What on earth? “Wait,” Dorothy broke in. “Jennifer? What does she have to do with any of this?”
Summer studied her manicure. “Oh, nothing. But either way, it wouldn’t be very professional of him to ignore me, or any important stuff for the case.”
“Summer,” Dorothy said, with a frown, “if there’s one thing we do know, it’s that Detective Donovan always conducts himself professionally. He’s very serious about his work.”
“Then he should listen to us,” Summer said. “Hey, quit it!” she added to Mr. Bitey, waving the chair pillow at him.
Gracious. Now Dorothy’s ill-behaved cat was trying to bat at Guinevere from behind her friend’s ankle. She clapped her hands at Mr. Bitey. “No, no,” she told him. “You’re being very rude to our guest.”
“I don’t think he cares much,” Summer said, with a glance at the badly gouged powder room door.
“No, he doesn’t. I shouldn’t have let Guinevere out yet.” Dorothy scooped up the protesting tomcat and carried him firmly toward the powder room. “Now it’s his turn in kitty jail.”
She had to find a home for poor Guinevere soon. Right after her owner’s murder was solved. That was the most pressing thing at the moment. A bit inconvenient for both her and the little gray cat, perhaps, but so be it.
“So, what do you think Trixie wants?” Summer said as Dorothy returned to the couch and rubbed her ankles. She’d been on her feet the entire day, and they were throbbing mercilessly. “I mean, if she’s on the run, why doesn’t she just leave town for good? Especially if she’s the one who killed Lorella.”
“An excellent question. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Holding her peach skirt in place, Dorothy lifted first one leg, then the other, up onto the couch. Now she was sitting almost the same way as Summer. It felt rather comfortable.
“Remember what Trixie said in her letter to Lorella, about the rat-killing thing?” Summer said. “I did a search on the internet, and she wasn’t talking about killing a bunch of vermin. ‘Rat killing’ is some Texas expression that means, like, taking care of business.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Dorothy said. “I hope she didn’t mean killing Lorella.”
“Exactly,” Summer said. “But we still can’t forget about Professor Bell. What happened with him after I left?”
Dorothy sighed. “He tried to pester Georgiana again, at the reception. It seemed he had a manuscript he wanted her to read. A very long one, I might add. The package looked quite bulky.”
“That makes sense,” Summer said. “He’s writing a romance, I think. Can you believe that? He’s not bad-looking, but he’s, like, the least romantic guy on earth. Sooo boring. What did Georgiana say?”
“Well, she was so mobbed by fans after she and Carrie gave their talks, it was difficult to hear,” Dorothy said. “Georgiana didn’t look very happy, it’s true, but she told him to bring it to the author signing at Milano Book & Bar tomorrow night.”
“So Professor Bell was pretending he just came to the meeting to get Georgiana to look at his book,” Summer said. “That guy is such a sneaky stalker. And probably a murderer, too. I don’t know how he’d tie in with Trixie, though.”
“True,” Dorothy said. “And we need a bit more evidence before we bring him up to Detective Donovan as a serious suspect. We have that possible matching murder weapon, of course, but as the professor pointed out to you, those bookends are quite popular.”
“I hate to say this,” Summer said, slowly, “but there’s another person we might want to think about as a suspect, too. Ol’ GH Hamel. Even if she’s Dash’s mom.”
“Georgiana?” Dorothy sat up straighter on the couch. “You can’t be serious. Why, she just arrived in town. And she didn’t know Lorella.”
“She might have,” Summer pointed out. “Remember, when we almost had breakfast yesterday at the crepe place, we found out they went to the same college? Wellsburg, or whatever it was.”
“Wellsmount,” Dorothy murmured. It was true, that odd coincidence had slipped her mind. She’d meant to ask Georgiana about it. But right now she was tired. And hungry. She’d been so busy running the meeting and speaking with everyone afterward that she hadn’t had a single bite to eat at the reception.
“Remember when Georgiana saw Lorella’s picture on the easel when she was walking into the Events Room?” Summer said. “She stopped in the aisle and made a big deal of asking if that was the person who got murdered. She acted really surprised. Maybe she was faking so everyone would think she didn’t know Lorella.”
