Fashionably Late (The Ladies Smythe & Westin)

by Lisa Q. Mathews

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Roland said.

  “I don’t,” Monique said, throwing it on the ground and backing quickly toward the door with her gun. “This will look like such an unfortunate accident. You’re not as smart as you thought you were, Roland. You’re a lying, talentless wimp. And that goes for you two nosy ladies, too. Enjoy the fireworks now. Au revoir.”

  “The boxes,” Dorothy said in horror, as Monique turned and ran from the tent. “They’re holding the fireworks for after dinner.”

  Before she finished speaking, Summer rushed toward the glowing cigarette and fell on it just as the dry grass began to ignite. She rolled to put out the flame, then jumped up and dashed out of the tent after Monique.

  “Oh, no,” Dorothy said. “Monique still has that gun.” She struggled as she had earlier to free herself and Roland from the tape.

  “I have a metal nail file in my back pocket,” Roland said. “I think I can just about reach it. Do you think that would help?”

  Monique was right. He wasn’t very smart at all. Dorothy extended her fingers behind her to grab the file herself. She managed to cut through the tape just as there was a loud thud and commotion from outside.

  Summer had caught up with Monique and wrestled her to the ground, pinning her wrists. She must have kicked away the gun, because it was lying in the grass a short distance from them.

  Thank goodness. And there was Detective Caputo with a whole slew of cops and security people behind her. Dorothy hurried toward her friend, just in time to hear her say, “Book ’em, Caputo.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dorothy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a lovely and relaxing New Year’s Eve.

  She, Ernie and Grace had skipped the tiresome annual celebration in the Magnolia Events Room to join Summer, Detective Donovan and his grandma, and all three Hamel-LeBlancs in Summer’s condo for Chinese food, champagne and cider.

  None of them dressed up. No one seemed quite in the mood for fashion for a while, it seemed.

  Zoe and her mother had returned to Los Angeles, and ZeeZee had declared herself Zoe’s new manager. That way, she claimed, she could keep a sharp eye on her daughter—and it would make for highly compelling TV. Summer sympathized with Zoe, who wasn’t very happy with that arrangement, and must have put in a word with her movie producer father. Zoe had landed her first film role in Girl on the Edge, and had sworn she’d invite them all to the premiere.

  Frankie and Violet were out kicking the gong around somewhere in Vegas tonight. Frankie had moved back into Angelica’s condo and Violet was heading home to Vero Beach after the memorial at the end of January. Apparently they were planning more mother-daughter trips together in the near future.

  She wasn’t sure exactly which incarceration facilities Monique and Roland were spending the holiday in, but wherever they were, they probably weren’t celebrating much.

  “Ready for some new cases in the New Year, Dorothy?” Summer asked, as the two of them got the instant fondue together in the kitchen.

  “Absolutely,” Dorothy said. She refilled both of their champagne glasses from the bottle on the counter. “To Angelica,” she said, raising her glass.

  “To Angelica,” Summer said, joining her in the toast. “And a great detective team!”

  *

  To purchase and read more books by Lisa Q. Mathews, please visit Lisa’s website at www.lisaqmathews.com/books

  Look for CARDIAC ARREST, the first book in THE LADIES SMYTHE & WESTIN series, available now from Lisa Q. Mathews and Carina Press.

  Read on for an excerpt

  Chapter One

  As a general rule, Dorothy Westin preferred to mind her own business. But the leggy blonde on the top-of-the-line smartphone three lounge chairs down was making that rather difficult.

  “Come on, Joy, give me a break. I’ve only been in Florida two weeks, and I’m living in a freaking old-farts community.”

  Well. Dorothy carefully concentrated on applying SPF 50 sunscreen to whatever parts of her weren’t covered by her black, old-farty swim dress. She might not get away with a candy-cane-striped string bikini like her rude young pool companion, but she was in decent enough shape for seventy-eight.

  “I told you, I’ve got a job.” Bikini Girl’s voice was louder now. “I start tomorrow, so as soon as I get a couple of paychecks I’ll send you the rent, okay?”

