Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  She didn’t notice much of interest in the master bedroom, either. Angelica must have loved seafoam, because the room was done in an ocean theme. Blue-green bedspread, blue pillows, a wavy-print armchair and a glass bottle of seashells on the dresser. Little pieces of blue, green and ivory sea glass dotted the windowsill behind a filmy white curtain.

  How sad that Angelica had died in a frothy seafoam dress. It must have been her favorite color.

  Two framed photographs stood on the nightstand, behind a small clock radio. Dorothy went over to peer at them more closely.

  The first showed Angelica and Frankie holding up cocktails on a rooftop in a glittering city. Las Vegas, Dorothy guessed, recalling the trips with Angelica that Frankie had mentioned fondly. The mother and daughter indeed looked as if they were having a wonderful time. It was possible Frankie was a bit tipsy, judging from her wobbly smile.

  Yes, there was a tiny Eiffel Tower in the background, and the Statue of Liberty. Dorothy squinted to read the lanyard badges hanging from the women’s necks. The names Angelica and Frankie were clearly visible, but she couldn’t make out the rest of the words, except for one. Gem.

  Interesting. Had Angelica and Frankie been attendees at a jewelry show or trade convention? And could it be just a sad coincidence that Angelica may have been murdered over a piece of stolen jewelry?

  The other photo showed Angelica and Violet as young girls, standing back to back. They were probably about fourteen and ten. If Dorothy hadn’t known Angelica was already a model by then, she would never have guessed. In the photo, she looked like a shy, dreamy child. But hadn’t Frankie said her older daughter never cared for having her picture taken?

  Violet, on the other hand, stood with her arms crossed, gazing defiantly toward the photographer. The blonde girl was half Angelica’s height, but looked as if she might have been able to take her older sister in a tussle. Her saddle shoes were scuffed and she’d attached a glittery pin—a bird, maybe, or a butterfly?—to her sweater to hide a ragged hole in the yarn.

  “I know you’ll be impressed with the closet space in here,” Violet said, from the doorway.

  Dorothy spun around to find the real estate agent staring at her with that same, steely gaze she’d noticed in the sibling photo. Oh dear. She probably looked very guilty.

  But weren’t most people a bit snoopy when they toured homes for sale? It wasn’t any worse than, say, investigating a hostess’s medicine cabinet at a dinner party.

  “Oh, yes, closet space is a top priority for me,” Dorothy said, heading over to open the accordion-style doors. “I have so many clothes, I’m afraid. And shoes, naturally.”

  That was a fib, of course. Though she probably owned a lot more items than she needed for a halfway decent wardrobe.

  She pulled on the closet doors, and one of them unhinged from the track above her head.

  Violet was beside her in a flash, blocking the closet. “That can be fixed very easily,” she said. “I’ll talk to the super—I mean, the valet about it right away. Did I mention what a fabulous staff they have here at Flamingo Pass?”

  “No, I don’t believe you did.” Dorothy craned her neck to see past the real estate agent’s well-coifed blonde head, as the irritating smell of hairspray assaulted her nostrils. The closet was stuffed with neatly hung blouses, dresses and slacks, as well as an extensive collection of hats and neatly labeled accessory boxes. Many of the clothes still had pink Monique’s Boutique price tags hanging from them.

  A lone diamond earring lay on the carpet, an inch from the toe of Dorothy’s AeroLite pump. She bent to scoop it up, planning to leave it on the dresser, but Violet took her lightly by the arm.

  “You know,” she said, guiding Dorothy out of the bedroom, “It might be better to see the closets on your next visit—or the final walkthrough, even. It’s hard to appreciate the scope of the space with all the previous owner’s clothes in the way.”

  “Oh, I’d love to see them, though,” Dorothy said, glancing over her shoulder. “She must have been a very stylish dresser.”

  “She was,” Violet said. “Too bad neither of us is tall and skinny enough to wear those dresses, or we’d be the belles of Milano, wouldn’t we?”

