“On the house,” the bartender said, as he set their cocktails in front of them. “Enjoy the holidays.”
“Thanks.” Summer threw him a grateful smile. Maybe she should have ordered a flaming drink after all. Rats.
“So what’s the plan when Zoe gets here?” Esmé stirred her drink, and took a taste off the straw. “Do we just grab her and hustle her out of here?”
Oh. Summer hadn’t thought much yet about the actual logistics. She’d figured maybe the three of them would just talk, but the music was starting to get a lot louder.
She also hadn’t factored in the possibility of Zoe’s usual entourage. How could she and Esmé get rid of them? Not easily, she was pretty sure. Glommers-on tended to stick super close to their celebrity BFFs—especially when it was time to close the bar tab, if the club even bothered to keep one.
On the other hand, this was Milano, not LA, right? Even the clubgoers tended to be a few years older, which was how she and Esmé got away with clubbing at twenty-nine. Twenty-six, Summer corrected quickly. Would any of Zoe’s friends even want to party in this town? Probably not, unless it was on the beach.
There was a decent chance the leeches didn’t even know their celebrity cash cow was here.
“Guess we’ll just have to play things by ear,” Summer said to Esmé.
The club began to fill up fast, but luckily not on the Dante’s level yet. They had started their third drinks, and Summer had just taken her eyes off the monitors for a nanosecond, when Esmé gave a little gasp. “Zoe’s here,” she said. “She’s heading up in the security elevator, wearing a sequined red ball cap. Cueing entrance in three, two…”
“Expecting me?”
Summer turned on the red velvet bar stool to see Zoe Z shaking out her long, sleek dark hair. She had to admit, Zoe looked gorgeous tonight—and a lot more sophisticated than her age in that bright red Lycra bodysuit that clung to every one of her curves in a major way. With her serious red eyeliner, she didn’t look like the spoiled little kid on Life with Zee Zee. She looked more like…well, ZeeZee herself.
“Put on a coat, girl,” Esmé snapped. “You look like a tramp.”
“Chill, Esmé,” Zoe said. “She’s just jealous,” she added to Summer.
Summer frowned. Esmé looked great, in her opinion—and the bartender’s, too, she could tell. Underneath that orange-and-silver patterned, short and flowy dress, Esmé had some killer curves herself. She also had the kind of natural style you couldn’t buy on Rodeo Drive.
“Have a seat, Zoe,” Summer said, dragging up another stool with the open toe of her gold stiletto pump.
The bartender immediately materialized. “The kid here will have a diet cola,” Esmé told him.
“I don’t drink anything diet,” Zoe said, with a disgusted look. “It’s bad for you.”
“Make it regular, then,” Esmé said to the bartender, before turning back to her cousin. “So okay, be straight with us, girl. Where did you take off to this afternoon? And where’s Aleesha? She’s supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”
“Oh, she’s back at the Milano Grand,” Zoe said, with a shrug. “Asleep. I left her a note.”
“We’re glad you showed up, Zoe,” Summer said, to head Esmé off. She didn’t want her friend to say anything else to annoy the brat. The kid couldn’t leave until they were done questioning her for the case. And she wanted her phone back.
Almost as if Zoe had read her mind, the girl reached into a side pocket of the shiny red knapsack she’d tossed on the bar. “Hey, look what I found,” she said, producing Summer’s phone. “I think it might be yours.”
“Thanks.” Summer snatched the cell from Zoe’s red-tipped paws. “You took this from my table at the Waterman’s fashion show, didn’t you?”
“What? Of course not.” Zoe gazed back at her with wide, innocent eyes. “You’re so paranoid, just like my cousin over there. I told you, I found it. I just held on to it for you, so no one would steal it.”
Or go through all my private stuff, Summer wanted to add. “Awesome,” she said.
“I charged it up for you, too,” Zoe said. “So you can use it right away. Oh, and I added my name to your contacts. How come you don’t do any social media?”
“That is so none of your business,” Esmé said. “I can’t believe you…”
“It’s okay,” Summer said, holding up a hand. “I have, like, zero friends,” she said to Zoe. “It’s really sad.”
