Snagged

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Richie helped himself to a doughnut. “Do you know what kind of jelly is in here?”

  “Raspberry.”

  “That’s my favorite.”

  “Mine, too,” Regan said as she settled back with her first jelly doughnut in about eight years.

  “Regan is a detective,” Richie began.

  “Oh, my,” Lucille said as she sipped her tea.

  Regan took a deep breath. “I’m not in Miami on business, but last night Richie and I were almost run down by a car outside here—”

  “You were what?” Lucille interrupted, her expression aghast.

  “We were on our way to Richie’s niece’s house when I think a car intentionally tried to hit us. I understand your sister was mugged on the beach right across the street from here. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any connection. Richie thought it would be all right to talk with you.”

  Lucille’s eyes clouded. It was still so hard for her to talk about Dolly without getting a lump in her throat. But she didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, so she’d do her best.

  “I understand it was quite a shock when she died,” Regan gently prodded.

  “Oh, Lord, yes. Whenever I visited, I used to love to walk the beach with her in the early morning. We were all set to go on a cruise together. I had flown in the day before to stay for a few days before our trip. She had made chow mein for dinner. Well, it’s not really chow mein, but she loved to call it that. What you do is take a cup of Minute Rice, two tablespoons of soy sauce—”

  “I remember Dolly used to make that,” Richie interrupted.

  “Right,” Lucille continued. “Now normally Dolly was a good cook, but the next morning I wasn’t feeling quite up to par. I had just flown in from Dallas and flying is a little dehydrating and I had had a few glasses of wine, so maybe that’s why I didn’t feel like getting up for our walk, but I wasn’t up to it, you know what I mean.”

  “Of course,” Regan answered.

  “Anyway, she was gone for what seemed like a long time to me, and I got up and went downstairs and there was a commotion across the street, and oh, my God . . .” Tears filled Lucille’s eyes. “Dolly was dead on the beach. Her little diamond earrings were ripped out of her ears and her wedding ring, which she never took off, was gone, and so was her birthstone ring. The seashells from her tote bag were scattered around her and her change purse was missing. She always brought it with her so she could pick up some nice hot rolls from the bakery on the way back.” Lucille paused. Her voice quivered as she said, “Dolly was face-down in the sand. Her forehead had blood all over it.”

  “I understand she had a heart attack,” Regan said quietly.

  “Who wouldn’t have a heart attack when somebody tries to attack you?” Lucille asked, exasperated.

  “She had never had dizzy spells or a problem with her heart before?”

  “Not at all,” Lucille said firmly. “She was like an ox. Right, Richie?”

  Richie swallowed the last bite of his jelly doughnut. “Right. She used to haul out all the folding chairs for our meetings herself. She was always doing, doing, doing.”

  “So she’d never been sick?” Regan asked.

  Lucille shook her head. “No . . . well, except for the time she got a piece of glass in her hand when she was washing the dishes at my place. We were using Mama’s delicate china and glassware and Dolly insisted on doing it all herself because one time one of our guests tried to help and dropped a glass and we were heartbroken because it broke up the set of eight. Well, Dolly was there washing the dishes and one of the glasses broke and she got a little sliver of glass in her hand that didn’t all come out, but she didn’t feel it for so long, and then, when she came back to Miami, she had to have an operation to get it out and I had to fly back from Dallas to take care of her, and oy vay.”

  “Hmmmm,” Regan said, then tried to steer the subject back to the incident on the beach. “Was there any sign of anything that could have been used to hit her on the head?” Regan asked.

  “She had landed headfirst on a rock. They don’t know whether that’s what made her bleed or if the mugger had hit her with it and dropped it. But the funny thing was it was a big rock and not the kind you usually see on the beach. But to murder her for a little bit of jewelry and small change? Why?” Dolly asked and looked upward, shaking her head. “Maybe it was somebody who was crazed and on drugs.”