  Maybe she was visiting her grandparents, Dorothy considered. Of course, Hibiscus Pointe had strict rules regarding how long visitors, even relatives, could stay. The owners association didn’t generally approve of renters, but they’d loosened the rules when the economy tanked.

  “Forget it, then!” Bikini Girl practically shouted. “I don’t have to listen to this, especially from my own sister. You’ll get your stupid money. Have fun freezing in New Jersey.” She tossed her phone toward the chic straw bag beside her chair, but it missed and hit the concrete.

  Dorothy pursed her lips. Those fancy phones were expensive. It didn’t sound as if the young woman could afford another one, either.

  With an audible sigh, Bikini Girl retrieved her seemingly intact phone and flopped onto her flat, tanned stomach. Was that a tear sparkling on her cheek, Dorothy wondered, or a stray speck of glitter from last night’s eyeliner?

  She couldn’t be at the pool before 8:00 a.m. to catch the rays. More likely the girl was catching up on sleep after a wild evening in the clubs downtown. Milano was something of an entertainment mecca for the trendy, Gulf Shore after-dark crowd.

  A shadow fell over Dorothy’s legs.

  “Well, well. Imagine meeting you here, Dorothy. Have you gotten those crack-of-dawn laps in yet?” Gladys Rumway, wearing a tentlike, aqua-print dress, wraparound sunglasses and a huge floppy hat, gave her a magenta-lipsticked smile.

  “Not yet,” Dorothy admitted. “I was just about to hit the water.” She reached for her bathing cap, hopeful of a quick escape. Gladys was a talker.

  “I just don’t get why you’re always swimming, at your age,” the big woman went on. “You know what really killed Esther Williams? All that chlorine.”

  Bikini Girl suddenly launched herself out of her lounge chair and stepped to the side of the pool. Now that she was standing, Dorothy could get a better look at her: tall, athletic and extremely pretty, in a natural way. The girl adjusted her minuscule bikini bottoms and executed a perfect dive into the water, sending a wall of cold water onto Gladys’s back.

  Gladys whirled like a furious manatee. “Watch it, you hussy!” she shouted as the girl surfaced at the far end of the pool.

  Dorothy hid a smile. Was it her imagination, or had Bikini Girl just winked at her?

  “Margaret Sloan’s granddaughter, apparently.” Gladys gave an unattractive snort. “Does she call that piece of thread a swimsuit?” She looked pointedly at the pool rules posted beside the well-disguised equipment closet. Number Seven: Clothing Required.

  Dorothy kept her mouth shut. The suit was darling, if truth be told. And if the girl had the figure, which she clearly did, she had every right to flaunt it. “I was so sorry to hear about Margaret,” she said. “I didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a lovely person.”

  “Hmmph,” Gladys said. “Hard to believe she was related to that piece of work.” She leaned closer to Dorothy. “I heard Margaret left her fancy condo in the Towers to her son Syd, the Hollywood movie producer. Like he needs it.”

  Dorothy drew back slightly to escape the spritz of spit that accompanied Gladys’s words. Hurriedly, she began to push her dark silver waves under her bathing cap.

  Gladys leaned in another two inches. “Anyway, I have big news. Guess who’s getting married?”

  “I have no idea,” Dorothy said. These days, weddings were few and far between, thanks to the lopsided male-female ratio at Hibiscus Pointe—and the rest of Southwest Florida, for that matter. The arrival of any new man with a pulse was cause for ridiculous celebration—and cut-throat competitio
n—in every senior community.

  “Dr. A!” Gladys revealed with glee.

  Well, that certainly got Dorothy’s attention. Dr. Anthony Amoretto was a prominent cardiologist in Milano, young and extremely popular with his female patients. In fact, she had her monthly checkup scheduled with him tomorrow morning.

  “Can you believe it?” Gladys was clearly beside herself. “According to my sources, the lucky lady is Mia Rivera-Jones. You know, that skinny socialite who always has her picture in Milan-O Magazine?”

  “I’m very happy for them.” In truth, she didn’t care much one way or the other. She was thankfully immune to Dr. A’s charms.