“That might be reaching a bit,” Dorothy said. “What kind of motive for murder could Georgiana possibly have, supposing she was even acquainted with Lorella?”
“Well, she knows how to get away with a crime,” Summer said. “She has to be sneaky in her books, right? Or her characters do, anyway.”
“But Georgiana arrived in town after Lorella was murdered,” Dorothy pointed out.
“Actually, we don’t know that,” Summer said. “Remember, Dash said she came down here a few days early? Maybe she didn’t really go to that bookstore when she got off the plane. Or maybe she did, but her flight got in superearly that morning.”
Dorothy’s head was beginning to spin. A revered author like GH Hamel would never be involved in a terrible crime like murder. That idea was just impossible. Lorella had been a professor—and a librarian, too. Both women obviously shared a love of literature. Preposterous.
“There’s another thing, too. Georgiana and Lorella both had that same bloodstone ring.” Summer took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this earlier, Dorothy. But I kind of borrowed Lorella’s ring from her jewelry box. You know, to give to the police later.”
Dorothy frowned. “Why didn’t you mention that, dear? It could be important to the investigation, somehow.”
“I know.” Summer’s voice sounded very small. “I guess maybe I was thinking the rings might be like the bookends, or something. A dime a dozen, so it would be okay to keep it myself for a while.”
Goodness. Dorothy’s young friend was like a magpie with a shiny bauble. But no harm done, Dorothy supposed. “Where is the ring now?”
“In my undies drawer,” Summer said. “It’s really safe there, I promise.”
“Mmm,” Dorothy said.
Summer checked her phone. “It’s almost five,” she said, clearly eager to change the subject. “Are you going to dinner in the dining room tonight?”
“I suppose,” Dorothy said, with a sigh. She didn’t have much choice, because there wasn’t a single food item in her fridge again. She’d skipped the last shuttle bus to Publix. The idea of mingling with a crowd again so soon was not terribly appealing. No doubt some people would want to discuss today’s book club meeting—or worse, argue about the title choices again.
“Well, I have an idea,” Summer said. “My friend Esmé—you remember her from Chameleon, right? —picked up a second job at La Volpe downtown. She just texted me that it’s really dead there right now, and we might be able to get a free dinner if we go superearly. What do you think?”
“I think that sounds marvelous,” Dorothy said, standing up. “Just let me grab a light jacket.”
She felt miraculously better already.
*
Esmé hadn’t been kidding about this place being dead, Summer told herself as she and Dorothy waited for service at a marble-topped table for two near the tiny bar area of La Volpe. The bartender, a good-looking Italian-American guy a year or two younger than her—okay, maybe five or six—had thrown them a smile when they walked in, and then disappeared for good.
Jeez. It sure was dark in here. Kind of gloomy, actually. A lot of wooden paneling and marble, with a bunch of creepy-looking busts of old guys with beards. Good wine list, though, and there was a candle and a single red rose in a bottle on every table.
Where was Esmé, anyway? Or, more like, where was anyone?
“I don’t understand it. This rest
aurant was once very popular,” Dorothy said. “Harlan used to bring me here, years ago, and it’s one of Ernie’s favorites, too.”
“Huh,” Summer said. “Maybe it’s more of a guy place. You know, lots of spaghetti and meatballs and stuff. I bet a lot of couples used to get engaged here, with all the roses and opera music.”
“Yes, it did have atmosphere.” Dorothy looked a little sad.
“Hi, guys.” Esmé appeared at their table, a little out of breath, and handed them each a menu. “Sorry about the wait. I just finished up at Chameleon, and got over here as fast as I could. Matteo was supposed to cover for me till I got here, the rat. His parents own the place, and they’re on vacation.”
“How nice to see you, Esmé,” Dorothy said. “You look lovely.”
“You do,” Summer agreed. “That’s a great outfit under there.”
Esmé grinned and pulled aside her long white waitress apron to strike a pretend model’s pose in her formfitting black dress, glittering gold earrings, and designer pumps. Her long dark curls, which she usually wore braided or tied back in a scarf or butterfly clips, were semitamed by a wide black headband. “Thanks. It’s my new, classy look. Had to step up my game to work at this place. Plus, I have a hot date later.”