  Or maybe, Regan thought, it was somebody who wanted to make it look like a robbery when the motivation was something else. “Was there ever any talk of the possibility that she had a heart attack and fell over and someone came by and stole her jewelry? That type of thing happens a lot with car-accident victims.”

  “Not really. I would like to think that that’s what happened, that she died of natural causes. But in my heart I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  I don’t either, Regan thought. “It must be hard for you,” she said.

  “She was all I had left. I haven’t been here since she died because it’s just too painful. Everything here is a reminder of her. That’s why I’m hoping that Richie here can pull off his sale of the panty hose this weekend. I would love for the residents to buy this place, but if they can’t, I have to sell it to someone else. I can’t afford to keep it up and I just want to be finished with it. I want to get back to Dallas, where my friends are.” Lucille blushed. “I also have a lovely gentleman friend back there waiting for me. Arthur Zipp. We met on a bus trip to the Alamo six months ago and have been keeping company ever since.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Regan said gently.

  Lucille smiled. “And if I don’t hurry back, I know that some of the other gals from our church group are going to start making casseroles for him. Moving in on Arthur, you know what I mean, Regan?”

  “I know what you mean,” Regan laughed, thinking of all the times she’d been to cocktail parties, ended up next to some guy, so you introduced yourselves to each other, and before you could say “Beam me up, Scot-tie,” his wife or girlfriend materialized at his side, like a homesteader with a shotgun. Protecting her territory even though no attack had been planned. I can only imagine what would have happened if I were holding a casserole, Regan thought.

  “When Birdie died I got a lot of casseroles and homemade cakes,” Richie offered. “The only trouble was I didn’t feel like eating. Regan, I’ve got to get over to the agency. Are you still interested in coming?”

  “Yes, Richie; but Lucille, one more thing. Were there any newspaper accounts of her death?”

  “A few in the drawer, including an obituary.”

  “May I borrow them? I’d just like to look them over.”

  “Of course. I’d be only too happy to find out who did that to Dolly.” Lucille went over to the antique desk, pulled an envelope with the clippings out of a drawer, and handed it over to Regan. “Like the Lord says, the truth shall set us free.”

  “I’ll get these back to you right away.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be here all weekend. God willing.”

  THE CALLA-LILY Hosiery Company had taken a suite at the Watergreen Hotel, setting up its world headquarters there for the duration of the panty-hose convention. Since their home base was Miami, the powers that be at Calla-Lily, namely Ruth Craddock, felt it was not necessary to pay for rooms for their employees to stay overnight. This even though these same employees were expected at all functions ranging from early-morning breakfast meetings to late-night powwows on how to improve sales in tropical countries.

  But things were not going smoothly this Friday morning. Ruth, known as Ruthless by her long-suffering underlings, was on a rampage trying to locate the missing board members whose presence was necessary for the vote on Saturday. Somewhere amid the swirls of gray smoke, she was screaming into a telephone.

  “What do you mean, he’s bushwhacking his way through mountainous terrain on a mule in the wilderness! Track him and his backpack down and get him onto a plane! Let him bring the mule wit
h him if he wants!” Ruth steadied herself and took a deep drag from her cigarette. “I don’t care if he’s pursuing a lifelong dream! If he wanted to find himself, he should have started looking before his eighty-third birthday!” She slammed down the phone.

  “Ruth,” her assistant, Ethel, said nervously, “you are due to give a speech in ten minutes.”

  “Which speech was that?” Ruth asked impatiently.

  “‘Knee-highs as a fashion statement. Fact or fantasy?’”

  “Where are my notes?”

  “Right here.”

  “Have we heard from Irving?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Ethel, you knew Grandpa,” Ruth said.

  “Of course; I was his secretary for many years.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Ruth screamed. “You know, Ethel, the trouble is people just don’t care anymore. They don’t care that Grandpa built this business up from stitching together socks at the dining-room table. They don’t care. They just collect their paychecks every week and let Calla-Lily be damned. But if we go out of business, with this run-proof panty hose coming out, they’ll be sorry.”