“That’s such a lie,” Zoe said. “By the way, who’s that dark-haired guy with the Navy SEAL bod in your photos? He’s totally adorbs. If you don’t want him…”
Summer squeezed her eyes shut. Okay, now Zoe was officially ticking her off. “He’s too old for you,” she said. “So anyway, I’ve got a couple of questions for you, and they’re really important. One of the models at Waterman’s, an older lady, got murdered today.”
“I know,” Zoe said. “Too bad.”
“Yeah,” Summer said. “But here’s the thing. You were backstage. Right? And Esmé here saved your butt over that bracelet you were planning to lift, remember? And…”
“I wasn’t going to steal it,” Zoe said. “I told you, my cousin is totally paranoid. I was just looking at the stupid bracelet for a minute.”
“And the necklace,” Esmé put in. “I swear, you have zero common sense. You’re practically on parole, after your last crazy stunt.”
“That was a traffic accident,” Zoe said. “They don’t count. And for the record, I was not trying to run anybody over. I wasn’t even driving, my friend was. She swore it all over the place, but no one listened to her.”
“Maybe because the paparazzi have pictures?” Esmé said. “Hello?”
This was getting way out of hand. “Okay,” Summer broke in. “Back to the fashion show. Did you notice anything at all backstage that seemed weird? Did you talk to any of the models? The one who got killed was named Angelica.”
“I didn’t talk to anyone.” Zoe studied a small crack in her gel manicure. “And I remember that lady. She seemed kind of nice. I felt sorry for her because she kept getting yelled at by that Monique witch.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Esmé murmured.
“What was Monique chewing her out for, exactly?” Summer asked.
“Nothing, really,” Zoe said. “She was just screaming around, and then the model lady tried to say stuff back but Monique drowned her out. I don’t remember much, because I was checking out the jewelry over by the garment bags. You know, near where the model ended up dead. And then Roland Cho ran over and accused me of stealing. Which I would never do, FYI. I mean, maybe I might borrow something, just temporarily, but that’s it.”
Like her phone. Summer remembered now that she’d seen that shoplifting episode from Life with ZeeZee. It hadn’t been pretty, but ZeeZee had fixed everything so Zoe only got a warning from the cops. But that was a long time ago.
“I got even with that loser designer on Twitter, though,” Zoe added. “My friends are never going to buy his stuff.”
“Great.” Esmé sighed. “There goes my nonexistent design career. For good.”
“So how come you and Aleesha left the fashion show?” Summer said. “Because people thought you were trying to steal… I mean, borrow…the Roland Cho jewelry?”
“No.” Zoe rolled her eyes, looking super annoyed now. “I just went to the dumb show in the first place so I could meet you, since I might be working with your dad soon and everything. And you were snotty to me, so I told Aleesha we were leaving.”
Summer frowned. What? She was never snotty. Or maybe she had been, a little. “Sorry,” Summer muttered, even though she wasn’t.
“But mostly, Aleesha and I bailed because the fashion show was lame. What were you doing there, anyway? I mean, you’re old, but not that old.”
Gee, thanks, Summer thought. “I was having lunch with a friend,” she said.
“So I’ve answered all your questions now, right?” Zoe stood up. �
�And I gave you back your phone, which you should thank me for. I think maybe you owe me, actually. Maybe you could introduce me to your dad or something.”
“I’ll consider it,” Summer lied. “But I may have more questions for you if things come up, okay?”
“No problem.” Zoe shrugged. “I’m going to stick around town for a while. The beaches are pretty cool, even if the clubs and the fashions stink. But hey, maybe we could go to the Majesty show together on Friday. That one’s not supposed to be too bad. You have my number in your contacts now, remember?”
“I think we’re done here,” Esmé said, signaling for the check. The bartender just smiled and shook his head, before slipping her his number on a matchbook. Esmé gave him a little smile back and tucked it in her purse.
“Not bad, Cuz.” Zoe looked impressed. “Well, nice running into you guys. I’m headed to Aquamarine,” she added, tucking her hair into her red cap again.
“No, you’re not,” Esmé said. “Summer and I are taking you straight back to the hotel. And while we’re at it, I can give Aleesha a piece of my mind.”