Personally, Summer liked Esmé’s usual funky style a tiny bit better—her friend was a part-time design student with the coolest clothes—but she would never say that. “So, what’s good to eat here?” she asked.
Esmé shrugged. “I’d stick with the lasagna. The seafood’s supposed to be fresh, but it seems a little nasty, until they dump all the sauces over it.”
“Oh.” Dorothy shuddered, just a little. “How about the Italian salad?”
“Good choice,” Esmé said. “And the bread is always good. How about some wine first? There’s a pretty good bottle of Shiraz open that’d go with the lasagna.”
“Great,” Summer and Dorothy both answered, at the same time.
“So you never really told me how the rest of the book club party went, and I haven’t heard anything from Dash,” Summer said when Esmé had left. “Was Georgiana a big hit with the crowd? And what about, uh, Carrie?”
“I thought things went rather well,” Dorothy said. “Better than I expected, in fact. Georgiana enthralled everyone with the most fascinating stories about her research trips to all kinds of exotic locales, and Carrie also held people’s interest, I think.”
“What did she talk about?” Summer asked.
“A little bit of everything,” Dorothy said. “Her books, her long, difficult journey to becoming a published writer, her plans for the future. I felt a bit sorry for her, I have to say. She had a tough time breaking into the book business, but hopefully, she’s on her way now.”
“Why didn’t she publish her books herself?” Summer said. “A lot of people do that now.”
“I’m not sure,” Dorothy said. “But if you don’t mind dear, I’m afraid I’m feeling a little book-clubbed out. Do you mind if we talk about it later?”
“Oh, sorry,” Summer said. Her friend did look tired. “Fine with me.”
Esmé brought over a basket of warm Italian bread, rosemary focaccia, and garlic bread sticks, along with small white plates, three glasses of Shiraz, and an extra bottle. “Mind if I join you for a couple of minutes?” she asked. “If I get any customers, it’ll be later, after the Milano Playhouse lets out, and Matteo actually did a good job setting things up.”
“Sure,” Summer said.
“I wanted to talk to you two anyway,” Esmé said, unloading her tray. “It’s about that lady who got murdered over at your complex. You know, the librarian?”
Dorothy’s eyebrows shot up. She looked a lot more alert now. “You and Lorella were acquainted?”
“No,” Esmé said. “Summer and Dash were telling me about her when the three of us were out last night.” She placed the tray on a nearby table and drew up a wrought-iron chair. “But I saw the lady’s pic in the newspaper rack at the Green Caffeine this morning, and I recognized her right away. She and some guy used to come in here all the time.”
“What did he look like?” Summer had a feeling she already knew the answer.
Esmé shrugged. “Well, he was maybe about ten years younger than her. Good hair, not too gray, kind of long. Always wore a navy blue jacket. Lousy tipper. The woman always slipped me a few extra bucks on her way out. And the guy always smelled like…”
“Pipe smoke?” Summer finished.
“Yeah, that was it. I was going to say burned wood. He was a little snotty. And the lady—Lorella never said much to me, either, but she seemed nicer. Just really quiet.”
Summer and Dorothy exchanged glances. Yep, that was a perfect description of Professor Bell. Better than the ones the detectives usually got out of eyewitnesses on Citizen’s Arrest.
“Did you ever catch anything of their conversations?” Dorothy asked.
“Not really,” Esmé said. “They had their heads pretty close together most of the time.”
“So maybe the professor wasn’t really a stalker,” Summer said to Dorothy. “Or he didn’t turn into one until later, at least.”
Dorothy added a few drops of balsamic vinegar to the oil on her plate and swirled it with a bread stick. “It definitely sounds as if they had a romantic relationship, then.”
“Those two didn’t seem that chummy to me, actually,” Esmé said. “Lorella always looked as if she was sort of mad at him, or something. I think they were working on some big project together, because the guy wrote down a lot of stuff in a notebook.”