  “Mmm,” Dorothy said, trying not to let her frustration show. Was that a good-sized black safe next to the overloaded shoe rack, half-hidden under a tangle of fallen scarves? It looked as if the door was open, but she couldn’t really tell in the semi-darkness of the closet.

  “You know, I’d definitely like to get another look at that bedroom closet,” she said.

  “Oh, we’ll get the whole thing cleaned out for your next visit, and fix that pesky door, too,” Violet said. “That way you can really get an idea of all the space. It’s so hard to tell at the moment, isn’t it? Now let’s find that nice attorney of yours and start talking some numbers.”

  Dorothy could have sworn she heard Violet smack her lips. But why had the real estate agent mentioned the closet earlier, and then refused to let her see it? She doubted it had anything to do with a broken door.

  Unless, perhaps, it was the door to an open safe.

  *

  The visit to the PAGE Modeling Agency had been a total bust, Summer told herself, as she swung the MINI into Dash and Julian’s circular drive. As far as the case was concerned, anyway.

  Nancy the booker had given her zero information about Angelica, claiming privacy rules for their models—even deceased ones. All she would say was that Angelica had been one of her favorites—so sweet, always professional—and that she had already told the police everything she knew about the model’s private life and her last, unfortunate booking.

  Which was, apparently…zilch.

  Oh, well. At least Juliette-Margot had gotten something out of their visit. As in, a modeling contract. Were her daddies going to be surprised.

  “So,” Dash greeted them at the door, with his easy, toothpaste commercial smile. “How did things go? Did you bring me any ice cream?”

  “Not exactly,” Summer said.

  “Guess what, Papa?” Juliette-Margot shot into the grand foyer like a popped champagne cork. “Juliette-Margot is going to be a real, live model!”

  Dash looked back at Summer. “Do all little girls have that crazy fantasy? It’s some kind of stage she’ll grow out of, right, like ponies and chicken pox?”

  She hovered uncertainly in the doorway. “Um…” It might not have been such a stellar idea after all, taking Juliette-Margot to PAGE. “Well, nothing’s final or anything, because they need parental permission and all, but your daughter here may actually be the world’s new top kid model.”

  “What?” Dash paled under his dark tan. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Actually, I’m not,” Summer said. “I had to stop by PAGE for the case, and she wanted to go, so I thought…”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” Dash said. “If Julian finds out you two even stepped foot in that place, he’s going to blow a gasket.”

  “Why?” Summer said. Juliette-Margot was bouncing down the hall with joy now. “It’s making her so happy.”

  Dash ran a hand through his wavy, sun-bleached blond hair. He looked like a model himself. “You don’t understand. Julian and I agreed that we wouldn’t put her in the biz. She can decide for herself later. When she’s thirty, maybe.”

  “That’s too old,” Summer said. The receptionist at PAGE had made that a thousand percent clear to her, even though she wasn’t interested. And she was nowhere near thirty.

  “Exactly,” Dash said. “We just don’t want her to have that kind of childhood. No one who grows up with a bunch of cameras in their face turns out normal.”

  For a second, Summer thought of Zoe Z. He might have a point there. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I told you, we didn’t sign any papers or anything.”

  “I know, but…” Dash nodded over his shoulder at Juliette-Margot, who was twirling dizzily, her perfect little chin pointed toward the ceiling and her bl
onde curls bouncing. “What am I going to tell her? She’ll be crushed.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Summer said. “I’m the one who got her hopes up, I guess, so I should do it. Don’t worry, she’ll understand.” Someday.

  Dash sighed. “No, that’s all right. You know how obsessed she is with the idea of her mom, and the whole modelin-Paris thing. Julian and I were going to have this convo with her eventually. It might as well be now.”

  Summer was pretty sure there was no way she could feel any worse. She was such a moron. Juliette-Margot had never even met her supermodel mom, so of course she wanted to be just like her. Maybe the kid was even hoping to impress the infamous Margot.

  Summer knew a lot about moms, and she’d never been a fan. Her real mom was a hippy-dippy space shot, and she’d had so many stepmoms it was hard to keep track of them. Of all people, she should have realized how Juliette-Margot might feel.