“She works for me,” Zoe said.
“She works for your mom,” Esmé said. “You don’t want Aunt ZeeZee heading down here, do you? That’s just what she’ll do if…”
“Ladies.” The bartender was frowning now at the security monitors behind the velvet curtain. “I think we’re about to get some extra company, if they make it past the bouncers.”
Uh oh. A huge crowd of guys with cameras and teen girls—Zoe and ZeeZee fans, probably—was pushing against the velvet rope at the front of Inferno. And yikes, the back entrance, too.
Time to go.
“I hate it when this happens.” Zoe sighed, pulling the brim of her baseball hat lower over her face.
Liar, Summer thought. She wasn’t sure the little diva was telling the truth about what had happened backstage at the fashion show, either. How had Zoe known that she and Dorothy had found Angelica’s body near the garment bags, if she’d really left the restaurant?
Summer chugged the last of her lavender martini as she headed out of Dante’s behind Esmé and her brat cousin. Her dad’s production company still had a TV division. Maybe she should give ol’ Syd a heads-up for a hot new reality show: Zoe Z: Behind Bars.
Chapter Eleven
“There, there. Have another nice drink, you’ll feel much better.” Dorothy felt terrible as she handed a sobbing Frankie a second tall glass of Milano’s finest tap water.
“Don’t you have anything a little stronger?” Frankie asked, with a loud hiccup. “Like, scotch, maybe?” She drew the sleeve of her billowy purple blouse across her blotchy face in a futile attempt to wipe away her tears.
“I’m afraid not,” Dorothy said. “Just peppermint tea.” She wished she had something more potent right now herself, because finally convincing Frankie that her daughter was dead—murdered, no less—had been an enormously sad and difficult task.
“I can’t believe Angelica is really gone,” Frankie said, stumbling back into the living room and dropping into Dorothy’s favorite chair. “My poor, gorgeous baby.”
As if on cue, Mr. Bitey jumped up onto the distraught woman’s lap and curled into as tight a ball as he could manage, his huge hind paws hanging down over the seat.
Dorothy perched on the edge of the couch. “Frankie,” she said, carefully. “We want to try to help the police find out who did this to Angelica, Summer and I.”
Frankie’s chin snapped up. “My goddaughter?”
Dorothy smiled and nodded. “That’s right.” She had no idea what Frankie’s true level of understanding was, but it seemed the woman took comfort in being related to Summer in some way. “So maybe you could tell me a little more about Angelica.” She paused. “I’ve been…out of touch with the rest of the family lately. For quite some time, actually.”
It would never do to say that she’d never even met any of the Downses before today, no matter how much Frankie remembered.
“Well, she was a looker, as you know,” Frankie said. “But she never let it go to her head. I put her in modeling school when she was five, but she’d already been the Thurber Detergent Baby for years.”
“My,” Dorothy said. Everyone knew the beautiful, dark-haired Thurber Baby’s face, way back when. Her own mother had been a loyal Thurber customer for as far back as Dorothy could remember.
“Angelica didn’t like having her picture taken, or walking around in front of crowds,” Frankie went on. “But she went along with it, and modeled ’til she was twenty-one or so, because we needed the money. I had a little side business in New York, but we ran into…some hard times.”
Frankie wiped more tears from her eyes. “Too bad my other daughter, Violet, wasn’t as good looking. She takes more after me, I guess. That one wanted to model like her older sister, but she never got much attention from the bookers. It made her tougher, though. She put herself through college and business school and now she’s making a fortune in real estate.”
“I see,” Dorothy said. She wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for Violet, but at least Angelica’s sister had found her niche. “So all of you ended up together here in Florida,” she said.
“Well, not together, exactly,” Frankie said, with a shrug. “Angelica married a young man with no money, a photographer, and they traveled the world on pennies. He died in an unfortunate war zone incident, trying to get his big break, and my daughter remarried a much older man with a place here in Milano. I think she just wanted to forget everything, and she was happy enough. But after he died she got lonely and brought me down here too.”
“How nice for you both,” Dorothy said. At least Angelica was probably never bored, with her mercurial mother to care for.
