the middle of a rousing sleigh bell accompaniment. A badly timed pop sounded from one of the tables as someone uncorked a bottle.

  “Ladies, may I have your attention again, please?” Martha Kirk, the tinsel-draped Milano Women’s League president, waved her long silver arms at the front of the dining room.

  Summer tried to flatten herself against the window and began to edge, very slowly, back the way she’d taken.

  She needed to get back to Dorothy before her friend gave up on her and called an Uber.

  “In light of the terrible tragedy here this afternoon, the Milano Police have informed me that we’ll need to stay here at Waterman’s a bit longer, until they’ve been able to take down all of our names and contact info. They’re working just as fast as they can, and they expect that they’ll be done with these initial interviews within the hour. In the meantime, please try to be patient and give these nice officers your kind cooperation.”

  The luncheon ladies were beginning to talk among themselves now. Some of them didn’t look too happy about the wait. And she’d thought Roland Cho was cold. Where else did these people have to be right now, anyway?

  “I know many of you have questions about possible refunds for the fashion show,” Martha went on.

  Seriously? Summer thought, repulsed. That was the burning piece of info people wanted after one of the models had been murdered backstage?

  “But there’s good news,” Martha went on. “I wanted to let you all know as soon as possible, so you can change those busy engagement calendars right now, that our Christmas on the Catwalk show will go on as planned, at a new time and locale.”

  Loud murmurs of approval ran through the crowd. Several women actually clapped, Summer noticed, doubly annoyed. Why didn’t they just cancel the whole stupid thing, out of respect for poor Angelica?

  “Our show will be incorporated into the fabulous Silver Belles Holiday Fashion Show on Friday, over at the Majesty Golf and Tennis Club. Today’s tickets will be honored over at Majesty for any of you who don’t already have tickets to that event. Just give our hostess Nadine your name on the way out, and she’ll make sure you’re on the list.”

  “YES!” Gladys Rumway jumped up from her table and executed an actual fist pump, before trying to slap high-fives with some ladies around her. Most of them just looked confused.

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” a woman in front of Summer said to her luncheon companion. “Those tickets have been sold out for months. Herb drove me over there on July Fourth weekend, as soon as they went on sale, and we were still too late.”

  “Well, the show is only two days away,” the other woman said. “That doesn’t leave us much shopping time. All the stores will probably be packed, too. Should we head over to The Waterfalls as soon as they let us leave here?”

  Incredible, Summer thought.

  “As you know,” Martha went on from the front of the room, “all of these exciting events are part of Milano Fashion Week. We’re thrilled that Roland Cho will also be one of the celebrity designers participating in Silver Belles, so none of us will miss out on his wonderful jewelry.”

  On cue, the miniature, spiky-haired designer burst through the curtain and appeared beside Martha, waving and bowing. Everyone applauded.

  Summer tried hard not to celebrate when she saw that his velvet jacket sleeve still had the crush mark on it. Good.

  He sure didn’t seem that broken up over his priceless missing bracelet now, as he stood there in front of all those little old ladies—enthusiastic seniors—soaking up the love.

  Now was the perfect time to make her exit, while everyone was focusing on Roland. Summer gave up on hugging the wall and breezed her way through the rest of the dining room to the French doors.

  The hostess was on her phone, which she quickly tried to hide as Summer came up to the hostess stand. “Hi, Nadine. Can you please put Summer Sloan and Dorothy Westin on the list for the Silver Belles fashion show at Majesty?”

  “Of course.” Nadine paged her way through her reservations book to a blank page at the back. “You ladies heard that it’s a charity event?” She gave Summer a fake pity smile as she uncapped her Waterman’s pen. “Majesty has generously agreed to honor all of today’s guests’ tickets, as Martha announced. I must tell you, however, there is a highly suggested additional donation of one hundred seventy-five dollars per person for the Golfers Fund. Will that be a problem?”

  Seriously? Summer thought. Did Nadine think she and Dorothy weren’t good for it? True, she was a little short on cash again, thanks to the J.O.B. situation, but she could charge both tickets to her emergency credit card.

  This was definitely an emergency. It wasn’t like she was dying to go to another dumb fashion show, but someone already had. There was a murder to solve.

  “No problem, Nadine,” Summer said. “Sign us up.”

  Chapter Five

  “So what do you think we should say to Angelica’s mom, exactly?” Summer asked, as she and Dorothy stepped into the elevator in the lobby at Hibiscus Glen.

  “I guess we’ll just have to play things by ear.” Dorothy pushed the button for the top floor. “I’m sure the poor woman has already been given the terrible news, but we don’t even know whether she’s capable of understanding what happened. Either way, she may not want to speak with us right now.”

