Oh dear. Violet seemed more angry with Lucinda than upset about her sister’s untimely death. Right now she was making little stabbing motions in the air with her long red fingernails.
The Downses certainly were an interesting family, Dorothy thought. Trying to work with Frankie and Violet for the case might be trickier than they had anticipated. “Summer and I thought it might be best to continue our visit with Frankie later, under the circumstances.”
“Do you want me to run in and let Violet know you’re here?” Val asked.
“Oh, no,” Dorothy said, quickly. “Please don’t bother her right now. You don’t happen to know where she’s staying in Milano, do you?”
Val leaned through the plastic divider. “Well, she wanted to take Frankie straight home to Vero Beach, like I said. Lucinda recommended one of the Hibiscus Pointe guest condos, but Violet said if she had to stay, it’d be at the Milano Grand.”
“Ah,” Dorothy said. The Florida real estate market had to be very profitable right now, for her to afford such a luxurious hotel. Why wouldn’t Violet simply use her sister’s home in town, wherever that might be?
Perhaps, if she and Angelica were estranged, Violet didn’t have a key. Or possibly it would be too upsetting for her to stay there, now that Angelica was gone.
Judging by the way Violet was clearly arguing and gesturing at poor Lucinda, Dorothy guessed the former was the more likely scenario.
After thanking Val and promising she’d be back soon, Dorothy quickly headed toward the elevators and punched in the last exit code posted above the buttons.
She couldn’t wait to get out of Hibiscus Glen. No wonder Frankie wanted to leave. Sometimes she forgot how truly lucky she was. Thank goodness she had her health, and her memory. Not to mention my life, she added silently, thinking of Angelica again.
Once she was safely outside in the balmy, Floridian-winter air, Dorothy settled herself on the visitors’ bench to the left of the sliding entrance doors.
“Oh my gosh, I am sooo glad to be out of there.” Summer dropped onto the bench beside her and blew out a breath that ruffled her sunny-blonde side bangs. “Poor Frankie.”
“And where is she right now, exactly?” Dorothy asked. “How did she take the news about Angelica, once you explained everything to her?”
“Well…” Summer hesitated. “I didn’t really get a chance to say a whole lot.”
Dorothy listened patiently as she launched into a long story that included Detective Donovan and his grandmother Peggy, plus Frankie searching for her purse. “So I guess Detective Donovan is pretty much handling things,” Summer finished. “I mean, it’s Detective Caputo’s case, but he’s the one who’s watching Frankie right this second.”
“Well, the important thing is, she’s safe,” Dorothy said. “I didn’t have much luck on my end, either. I just hope her daughter isn’t going to take her back to Vero Beach before we get a chance to talk to her.” She told Summer about Violet’s arrival, and the real estate agent’s eagerness to remove Frankie from Hibiscus Glen. “Did you run into Violet on your way out, by any chance?”
“Nope,” Summer said. “Sorry. I guess I was moving pretty fast. But it sounds as if maybe that was a good thing.”
“Mmm.” Dorothy took a lace-edged hankie from her purse and dotted her forehead. The humidity was getting to her, after the stiff air-conditioning inside the building.
“You look kind of tired, Dorothy,” Summer said. “Why don’t you go back to the condo and take a nap? I’ll catch up with Esmé, wherever she is—hopefully not downtown at the station—and figure out how to find Zoe Z. That girl can’t hide anywhere for long.”
“All right.” Dorothy agreed a bit more quickly than she’d intended. It had been a long day so far, and her peach cardigan felt uncomfortably clammy. “We can meet up later this evening for a case strategy session. I told Ernie I’d meet him for dinner, but I might just order in tonight.”
And maybe have a little conversation with Angelica’s sister, she added silently. Which might be a bit easier, she had to admit, without Summer’s help.
Even though Dorothy hadn’t met Violet yet, something about that woman’s attitude wasn’t sitting well with her.
Chapter Eight
Summer pulled her orange MINI to a screeching stop outside a pink sandstone, multi-level building a few blocks from the beach. The sign on the decrepit lawn—if you could call the sandy lot with the brown grass and the beer bottles a lawn—said “The Milano Arms.”