  She’d make it up to her, Summer swore to herself. Then she remembered something, and reached into her bag. “Hey, Dash, this may not help much or anything,” she said, “but the lady at PAGE gave us two tickets to the Majesty holiday fashion show. Dorothy and I are already going for the case, so maybe you guys could come with us.”

  Why was Dash staring at her like that, as if she’d lost her mind? He loved fancy Milano events, and Juliette-Margot would get a kick out of it, too.

  Oh. Right. The models. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Stupid idea.”

  He shook his head, but to her surprise he chuckled a little and took the tickets. “We’ll see how things go,” he said. “Maybe I can deal with this impending crisis before Julian gets home from court. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay.” Summer impulsively leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug before she hightailed it out the door and down the front steps. “Let me know how JM takes everything,” she said, over her shoulder. “If I can help or do anything at all, just…”

  “No worries, Cali Girl,” Dash cut in. “Bye for now.” He closed the heavy oak door.

  Summer headed toward the MINI, still feeling terrible. Nothing was going right for her lately—nada. She’d messed up big time with Juliette-Margot and Dash. Her love life was nonexistent, not that she cared that much. And, worst of all, she and Dorothy had gotten nowhere on the case so far. It was like they were running in circles.

  But it was only the day after Angelica Downs was murdered, she reminded herself. It just felt a lot longer than that. They still had time to find her killer. They were only halfway to that forty-eight hours before the trail got cold.

  Oh, no. Summer ducked into the car and grabbed her cell from where it had fallen between the seats. What time was it now?

  Almost one o’clock. Dorothy and Ernie had to be back from meeting Violet at Angelica’s condo by now. And Dorothy had probably already shown up to get Frankie, who had to have been awake for hours.

  Yikes. Summer hoped Dorothy had gotten her something to eat. The donut probably wasn’t enough. With luck, Dorothy had taken Frankie back to her place—or else they were both just waiting for her to get back.

  Summer floored it over to Hibiscus Towers, bracing herself against all the annoying speed bumps. For once she got a primo spot in the parking garage, so she was back at her place in seven minutes flat.

  The door was wide open. Uh oh. Dorothy would never leave it like that.

  She stepped carefully into the condo, edging against the wall so no one could sneak up on her. Some game show was blaring from the TV, but Frankie wasn’t in the living room. Or the kitchen, the bathroom or either of the bedrooms. Summer glanced at her dresser top, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the cash and jewelry she’d left on it were still there.

  But there was something else on the dresser, too. Her November cable bill, which she hadn’t gotten around to paying yet. She couldn’t remember where she’d left it, but it wasn’t on the dresser, or she would have noticed.

  Summer frowned as she picked up the envelope. Yep, Frankie had left her a note. A really short one.

  Thanks for the donut.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What do you mean, you lost Frankie?” Dorothy stared at Summer, hoping she hadn’t heard correctly.

  Summer twisted a sun-bleached strand of hair as she sat in Dorothy’s favorite chair, her long, toned legs draped over the arms. “Well, I didn’t lose her, exactly. She just…left. I’m really sorry.”

  Dorothy rubbed her temples. She’d had a feeling something like this might happen, if she left that slippery Frankie with Summer. Her detective partner meant well, but she was easily distracted. She should have postponed her and Ernie’s appointment with Violet, and taken Angelica’s mother straight back to Hibiscus Glen.

  And why, oh, why had she let Ernie talk her into that nice lunch at the Double Deckers Sandwich Shop? If she’d returned to the complex earlier, and headed directly over to Summer’s condo instead of home to change and rest… The list of “if onlys” seemed endless.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Summer said. “She couldn’t have gotten that far. I kept my eyes peeled on my way over here, but I bet she’s headed to town. Maybe she took the Hibiscus Pointe Shuttle. No one ever checks IDs or anything on it.”

  “I’m not sure whom we should tell first.” Dorothy sank onto the couch, dislodging a disgruntled orange blur of fur. “The memory care unit staff, or the police. Or even Violet.”

  That last choice was out of the question for her, of course, or her cover as an eager Milano home buyer would be blown. Summer could step in, but once Violet spoke to the staff at Hibiscus Glen, they’d both be cooked.

