Red Hot

by Dana Dratch

  “One of the cheaper units,” Ernie said. “Just a one bedroom. And the view is crap. Too low to see anything, and it faces the street.”

  “Hey, I live on two and I can see plenty,” Stan said. “Plus, if there’s a fire, I can jump.”

  “If you jumped the curb in a golf cart, you’d break a hip,” Ernie said.

  “The break-in?” I prompted.

  “That’s the weird part,” Stan continued. “Yesterday evening, I come home, and the cops are buzzing around Larry’s apartment. Door’s wide-open, and I can see one of ’em’s taking a statement from him. Another one is prowling the halls. Wants to know if I’ve seen anything.”

  “Not with those cataracts,” Ernie jibed.

  “Hey, my vision’s twenty-twenty—and so’s my hearing,” Stan countered. “Anyway, I’d been up in Lauderdale visiting a lady friend. So naturally, I wanna know what happened. You know, for security and all.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed.

  “And the cop says Larry swears somebody broke in. He calls up and reports it. And the cops come out. In the meantime, Larry’s had a look around—you know, to give ’em a list of what’s missing. But that’s the really weird part.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Nothing was missing. They just shuffled stuff around.”

  “Bull,” Ernie stated flatly, scarfing another peanut.

  “What if there really was something missing?” Stan theorized. “Something he didn’t want to report.”

  “Only thing missing from that home is booze. And you don’t need Nero Wolfe to figure out where it went.”

  “Like what?” I asked Stan, ignoring his friend.

  “I don’t know. An unlicensed gun. Drugs. Some of that really nasty porno. Viagra.”

  “Little blue pills are legal, Stan,” Ernie said, dropping another peanut into his mouth and washing it down with a sip of amber liquid from his highball glass.

  “Yeah, but a young guy like Larry wouldn’t want to admit he needs ’em,” Stan countered.

  “Maybe the burglar got spooked and left before taking anything,” I said.

  “That too,” Stan said, nodding.

  “Any other break-ins recently?” I asked, remembering Annie’s story about Mrs. Plunkett. From what she’d said, that would have been at least six weeks ago.

  “Well, now that you mention it, there was that business with Ethel,” Ernie said. “But she was pretty sure it was that kid she had walking her dog.”

  “Made off with two different kinds of pain pills and fifty bucks in cash,” Stan said, slapping the bar. “But no sign of a break-in. That’s how come she figured it was probably the kid. He had a key.”

  “So in one case, there’s evidence of an actual break-in, but nothing’s missing,” I said. “And in another, money and meds are gone, but no break-in.”

  Stan nodded vigorously.

  “Do the police think the two incidents are related?” I asked, as the bartender put two cans of soda and two bags of chips in front of me. I handed him my key ring.

  He turned, deftly swiped the key card and returned it to me, all in one fluid motion.

  “I don’t think so,” Stan said. “Ethel never reported it. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was the kid, so she didn’t want to accuse him. And with Larry, I think the cops agreed with him.” He cocked a thumb at Ernie.

  “Probably because Larry’s cologne of choice smelled suspiciously like bourbon,” Ernie said. “Look, don’t get me wrong. This place is great. Food and drink all day long, right here in the building. And a smorgasbord of joints to eat and drink in the neighborhood. All in walking distance. And as long as you can pay the tab, nobody ever says no. So you gotta learn to say no to yourself. Heck, I gained back my freshman ten when I first moved in. And right now, Larry’s having a little trouble in the no department.”

  “So what have you heard about the election?” I asked.

  Hey, as long as I had them talking, might as well prime the pump.

  “Never heard of any a’ these clowns,” Ernie said.

  Stan nodded. “I was all set to vote for Leslie McQueen, until the thing with Ethel. Now I might just sit this one out.”

  “You can’t do that, Stan,” Ernie said. “You have to vote.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, waving off his friend. “But what if I vote for the wrong one?”

  “I got news for you, buddy,” Ernie said, shaking his head sadly as he shoveled another handful of nuts from the bowl. “They’re all the wrong one.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Annie was right about the seafood shack. It was fantastic. And it was, oddly enough, an actual shack. The place didn’t even have a name. Or regular hours. One of the owners was married to a fisherman. Whenever they had enough from a catch, the shack would open for business. And once they put the word out, people flocked from all over the city.

  The shack was surrounded by a half dozen scarred wooden picnic tables, overflowing with families. We opted to eat our dinner off of paper plates right on the beach. There was a light breeze from the ocean, and the sun was just setting. It was glorious.