What a perfectly awesome time for her phone to disappear again.
This was the way detectives had to operate before cell phones, she reminded herself, as she jumped out of the car and immediately had to kick a plastic bag with a big smiley face on it off of her foot. Well, fine. But it sucked rotten eggs.
If she wasn’t such a nice person, and a really good friend, she might have said the same thing about Esmé’s apartment building.
If it was, in fact, where she lived. The whole way over from Hibiscus Pointe, Summer had tried to remember what Esmé had told her about the place. It was pink. Not too far from the beach. Really old and a total dump.
Well, this place definitely qualified.
“What do you want?” a scruffy older man asked from a retro striped lawn chair on the slab of concrete that was supposed to be the porch.
Gross. With all that chest hair and saggy skin, he could at least have put on a tank top.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Summer answered, staring over his head at the brightly colored bathing suits and beach towels strung across the balcony. At least that way she didn’t have to look at him. “Esmé?”
“No one here with any uppity name like that,” the man said, with a chomp of his toothpick. “But I’ve got a beer over here by me with your name on it. Whatever it is, baby.” He patted the white foam cooler beside him with a toothless grin.
“Shut your trap, Larry. You’re a sleazy weasel.” Esmé stuck her head out from a window three floors up and pointed toward a crooked set of crumbling concrete stairs at the side of the building. “Use those,” she called to Summer.
Summer bounded up the steps two at a time, mainly to decrease the odds of stepping on a broken one and breaking her neck.
Esmé met her at the top. “I see you’ve met my charming landlord.”
“Uh, yeah.” Summer followed her friend down the breezeway to the half-open door of her apartment. “How’d you end up living here, anyway?”
She hadn’t even known they had places like this in Milano. It made some parts of Hollywood look good.
“Don’t ask.” Esmé closed the door behind them and bolted the chain. “At least it’s cheap. Want a drink or something? I was about to start happy hour here.”
“Sure, what have you got?” Summer looked around at the tiny, almost-empty kitchen. Actually, it was more like a counter with a hot plate. No wonder.
Esmé opened the fridge, which also had practically nothing in it. It looked a lot like hers. “PBR,” she said. “And a couple of hard flavored lemonades. Raspberry or grape fizz?”
“Raspberry,” Summer said. Jeez. For a professional bartender, Esmé didn’t have much of a drinks selection. She probably didn’t like bringing her work home. Or, more likely, her friend was as broke as she was.
Design student interns didn’t get paid any more than volunteer lifeguards.
“So what happened back at Waterman’s after Dorothy and I left?” she asked, as her friend expertly popped the top off a bottle on the scratched counter and handed it to her. “I came by to check on you, and make sure you weren’t in jail. That was going to be my next stop.”
“Nope,” Esmé said, hopping onto the stood beside her. “It was close, though. Monique tried her best, but that head cop woman let me go. For now, anyway.”
“What is Monique’s problem?” Summer said. “She was really mean to Angelica and she has it in for you, too.”
“She’s like that with everyone, trust me,�
�� Esmé said. “But I am totally fired from fashion week events now. So I’ll probably flunk my design class. I was supposed to work the Majesty show on Friday night.”
And now Dorothy and I are, Summer thought. Unless they got the case solved before that, of course. She could live without attending another fashion show for a while.
Esmé took a long swig from her bottle and made a face. “Ugh,” she said, getting up to dump the fizzing purple liquid down the already-stained stink. “How do people stand this stuff?”
“How come you bought it, if you don’t like it?” Summer asked.
“I didn’t,” Esmé said. “It’s Enrique’s. He’s working right now.”
“You live with a guy?” Summer looked around the studio apartment. There was a futon with an old TV in front of it and a tiny area curtained off in the corner. That was pretty much it. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
“I’m not, unfortunately,” Esmé said. “Enrique’s at MIFD with me and we split the rent. He’s out most of the time with his boyfriend, anyway.”