  Ethel shook her head mournfully, tsk-tsking as Ruth extinguished her cigarette and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

  “Your grandpa was very proud of you, Ruth, the way you took over the business. He was a very good man. He could get a little pushy at times— ”

  “Ethel,” Ruth interrupted as she snapped her purse shut, “I’ll be back in an hour, and hopefully there will be some happy messages for me.”

  If not, Ethel thought, I’ll make some up myself.

  NICK FARGUS WAS not in a very good mood. Last night he had barely sat down at one of the cafés on Ocean Drive when a waiter came by and lost his balance, spilling a bowl of capellini pomodoro onto his new shirt. In English, Nick thought, that means red spaghetti sauce that produces a very stubborn stain. The worst part of it was that Nick was sure that a girl sitting a few tables away had been eyeing him. She looked like she could be one of the models. By the time he had hurried home, changed and raced back, she was gone. Only later did it occur to him that he should have just gone next door and treated himself to another shirt. Those boutiques were open all night.

  Sighing, Nick sat down at his desk. It was going to be a very busy weekend with the two conventions. They had already had problems with overbooking. Too many fires to put out, and he had to be on twenty-four-hour duty. Now he wouldn’t get back down to South Beach until next week.

  Already that morning he had been awakened from a sound sleep by a panicked phone call from the front desk. Coffins were being wheeled through the lobby to the display room for the funeral convention, upsetting some of the guests. Told to use the service entrance, the offenders argued that they had seen mannequins wearing nothing but panty hose being traipsed through the day before, and no one had seemed to mind.

  Nick’s intercom buzzed.

  What now? he thought as he picked up his phone.

  “Mr. Fargus?”

  “Yes, Maria.” Nick rubbed his head.

  “One of our guests would like to see you.” Maria sounded excited.

  Another problem, he thought. It’s too early for this. “Tell them I’m tied up right now, but I’ll see them later.”

  “Mr. Fargus, she’s right here. It’s rather important.”

  “Okay, send her in.” Nick knew that he could trust Maria’s judgment. He was lucky to have a secretary like her. She only bothered him with big things, taking care of minor problems herself.

  An instant later the door opened and Maria walked in and beamingly introduced Nora Regan Reilly. “. . . And, Mrs. Reilly, this is Nick Fargus.”

  Nick shook Nora’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Nora Regan Reilly. Say, your name sounds familiar.”

  Maria shot a reproachful glance at him. “Mrs. Reilly writes suspense novels.” She turned to Nora. “I love your books. I have all of them.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nick jumped in. “Oh, of course. That’s why your name sounded familiar. You see, I don’t read much. Well, because I don’t get a chance. But I really like books. I’m sure I’d like your books.” Nick realized he was digging himself into a hole. “But come to think of it, my mother’s a big fan of yours. She loves to read. Reading is important.”

  “That’s what my publisher says,” Nora said with a smile.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Maria asked Nora.

  “No, thank you. This should just take a minute.”

  “Please sit down,” Nick urged as Maria exited the room shaking her head.

  “You have a lovely hotel,” Nora began.

  “Oh, thank you. We aim to please. Is everything okay with your room?”

  “Oh, yes,” Nora answered. “My husband and I are down here for the funeral convention.”

  “Really?” Nick tried to sound excited. “With his line of work, he must be able to give you a lot of plots for your books.”

  “He’s got some good stories,” Nora agreed.

  “You know,” Nick continued with enthusiasm, “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to wake up in the funeral parlor, you know, before they started working on you.” Nick laughed. “Would your family get their deposit back?”

  Nora looked at him. “Well, I don’t know. Everybody who’s come through my husband’s place has been dead on arrival.”