  We kept Lucy out of the hushpuppies because of the onion bits. But she loved the fish. And we made sure the morsels we gave her were free of bones.

  I even clicked a few photos of Lucy frolicking in front of the place—and gently accepting nibbles of fillet—so that Nick could see we were taking good care of her.

  That night, as I was getting ready for bed, my phone rang. Reflexively, I checked the number. Trip.

  “So what’s it like being a lady of leisure?” my best friend asked.

  “Well, I sipped champagne on a private jet, spent the afternoon lounging poolside, had a picnic dinner on the beach, and met an eligible gentleman who offered to show me around town.”

  I left out the fact that the gentleman in question was over seventy.

  “Bored out of your gourd, then,” Trip concluded.

  “Except for the dinner, yeah,” I said. “And I’m worried about what’s going on at home.”

  “Yes, I hear that black mold can be nasty stuff.”

  “Black mold? Nick said it was old wiring.” I felt the bile rising in my gut. Or maybe it was one of the hushpuppies. Between the two of us, Annie and I had pretty much cleaned out the shack.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Trip said. “Hey, for what it’s worth, you scored yourself a freelance gig.”

  Before I’d left town, I’d pitched a feature—“South Beach in the Summer”—to my former newspaper’s travel editor. The general gist: Anyone can visit during the cooler months of tourist season. But in sizzling summer it’s more affordable and less crowded. And, since I had family connections there, I promised the piece would include “tons of insider tips” from the locals.

  No sense admitting that my family connections consisted of one jet-setting sister who spent more time in Manhattan than Miami.

  “One slight change,” Trip said. “Instead of the money angle, they want dogs.”

  “I think you cut out there for a minute. It sounded like you actually said ‘dogs.’ ”

  One of these days, I had to invest in a better phone.

  “Exactly,” he confirmed. “Travel desk says the money angle’s been done to death. Look, I was in the story meeting, and I knew you needed an assignment. When they started to shoot it down, I had to think on my feet. But I was going on three hours’ sleep. You’d mentioned you guys were taking Lucy, so I suggested ‘a dog-friendly guide to South Beach.’ They loved the idea. And if you can get some good pics to go with it, they’re willing to double your space and your fee.”

  “Well, Lucy is very photogenic.”

  “And the check would keep you both in kibble for quite a while.”

  “I’m going to have to eat kibble because apparently my kitchen is a death trap. Even without me in it. What did you really hear from Nick?”

  “When’s the last time you talked with him?” Trip asked.
<
br />   “Answering a question with a question. Somebody’s been to editor school.”

  “Editor college, if you please. And I have the bags under my eyes to prove it.”

  “Nick called this morning, right after we got here,” I said.

  I heard Trip yawn. “Talk to him, Red. Really, I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  “What’s up with the three hours’ sleep? Is everything OK?”

  “Tom is schmoozing some hotel bigwigs from California.”

  Tom, Trip’s partner of just over a year, was the head chef and part owner of Polaris, one of D.C.’s hottest restaurants. And his hours were brutal.

  “Could mean mucho business for the restaurant,” he continued. “So I had to put on a suit and be at my witty best until all hours. Seriously, I didn’t think they’d ever call it a night. Then it was back in here first thing this morning for the editorial meeting. At this rate, I’m going to have to start putting more coffee in my coffee.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, I stumbled out of bed, heading for the coffeemaker that lives on the counter in my cozy kitchen. Lucy, curled up on the other side of the bed, shifted, stretched, and rolled toward my pillow.

  The minute my feet hit the floor I realized something was different. For one thing, the décor was nicer than my place. The bed, low and stylish. Beneath it, a round area rug, made from big loopy white yarn that resembled a puli, cushioned my feet from the slick, blond hardwood floor. And sunlight streamed through a wall of windows I didn’t have in my own bedroom.

  That’s when it hit me. Miami. The trip had been so quick and painless, it didn’t even seem possible.

  Waking up in the penthouse was like being back in the jet. I could make eye contact with the seagulls cruising past the windows. Off in the distance, the ocean was deep blue and inviting.

  At home, I’d let Lucy out the back door and plug in the coffeemaker. But ten floors up, that wasn’t an option. And if I was going to have to go down the hall, into the elevator, and through the very public lobby, I was going to have to make myself presentable in a hurry.