Frankie gave Mr. Bitey a distracted scratch under the chin. “Then I had a few health issues, and the bills started eating up what was left of Angelica’s money. So she went back to work again. Some scout from the Page Models spotted her in a laundromat downtown. She did some magazine work, a lot of ad stuff for seniors down here, and…” She stopped and sighed. “Fashion shows. I can’t believe one of them got her killed.”
Dorothy leaned forward. “Frankie, do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your daughter?”
“Nope.” Frankie noisily swirled her rapidly melting ice cubes. “She was an angel. Kept to herself most of the time, and she took real good care of me. Not that I needed it, or anything.”
“Of course not,” Dorothy murmured.
“We even took a few trips to Vegas together,” Frankie added, her expression brightening slightly. “Those were some good times. Hit the jackpot once or twice, too.”
Well, that wasn’t terribly surprising. Frankie had seemed like quite a gambler, dealing cards as she had back at Hibiscus Glen. “Did Angelica have any…romantic interests?” Dorothy hinted delicately, smoothing her badly wrinkled skirt over her knees. It was getting very late, and she fervently wished she could change into her nightie and cozy robe. But questioning Frankie for the case was much more important than her own selfish comfort.
She jumped as Frankie suddenly slammed her glass down on the antique side table beside the chair, unceremoniously dislodging Mr. Bitey. “That’s it!” the woman cried. “Cherchez la femme!”
Dorothy quickly recovered her composure at Frankie’s outburst. “Pardon me?”
She knew what the rather sexist French expression meant, of course—”look for the woman.” Was Angelica’s attacker definitely female, then?
“That horrible Monique woman,” Frankie said. “She’s the one who took my perfect angel away from me.”
Dorothy sat up straighter on the couch. “Do you mean the Monique who’s the owner of Monique’s Boutique downtown? She was one of the sponsors of the fashion show.”
Frankie waved. “That’s the one. Terrible store. Angelica worked there for a real short time, before that witch boss of hers got too jealous.”
Of Angelica’s beauty? Dorothy
wondered. Maybe Monique didn’t have Angelica’s model looks, but she was attractive enough, in a highly style-conscious way. And surely, women of a certain age would have the maturity to celebrate their individual differences, wouldn’t they?
“Even Monique’s husband—ex-husband now—couldn’t stand her. Somehow she got it in her head that the husband was having an affair with Angelica, because he kept coming by the store to see her. Or so Monique said. My angel would never have a fling with a married man.”
“Mmm,” Dorothy said. Sometimes mothers weren’t the best judges of their daughter’s love lives, and it was best to keep quiet. She had learned that the hard way with her own Maddie. “So where is Monique’s former husband now?” Maybe she and Summer should talk to him.
“Who knows?” Frankie said. “I think he moved back up to Michigan or something, to be near his sister. Don’t think I ever even knew his name. Roderick, maybe? He could be dead”—her eyes quickly filled with tears again at the word—”for all I know.”
“How about your other daughter, Violet?” Dorothy asked. “I’m sure she’s upset about Angelica, too, and wants the best for you.”
Frankie snorted. “Violet? She wasn’t close with Angelica, and she doesn’t care about me, either. All that one cares about is money.”
“But she wants to bring you home with her to Vero Beach,” Dorothy reminded her, gently. “It’s such a lovely place, you might be very happy there.”
“I know you mean well and all, but forget it, Dorothy,” Frankie said. “Violet doesn’t want me to live with her. She wants to stick me in another place like Hibiscus Glen, but cheaper, and throw away the key. She can’t wait for me to croak, so she can get my money.”
“Now, now, I very much doubt that,” Dorothy said, in what she hoped was a soothing tone.
“Well, I don’t give a fig about Violet,” Frankie said. “I only care about Angelica, and finding out who took her away from me.” Her tiny body began to shake with sobs again, so violently that Mr. Bitey sunk his claws into Dorothy’s favorite chair to hold on.
Dorothy went over to pat Frankie’s shoulder, and detach her determined feline from the ripping fabric. “If it’s any comfort to you, Frankie, I know what it’s like to lose a daughter much too soon,” she said.
Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin) Page 10