  “Right, right, right,” Nick chuckled. “Maybe they’d just hit you with a pickup charge. Like I said, that had just occurred to me once or twice. I don’t know why. Something to think about, I guess . . .” My God, he thought, I’m babbling, and it’s only nine-fifteen in the morning.

  “Well, what I’d like to talk about . . .” Nora began.

  “Shoot,” Nick laughed. “Of course I don’t want you to really shoot me, it’s just an expression I use . . .”

  “I wouldn’t dream of shooting you,” Nora assured him, “except maybe in a book.”

  “That’d be great! Name one of your characters Nick and make him a handsome devil and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

  “You’ve got a deal. Now what I wanted to ask you is about the availability of rooms for a cocktail party tomorrow afternoon.”

  Nick whistled and tried to look stern. He liked to do that when something big was happening. It made him feel important.

  “I know it’s late notice, but something has come up and it’s rather important . . .”

  Nick assumed the role of captain of the ship as he pulled out his room chart and spread it out on the desk. “You know we have a lot going on this weekend and all my conference rooms and party rooms are booked, booked, booked. I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “That is a shame,” Nora sighed. “And to think that Richie has all the models lined up . . .”

  Nick’s ears perked up faster than a dog’s at the first sound of a howling coyote. He almost leaned his head against his shoulder and whimpered. He tried to sound calm as he asked, “What is the occasion for your party?”

  “A friend of ours has a special panty hose he wants to show off. As a matter of fact, I’m wearing a pair right now . . .”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “Thank you. Oh—his niece is having her wedding reception here on Sunday. Maura Durkin.”

  “Of course. That’s going to be a big one. They’ve ordered everything from soup to nuts. Now getting back to your party . . .”

  “Oh, yes. Well, this friend, Richie Blossom, has this panty hose and he’s asked several of the models from South Beach to be in an informal fashion show. We wanted to have a cocktail party for the panty-hose executives and the models beforehand, but I guess we’ll have to figure something else out.”

  “Hmmmm.” Nick didn’t want to seem too anxious, but he could barely contain himself. “I hate to let you down, seeing as the family is having the wedding here. Now I’ve never done this before, but I’d really like to help you out. I live in a big penthouse suite upstairs
, which is just perfect for parties. I’d be happy to let you use it. Of course I’ll be on hand to help out.”

  “That sounds like the best place of all to have a party!” Nora enthused.

  “Oh, it is, it is! I’ve had some great parties myself up there. You’ll love it. You know, you could have the fashion show up there too. We could build a little runway running the length of my living room, against the windows, looking out at the sea. It will enhance and glamorize your product, I’m sure of it.”

  Nora seized the opportunity to take advantage of his zeal. “I was wondering . . . do you have a list of the panty-hose executives and which rooms they’re staying in? I want to send them personal invitations.”

  “Right here. Aren’t you going to send the models invitations?”

  “I don’t think we have to,” Nora said, “since they’ll be in the fashion show.”

  “Of course,” Nick agreed heartily. With trembling hands he pulled out the computer printout of the panty-hose people with their names, titles and room numbers.

  “This is wonderful,” Nora said.

  “Now what we can do,” Nick pronounced, “is set up a bar in the dining room . . .”

  In the next few minutes they agreed on an open bar and hors d’oeuvres with waiters serving.

  “I’ll give you a head count tomorrow morning,” Nora concluded. “Thanks for all your help.”

  As soon as she was out the door, Nick picked up the phone to housekeeping. “Make sure my flowered print shirt is back from the valet by tomorrow morning.” As he replaced the phone in its cradle, Nick’s face settled into a frown. He knew he had a big decision to make.

  REGAN AND RICHIE walked over to the Models Models Modeling Agency, located just a few blocks from the Fourth Quarter.

  “Everything is so close to everything else around here,” Regan commented.

  “South Beach only takes up one square mile. That’s why it’s great for us old-timers. We can walk everywhere and we don’t have to worry about the upkeep of a car,” Richie replied.