  “I don’t think we should tell any of them,” Summer said. “Technically Frankie isn’t even a missing person yet.”

  “I’m afraid she is now.” Dorothy reached for the Hibiscus Pointe Emergency Alert bulletin on the coffee table in front of her. “I found this under my door when I got back.”

  “Oh.” Summer gazed at the blurry but recent photo of Frankie, taken at a holiday party, below the word “Missing” in large, bold type and a brief physical description. “We’re supposed to contact Jennifer if we’ve seen her, though. Not the police.”

  “Frankie could be in serious danger,” Dorothy said. “If not from Angelica’s killer, which is a very definite possibility, then maybe from herself. As I said earlier, we’re hardly mental health professionals.”

  “Frankie’s mind is perfectly fine,” Summer said. “Or almost fine, anyway. She’s already made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to go back to the creepy memory place, and if she does she’ll never stay there. Plus, we know she doesn’t want to talk to her other daughter, anyway. And so far, it seems like she’s been taking care of herself just fine.”

  Dorothy sighed. Summer was so good at rationalizing sometimes. But this was indeed a dilemma. Why had they ever hidden Frankie, even for one night? Another “if only” to add to her list.

  “You know,” Summer said, “we don’t really have any new info to give anyone. I mean, they already know she’s missing. And she isn’t here now.”

  Goodness. “Isn’t that stretching things a bit, dear?” Dorothy said.

  “Well, yeah, I guess so,” Summer said. “But I think we’re kind of losing our focus here. The only real way to keep Frankie safe is to find Angelica’s murderer, right?”

  Dorothy had to admit, the girl did have a point. And the sooner they solved this case, the better—not just for Frankie, but for all of them.

  Summer’s cell rang, and she slipped it from her pocket. “Sorry, Dorothy, I’d better answer this,” she said. “Esmé, what’s up?” she added, into the phone.

  To give her friend some privacy for her conversation, Dorothy headed toward the kitchen to get them a few of the mini eclairs she’d brought home from her lunch with Ernie.

  She couldn’t help overhearing, though.

  “You’re kidding.” Summer was frowning now. “Okay, listen, I’m here with Dorothy. We’ll be there
as soon as we can. Hang in there.”

  Dorothy immediately closed the lid of the cardboard pastry box. “What happened? Is Esmé all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Summer said. “But she was calling from the Milano PD. Zoe’s been arrested.”

  “For Angelica’s murder?” Dorothy asked. My, the police certainly had wrapped up their investigation fast. She doubted they could even have gotten the lab work back on the evidence from the crime scene yet. Usually that took at least a week.

  Zoe must have made a confession. How sad that she’d ruined her young life—and taken someone else’s—in such a terrible way.

  “Nope, not murder,” Summer said. “Shoplifting.”

  “Thank heavens,” Dorothy said. “Not that that’s a good thing, either,” she added quickly.

  “She tried to lift a couple of cheap rings from Sparkle, that new jewelry place next to Monique’s Boutique.” Summer shook her head. “How dumb is that kid? Aunt ZeeZee threw a fit. She called Esmé from the plane on her way to the French Riviera to chew her out.”

  It seemed to Dorothy that it might have been considerably more appropriate for the TV star to have blamed Zoe rather than her niece. But still… “I understand that we need to support Esmé right now,” she said. “But as you said, shouldn’t we focus our efforts on finding Angelica’s killer?”

  Summer sighed. “Well, yeah. There’s another thing, though. Detective Caputo stopped by Esmé’s apartment to ask her more questions this morning. And then, when she went down to the station later to try to help with the whole Zoe thing, they wanted to take her fingerprints, too.”

  “Oh my. Did she agree?” Dorothy asked.

  “Nope. She said she wanted to talk to her lawyer first. Except she doesn’t have one.”

  “Perhaps Julian will offer his services, if we explain the story to him,” Dorothy said. Lately, Dash’s partner had been adding criminal law clients—including Summer, during their first investigation—to his caseload at Black and LeBlanc at quite a clip.