Summer sighed. “I really, really wish we could get a look at that notebook. He had it at the book club meeting today,” she added to Dorothy.
Esmé refilled her wine. “Wait, you know this guy, too?”
“We’ve met,” Summer said. “Unfortunately. He’s one of the people Dorothy and I think may have murdered Lorella.”
Behind Esmé, Dorothy shook her head, warning her to shut up. Oops. But it was true, right? And maybe her friend could help them.
“Well, that isn’t good,” Esmé said. “I hope he didn’t kill her, because the thing is, he comes in here all the time, with a lot of different women. Not just Lorella. And they’re definitely dates.”
“Wow,” Summer said. “I bet Lorella was ticked off at the professor for cheating on her, then. So maybe she confronted him and boom! He kills her.”
“Oh dear,” Dorothy said. “If that’s true, which I hope it isn’t, other women may be in terrible danger.”
“I don’t know, he seemed like a wimp to me,” Esmé said. She was really warming up now, with all the wine. “But I can tell you one thing. He has all those dates because he strikes out every time. I’ve never seen him with the same woman twice. Except Lorella.”
Well, no shock there, Summer thought. Professor Bell was definitely a loser. “I wonder how he manages to get all those dates,” she said. “Do you think he…um, pays them?” Ick.
“Nope,” Esmé said. “Have you guys ever heard of Silver Sweethearts?”
“I have,” Dorothy said. “It’s an online dating service for seniors. Rather upscale, I believe. Several of the ladies at Hibiscus Pointe have tried it. Not as many of the gentlemen, I’m afraid. Since there are fewer older men than women down here in Florida, they have plenty of opportunities to meet romantic interests in person.”
“You can always tell it’s a blind hookup”—Esmé glanced at Dorothy—”I mean, date, because the woman puts a single red rose on the table so the guy will know it’s her. They sell them on the corner, at Fleurs de Paris. That’s where we get ours for the restaurant.”
“Imagine dating someone you had only met online,” Dorothy said. “I don’t approve of that at all. Much too dangerous.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Summer said. “I mean, I’ve never done it or anything. But I know plenty of couples who got together that way.”
Like her sister Joy and that insurance guy Toby. The relati
onship hadn’t lasted that long, though. Her uptight sister had sent the guy packing even faster than she’d gotten rid of her.
“Well, your professor buddy doesn’t have much luck with the ladies,” Esmé said. “Only one woman, other than Lorella, has ever come back. And that was just to toss a carafe of house merlot at him.”
“Order’s up!” someone yelled from the kitchen, over the opera music.
“I’ll be right back,” Esmé said. “Luigi gets a little impatient if his creations get cold.”
“Summer, I think we should go back to Santa Teresa to question Professor Bell directly,” Dorothy said. “Perhaps this time you could tell him you’d signed up to audit one of his classes.”
Ugh. He probably wouldn’t buy that, and she really, really didn’t want to go back to that campus. “Shouldn’t we talk to him somewhere else?” Summer said. “You know, to throw him out of his comfort zone. He’s coming to Milano Book & Bar tomorrow night for the author signing, remember?”
“Well, that’s true.”
Good. Dorothy seemed fine with that plan. Unless… “You know what?” Summer said. “I may have an even better idea. Just let me work a few things out first, okay?”
“All right, dear.” Dorothy was leaning over to smell the pretty red rose in the little wine bottle vase.
“Hey, say mozzarella cheese!” Summer held up her cell phone. “This’ll make such a cute pic.”
She quickly snapped the photo, and Dorothy blinked, startled, as the flash lit up La Volpe. Perfect.
Chapter Thirteen
Early the next morning, after spending a bit of separate-but-equal quality time with the cats, Dorothy pulled on a tailored denim shirt over a pair of dark blue slacks and headed straight to the Hibiscus Pointe Library.
She didn’t relish the idea of returning to the spot where Lorella had lost her life, but it was time to get serious about putting things in order. Lorella would surely be distressed if she knew the place was untidy.
And hopefully, once all the GH Hamel and Carrie hoopla died down, they could hold regular book club meetings there, as Lorella had intended.
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