  “Well, we couldn’t blame her for that,” Summer said.

  Dorothy nodded. “We just have to remember, the most important thing we can do is make sure Frankie stays safe.”

  Summer frowned up at the red numerals that lit up above their heads as they reached each floor. “I wonder why the
top floor button says ‘HG.’ Isn’t the whole place Hibiscus Glen?”

  “No,” Dorothy said. “This entire building is actually called Hibiscus Falls. Hibiscus Glen is the memory care unit. The rest of the floors have regular condos.”

  “Huh.” Summer was still frowning. “I’ve never met anyone around the Pointe who lives over here. Do they get to use the pool and dining room and stuff in the main complex?”

  “I’m really not sure,” Dorothy admitted. “I do know they have a small dining room downstairs, for residents who can’t cook for themselves, or prefer not to, and there’s also a twenty-four-hour nurse on staff. I suppose you could call this building more of an assisted living facility.”

  “You mean, people live on the downstairs floors and then have to move upstairs later?” Summer asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “It does seem to work out that way for some residents, though.”

  “Oh.” Summer bit her lip, looking for all the world like Dorothy’s daughter Maddie, when she was around the same age.

  Mothers were not supposed to outlive their daughters. Not under normal circumstances, anyway. But sometimes Life had other ideas. Maddie had died too young; Angelica had also passed before her time. She and Frankie now shared a sad bond.

  Dorothy pulled herself back to the present. These were not the types of thoughts that helped one focus on a murder investigation. “Assisted living isn’t a bad thing, you know,” she told Summer. “And neither is choosing to enter a memory care facility. People have to decide for themselves what is best for them and their families.”

  “I know,” Summer said, with a sigh. Her eyes were on the numbers again. “But when I get old, I hope I’m just like you.”

  Old? She wasn’t old, just older. Good gracious. How and when had that happened? But her friend meant well.

  “Thank you, dear.” In spite of their somber mission, Dorothy felt greatly relieved when the HG button flashed and the elevator doors opened to Hibiscus Glen’s brightly lit reception area. She really didn’t want to dwell on the pros and cons of various senior living arrangements. Dorothy knew how lucky she was to be in good health, with sufficient funds—if she was very careful, of course—to live in a comfortable community like Hibiscus Pointe.

  Many others were not as fortunate.

  “Hello, ladies,” the curly-blonde receptionist in the pink scrubs greeted them cheerfully as they approached the counter. “Are we visiting someone today?”

  Summer looked at Dorothy.

  “Yes, we are,” Dorothy said, clearing her throat. The air-conditioning was much stronger here than it had been in the stuffy elevator. “I’m Dorothy Westin, and this is my good friend Summer. We’re both residents here at Hibiscus Pointe. I live in the Gardens, you see, and…”

  “I’m at the Towers,” Summer put in, to speed things up.

  “How nice.” The receptionist, whose desk nameplate read “Valerie,” beamed. “And who are you here to see?”

  It was probably best to be straightforward, under the circumstances, Dorothy decided. “Well, we’re hoping to speak with Frankie Downs, if she’s available,” she said.

  Valerie’s smile immediately faded. “Ohhhh,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, but Frankie isn’t able to have visitors today,” another blonde woman said, coming up beside Valerie. She was older, with red tortoiseshell glasses and “Lucinda Worth” printed on the Hibiscus Pointe staff ID clipped to her navy blazer breast pocket. “Is this something urgent?”

  Dorothy hesitated. Should she let on that she and Summer knew about Angelica’s death? They still had no idea what Frankie’s level of understanding might be, as she was a patient—resident, she corrected herself quickly—here in the memory care unit, or how Frankie was taking the news. “It’s a condolence call,” she said, finally.

  “We were really sorry to hear about her daughter,” Summer said. “We knew Angelica.”

  “Wasn’t she just the sweetest lady?” Val said. “We didn’t know her long, since Frankie just moved in a few weeks ago, but she was so concerned about her mom.”

  Lucinda was watching her and Summer carefully, Dorothy noticed. Sizing them up, it seemed. Well, it was doubtful the two of them would appear to pose much of a threat to Frankie’s safety.

  “Frankie has had a very tiring day, and she hasn’t been told the news yet,” Lucinda said. She lowered her voice. “We don’t have the authorization to do that. Protocol, you know. But the appropriate person will be here soon.”

  Detective Caputo? Dorothy wondered. Oh dear. The detective might not be the first person she’d pick to deliver such heartbreaking news.