“Oh,” Summer said. She couldn’t help thinking about how Esmé was related to a bunch of reality TV stars like ZeeZee and Zoe Z, who lived in Beverly Hills or someplace. That didn’t seem right.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Esmé said. “I don’t have a fancy place like some other people in my family, right?”
Summer’s face felt hot. It was probably redder than the hard raspberry lemonade. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Yeah, you were. But that’s okay.” Esmé reached for a bag of cheese puffs at the other end of the counter and tore it open. “I didn’t want my whole life broadcast in humiliating detail on national TV, that’s all. I’m fine with being the poor relation. At least I have an actual life.” She took a handful of puffs and held out the bag.
Summer shook her head. “No thanks. So what happened to Zoe?”
Esmé stopped crunching. “You didn’t find her yet? I thought maybe that was why you dropped by. Why didn’t you just call, anyway? Would have saved time.”
“My cell’s still missing,” Summer said, with a sigh. “Nabbed from the table at Waterman’s, I’m pretty sure.”
“Zoe,” Esmé said immediately. “The girl is a total klepto. That’s why Roland Cho saw me with his precious jewelry. She swiped it backstage, and I yelled at her and took it away. I didn’t want to rat her out to the cops when Roland was throwing his little tantrum and calling me a thief, even though she deserved it. The story would have broken the Internet, and Aunt ZeeZee would be so upset. We’ve all bailed Zoe out so many times.”
“Jeez,” Summer said. “That was really nice of you.” Zoe was a brat, all right, but she had to admit, the teen drama queen wasn’t the only rich kid who’d gotten some second chances. Being a celebrity, or even just related to someone in show biz, was rough. Especially when you were just a kid. “But why would she want my phone? She probably has an even better one.”
Esmé frowned at her orange-stained fingers. “Oh, that’s easy. She wants your contacts, and some way to impress your dad. Don’t you get it? She’s stalking you.”
Summer’s stomach dropped. She’d skipped the password protection on her phone because it was so annoying. The kid could read every single one of her texts, if she wanted. And go through her photos and old emails, and… Yikes.
“You don’t think she’d try to blackmail me or something, do you?” she asked Esmé.
Her friend shrugged. “Dunno. She’s pretty smart in some ways. And really dumb in others.”
“She wouldn’t be dumb enough to kill somebody, though, right?” Summer said. “Even if she wanted something badly enough?”
Esmé stared at her like she was nuts. “What? You actually think my cousin might go all crazy and murder you to get your dad’s attention? That’s pretty twisted. Wasn’t that in a movie already, or something?”
“Sort of,” Summer said. “But I wasn’t talking about me. I meant Angelica.”
“Oh. Right.” Esmé frowned, then shook her head. “Nope. She’d never do anything like that. Zoe makes some bad decisions, and she’s selfish to the max, but she’s an okay kid underneath. Sort of. Aunt ZeeZee tried to bring her up right, before all the TV ridiculousness.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Summer studied her pedicure for an extra second or two. In a way, Esmé could have been talking about her. Joy, her older sister in New Jersey, always told her she was selfish—and never let her forget that she’d made some really bad decisions in her life.
She still did, sometimes. But she was working on it.
“We’ll find Zoe,” Summer said to Esmé. “I need to ask her some questions about what she may have seen backstage at the fashion show. And I want my phone back.”
“She could be anywhere.” Esmé twisted one of her braids. “That agent of hers hides her pretty well, though, between incidents.”
“We know she likes to hit the clubs, right? So… I say the two of us go downtown tonight and find her.”
“Works for me,” Esmé said. “How about you pick me up around eleven and we’ll get a bite first? Zoe won’t show up anywhere before midnight.”
“It’s a plan,” Summer said, hopping off her stool. “That’ll give me time to talk to Dorothy about the case and then hit the pool for a few laps.”
Esmé’s phone buzzed from somewhere across the room. “Hope it’s the little cuz, by some miracle,” she told Summer, as she ran to answer the text. “Unless she’s in trouble again.”
That would sure make things easier, Summer thought. And then she and Esmé could just hit the town for fun.