  “There are going to be some very disappointed ladies around the complex,” Gladys said. “Not me, of course.”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Dorothy murmured. Now that she’d been reminded about her appointment with the swoon-inducing Dr. A, she’d better get those morning laps done. If she stuck around too long gossiping, the late-February sun would soon be scorching. “See you at dinner, Gladys,” she called as she headed toward the steps at the shallow end of the pool.

  Margaret Sloan’s granddaughter, or whoever she was, did a flip turn at the wall and glided gracefully for several feet before breaking into an effortless crawl. The girl was like a seal in the water.

  Dorothy admired good form. It was so rare to see these days.

  She dipped all the way into the pool and let the gentle coolness rush over her head. Without a doubt, Bikini Girl would be far better company than that busybody Gladys.

  *

  Summer Smythe, a.k.a. Summer Sloan, rolled over to hit the snooze on her phone for the zillionth time. Why had she set the alarm, anyway?

  Then she remembered. Today was her first day of work at that slimy Dr. Amoretto’s office. The guy reminded her of one of those crazy little lizards that showed up everywhere at Hibiscus Pointe: on the sidewalks, at the pool, glued to her sliding screen door, lurking under every tree and footlight.

  She hadn’t wanted to take the medical assistant job. Even she thought it was a bad idea for a supposedly successful physician to hire someone after buying her a drink or two at a swanky pick-up bar. But thirty bucks an hour for a college dropout with a spotty résumé and zippo training wasn’t bad. And all she needed was to keep Joy off her case.

  At least she hadn’t slept with the sleazy doctor guy. Way too old—probably early forties—and definitely not her type.

  Summer dragged herself to the alleged luxury kitchen, which was half the size of her closet back home in California. It obviously hadn’t been remodeled since the eighties. Her Grandma Sloan, whom she’d only visited a few times when she was a kid, must have been pretty cheap.

  Whoops. She’d programmed the coffee maker for “p.m.” instead of “a.m.” A good excuse to spring for Starbucks on her way to work.

  The doorbell rang and, after a quick check through the security peephole, she answered it. She’d expected a maintenance guy, but it was just some old lady, all dressed up in a peach suit.

  “Hello,” the woman said, glancing away from Summer’s thin cami and rumpled, men’s-style boxers. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Nope,” Summer said.

  The woman gazed past her into the messy condo, filled with unopened moving boxes of every size. “Well, I’m Helen Murphy, our Residents Board president, and I wanted to be the first to welcome Mr. Sloan to Hibiscus Pointe.” She held out a fancy gift basket, conveniently packed to Summer’s taste with a bottle of red wine, grapes and an assortment of cheese and crackers. “We were all so sorry to hear about his mother. Is he home, dear?”

  “Sorry,” Summer said. “He doesn’t live here.”

  Helen lifted her eyebrows. “I see. And you are…?”

  “His daughter,” Summer replied, taking the basket. “I’ll definitely let him know you stopped by. Thanks for the wine.” She closed the door and pulled the little chain across it in one swift motion. Nosy old biddy.

  Leaving the basket on the breakfast bar for later, Summer grabbed a few handfuls of Cheerios as she tuned in to a morning talk show. Absorbed in a segment where a mousy woman got pulled off the street for a hideous makeover, she didn’t notice the time on the microwave until the third Clap-On! commercial.

  Eight twenty-three. She was supposed to be at Dr. A’s office in seven minutes. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Dodging boxes, Summer raced to her bedroom and tore the wrapping off the pink-and-blue, teddy bear scrubs she’d bought at the mall yesterday. They were all she could find in her size at the last minute.

  It cost her valuable time to wait for the elevator and locate her car, which she’d had to park in the last space in the lower lot. Most of the spots were designated for handicapped residents.

  Dripping with sweat, Summer pushed the ignition button of her orange Mini Cooper.

  Nothing. She tried again. Still nada.

  She pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Why? Why did these things always happen to her, at the worst possible times?

  Never, in her entire twenty-six—okay, twenty-nine—years had she ever been lucky.

  She glowered at a Hibiscus Pointe shuttle as it departed from the Hibiscus Gardens stop and chugged slowly toward Hibiscus Towers. Everything in this place was Hibiscus-something.