  “Frankie has been in unusually high spirits today,” Val said to Lucinda. “It might not hurt for these ladies to visit her for just a few minutes. Maybe she will recognize them.” She turned back to Dorothy and Summer. “Do you know Frankie very well?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Summer said. “She’s my godmother. I’ve known her all my life. She always used to give me candy when I visited her.”

  Dorothy tried not to roll her eyes. Summer loved to make up ill-advised details like that. The habit usually got them both into hot water.

  “Oh, you’re practically family, then.” Val glanced at Lucinda, who shrugged and finally nodded. “Why don’t you ladies come with me? I’ll take you to Frankie. I think she might be in the activities room.”

  Summer grabbed two or three brightly colored lollipops from the faux-crystal candy dish on the counter and grinned at Dorothy behind Val’s back as they dutifully followed the receptionist toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

  On the other hand, sometimes Summer’s little white fibs worked out just fine.

  *

  Two-nine-seven-eight. Two-nine-seven-eight, Summer repeated to herself, trying to memorize the numbers the receptionist pushed into the key pad on the wall beside the door to Hibiscus Glen.

  Wait, that was her age—her real age—plus Dorothy’s. Easy-sleazy. “Um, why do you have a code on the outside of the door?” she asked Val.

  The blonde woman smiled as a click sounded and she pushed down on the bar to open the door. “For our residents’ security, of course,” she answered. “We also have a keypad on the inside of the door. Same code, but backward.”

  “You mean the residents have to remember it to get out?” Summer asked. Wasn’t this a memory care place?

  “Well…yes,” Val said. “The first code is backward for the way out, and also to activate the elevator: eight-seven-nine-two. Just ask at the nurses’ station if you forget, and they’ll write it down for you.”

  “So all the residents are locked in here, then, pretty much?” Summer said. Well, that was suck-o. And probably illegal or something. Did they have any idea what they were signing up for when they moved into this place?

  “Shh, dear,” Dorothy said.

  Val kept smiling, as she led them down the swirly-patterned hall. “We don’t like to think of it as ‘locked in,’ exactly,” she said. “It’s really just another safeguard for our residents. Some of them might wander off and get lost. Or worse.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Well, that made sense, she guessed. She felt Dorothy shudder beside her, and she quickly shut up. Obviously, she had a lot to learn about this memory stuff, and she needed to be more sensitive. It was just the sort of stuff she’d never really thought about.

  “Between us, we had a little incident with Frankie earlier,” Val said. “Luckily, we were able to locate her before she got too far.”

  Summer traded glances with Dorothy.

  The whole place smelled like lemons and bleach. The odor was so strong it was making her nose twitch and her eyes burn, a zillion times worse than the chlorine in a rec center pool. What if Dorothy ended up in a place like this someday? What if she herself did?

  No way. That wasn’t ever going to happen, to either of them. She hoped not, anyway.

  Summer tried not to glance into any of the open rooms as she tra
iled Val and Dorothy down the hall. The residents had photos of themselves and their families outside of their rooms, probably to help them remember which one was theirs. Some of the doors had holiday cards and wreaths or glittery blue and silver stars and cardboard menorahs.

  Well, that was nice. She stopped to look at an old black-and-white photo of a beautiful woman in a lace wedding dress. Beside her stood a handsome man in a white navy uniform. The couple was smiling.

  They looked so happy. Could the woman remember her wedding day now?

  “Excuse me, please. This is my room.” A very elderly man, probably in his nineties, tapped Summer on the shoulder. He was carrying a little bowl of red and green carnations.

  “Oh, sorry.” She jumped away quickly, and the man stepped past her into the room. She couldn’t help sneaking a peek, as he brought the flowers to a frail but smiling lady in a wheelchair by the window. “For you, my love,” he said. “I nicked them from the dining room.”

  Tears filled Summer’s eyes. How sweet. The couple in the photo outside the door was still together, here in Hibiscus Glen. There was even a homey-looking double bed with a cream-chenille bedspread against the wall, and a pair of men’s socks on the floor.

  “Summer?” Dorothy said, behind her. “We lost you. What on earth are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” she said, brushing a tear off her cheek before her friend could spot it. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t cry, dear, I know you’re upset about Angelica,” Dorothy said, as they hurried to catch up to Val, who was waiting for them at the end of the hall.

  “Mmhmm,” Summer said. Dorothy had really good eyesight. Jeez, she never missed anything.

  “But keeping Frankie safe and solving this awful murder will help us both feel better,” Dorothy added, in a whisper.

  “Right,” Summer said. This was a new thing for her lately, the crying. She hated it. Before she’d moved to Milano, her life had been one long, no-tears formula.

  She needed to get back to that zone ASAP. Focusing on just herself and her own problems was so much easier.