“Nope,” Esmé announced, glancing at the screen. “It’s your buddy Dash. Uh oh. You were supposed to give his kid a swim lesson this afternoon.”
Ohhhh. Summer felt terrible that she’d completely spaced on Juliette-Margot. And Gladys, her other Beginner student, too, but the Battle Ax could drown, for all she cared. That wasn’t really true, actually, but she’d had a huge emergency today. A murder, in fact. And now she couldn’t let people know if she’d be late for anything, because she had no phone.
What a pain. Zoe Z was going down. After she gave her back her cell—and spilled whatever she knew about what might have happened to Angelica.
*
After a somewhat less than refreshing nap, Dorothy agreed to join Ernie and Grace for the five o’clock seating in the Canyons Dining Room.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend more time with her friends this evening, of course. She still felt a bit guilty about deserting the Conlons with no explanation back at Hibiscus Glen. Poor Ernie thought something had happened to her.
Well, that was true, in a way. Dorothy had tossed and turned the whole rest of the afternoon on her tufted, extra-firm mattress, envisioning Angelica’s disturbingly blue complexion under that awful dry cleaning bag.
It was a relief when the phone rang with Ernie on the other end. Not to mention, she hadn’t had a bite to eat all day that wasn’t sugar, and Hibiscus Pointe pot roast was the perfect antidote.
Plus, she would have a chance to explain to Ernie about the case. And even more importantly, maybe he could offer some helpful information about Frankie—or Angelica herself. It was possible the two of them had met during one of Grace’s visits to Hibiscus Glen.
“Good evening, Mrs. Westin.” Walter, the longtime Canyons dining room manager, looked up with a smile from his reservations chart. “Mr. Conlon said you’d be joining his party tonight.”
“Yes, thank you, Walter,” Dorothy said. She easily spotted Ernie and Grace at their usual table, just under the potted palm in the center of the room. Grace’s caretaker Rosaline was seated there, as well.
Ernie glanced toward the dining room entrance just then, and Dorothy gave him a little wave. She was about to follow Walter to the table when she spotted a petite blonde woman over her shoulder, pacing in the side sitting room off the lobby. The woman was wearing large designer sunglasses in
doors, and talking animatedly on her cell phone.
Violet Downs. There was no mistaking that buzz of energy.
“Excuse me, Walter. I’ll be back.” Dorothy made an abrupt U-turn toward the lobby.
Except for Angelica’s sister, and Jennifer Margolis diligently working at a computer behind the Resident Services counter, the elaborately furnished area was deserted. Fortunately, everyone at Hibiscus Pointe took dinnertime, the social peak of the day, very seriously.
Dorothy hesitated outside the sitting room. Violet hadn’t seen her yet. Perhaps she could listen in on that phone conversation, just for a moment or two, and gather a bit of helpful information for the case.
“I’m sorry, that simply doesn’t work for us,” Violet was saying. “Time is of the essence here. Twenty-four hours, take it or leave it.” She turned suddenly toward the door, and Dorothy quickly grabbed a brochure from the faux-Edwardian table beside her.
Hibiscus Pointe: Active Luxury Living at a Value YOU Deserve, she read intently. A perpetually smiling Helen Murphy, the Residents Board president, was featured on every page, it seemed. With groups of ladies holding tennis racquets, golf clubs and cocktails. And dining tête-à-tête or relaxing poolside with various handsome, presumably single gentlemen.
“Look, I can make this whole thing go away, okay?” Violet thankfully continued her conversation. “I’ll hold up my end of the deal. But another matter has come up that I have to deal with first.”
Another matter? Was she talking about her sister’s murder? Or her memory-impaired mother? Violet Downs could very well be the coldest person Dorothy knew. What kind of deal had she made with the person on the other end of the line? And most of all, what did she mean, she could make it go away?
Dorothy shivered under her beaded white cardigan. What if Violet had, in fact, killed Angelica…and now she had her sights set on her own mother? That was a long shot, of course, but it was entirely plausible. Didn’t the police always consider family members first as suspects? Perhaps the real estate business wasn’t as lucrative as Violet wished, and she was after an early inheritance.
Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin) Page 8