  A small group of residents waited under the shade of the long, dark-green awning, armed with walkers, wheelchairs, and rolling shopping carts. The shuttle’s overhead destination sign read Milano-Downtown.

  A miracle. Summer jumped from her car, sprinted across the already-steaming asphalt of the parking lot, and charged up a monster hill toward the Towers stop.

  It was amazing how fast a bunch of fragile-looking seniors could board a bus. The driver had the wheelchair ramp lowered and raised again by the time she finally made it to the shuttle stop.

  The doors closed right in front of her face.

  “Hey!” Summer cried. “What the‒?”

  The driver pointed to his watch and slowly pulled away from the curb.

  Summer pounded on the side of the bus as she ran alongside it. “Stop!” she shouted, waving her arms. “This is an emergency!”

  The driver continued to ignore her, until an older woman in a practical-but-stylish sunhat leaned over from her seat to tap him on the shoulder.

  Abruptly, the bus stopped and the doors flew open.

  “Thanks so much.” Summer swept past the driver, flashed the hat woman a grateful smile, and dropped into the nearest seat. Where had she seen that nice lady before? Oh yeah. At the pool yesterday, with the Battle-Ax.

  Leaning back, she breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a tiny stroke of luck.

  Don’t miss CARDIAC ARREST by Lisa Q. Mathews.

  Available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Q. Mathews

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Alice Alfonsi and Marc Cerasini, who helped me banish the Red Fire Monkey for good (don’t ask!), as well as the amazing staff at Carina Press; my ever-supportive agent, Stephany Evans at Ayesha Pande Literary; and my blog mates at Chicks on the Case: Ellen Byron, Kellye Garrett, Marla Cooper, Vickie Fee and Cynthia Kuhn. And once again, much love and many thanks to my undyingly patient family: Rich, Kimberly, Rory and my very chic daughter and fashion consultant, Stephanie.

  Also available from Lisa Q. Mathews and Carina Press

  The Ladies Smythe & Westin series

  Cardiac Arrest

  Permanently Booked

  About the Author

  Lisa Q. Mathews prepped for her career as an author by studying ads in the back of her mom’s magazines (“We’re looking for people to write children’s books!”) and investing her hard-earned allowance in pristine spiral notebooks. She also devoured every Nancy Drew book in her summer-camp library, determined to outwit the perfect girl detective. She failed, of course, but years later she had anoth
er chance.

  After graduating from college with a typing speed of twelve wpm, Lisa headed to New York to work as an assistant to four busy editors. Soon after, she became an editor herself—of new Nancy Drew books! She also wrote under a pen name for other kids’ series, including Mary-Kate and Ashley and The Lizzie McGuire Mysteries, and was creative director at Random House Children’s Books.

  But Lisa had always dreamed of writing mysteries full-time—for grown-ups. During an extended stay at her parents’ floral-themed retirement community in Southwest Florida—and a chance elevator meeting with a memorable senior—The Ladies Smythe & Westin series was born.

  A former figure skater and lifeguard, and mom to three grown kids, Lisa now scribbles in her notebooks from New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband, a golden retriever named Farley and Lucy the Lucky Black Cat. She is happy to report that her typing speed is much improved, and she and Nancy Drew are still fast chums.

  To learn more about Lisa and her books, please visit her website and sign up for her newsletter at lisaqmathews.com. You can also follow her on Twitter, friend her on Facebook and share in her writing adventures at the group blog Chicks on the Case. Lisa hopes you’ll enjoy The Ladies Smythe & Westin books as much as she enjoys writing them—and she looks forward to meeting you!

  Introducing the Carina Press Romance Promise!

  The Carina Press team all have one thing in common: we are romance readers with a longtime love of the genre. And we know what readers are looking for in a romance: a guarantee of a happily-ever-after (HEA) or happy-for-now (HFN). With that in mind, we’re initiating the Carina Press Romance Promise. When you see a book tagged with these words in our cover copy/book description, we’re making you, the reader, a very important promise:

  This book contains a romance central to the plot and ends in an HEA or HFN.

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