  A few minutes later, the bathroom mirror revealed that, while I liked Miami just fine, it definitely did not like me. Thanks to almost ninety-seven percent humidity, my naturally wavy strawberry-blond hair resembled a bad home perm. And despite never leaving the house with anything less than SPF 45, my nose and forehead were bright red.

  I looked like Bozo.

  Yesterday, Annie and I may not have looked like sisters. But today we didn’t even look like the same species.

  An ugly thought popped into my brain before I could squelch it: Thank goodness Ian Sterling can’t see me like this.

  Wait, what?

  I brushed my hair madly, adding water and mousse as needed and formed an acceptable ponytail. It didn’t necessarily look good. But I could pass for a human who’d recently been for a swim.

  A lot more sunblock, topped off with some strategically placed concealer, a little mascara and some lip gloss and I was good to go.

  I dashed into my room, grabbed my purse, and unzipped Lucy’s suitcase. The Doggles were gone.

  I’d also tucked all four of her booties under the chair last night. This morning, there were only two.

  I grabbed a couple of bags for her pooper-scooper and prayed the thing was still out on the balcony, where we’d parked it last night.

  One more little secret Nick had neglected to share: He’d packed a brand-new one in Lucy’s luggage. Along with a hundred-count box of bags.

  I’m guessing that when he suggested bringing Lucy on our trip, he wanted to stack the deck in her favor. And there’s nothing like handing someone a box of poop bags to give them second thoughts.

  I looked down. The pup was staring up at me with an urgent look. “I know this isn’t our usual morning routine. But it’ll be fun. I promise.”

  Her tail wagged slowly.

  When we trotted through the living room, my sister was sitting on the sofa with a mug of tea, reading her tablet. Clad in a cream-colored T-shirt that skimmed her hips and black yoga pants, topped off by a smooth, bouncy ponytail that was none the worse for the weather, she could have been doing an ad for hair products. Or electronics. Or tea.

  Her face lit up when she saw us. And urgent or not, Lucy scampered over and jumped into her lap. Which just made her smile wider.

  “So how’d you sleep?” she asked me, as she stroked the pup’s downy flank.

  “I think I was out before my head hit the pillow.”

  “It’s the sea air,” Annie said. “I always sleep better here.”

  Lucy jumped down from the sofa and ran pell-mell for the front door. Then she looked back at us. Presumably to see if we had noticed.

  “There’s an early-bird Pilates class in the exercise studio,” Annie chirped. “It starts in ten minutes. Want to come with?”

  “I’m gonna get Lucy out for her morning constitutional,” I said, spying the scooper on the deck. Without the Doggles or the booties, at least I was one-for-three.

  But it was still early, so it should be fairly cool. If worse came to worst, I could always carry her to a grassy spot.

  “How about we meet up here at eight and go for breakfast? There’s a little outdoor café around the corner—Diamond Jack’s. They do these amazing lemon ricotta pancakes. And everybody brings their dog, so the little one will get treated like a queen.”

  Pancakes, no exercise class, and fodder for my travel feature? Even with the prospect of manning a pooper-scooper, this day was getting better and better.

  Now all I needed was a tall cup of coffee. And the truth about what was really going on at home in my kitchen.

  CHAPTER 9

  When we got to the elevators, Lucy balked.

  But the desperation in those soft eyes told me she’d never make it down nine flights of stairs. Time for drastic measures.

  I carefully picked her up and stepped quickly into the elevator. Once we were moving I deposited her gently on the floor. Like an unexploded grenade.

  Those doggie vitamins Nick gave her must be working. Lucy was getting big. Now in her canine adolescence, her legs were longer. And she’d gotten a lot faster. Which was why I’d never take her off-leash—especially in a place she didn’t know.

  When the door opened on two, Stan Cohen got in. “Hey, good morning! Nice pooch. She yours?”

  “My brother’s, actually. But he’s got a home renovation project going. So I’m watching her for the week.”

  “Well, you might want to steer clear of the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Leslie McQueen?” I asked.

  Stan nodded. “Don’t know what she has against dogs. But I think she’d ban ’em from the building if she could. As it is, she just tries to fine ’em out of existence. Come to think of it, I bet that’s why she got so ticked off at poor Ethel. She’s got this little white furry thing.” He held his hands about a foot-and-a-half apart.

  “Are there many dogs in the building?” I asked.

  “Not a lot, but a few. And I’ve noticed that a lot of ’em are keeping a low profile lately. Taking the stairs or the service elevator. Staying well away from the building when they go outside. That kind of thing.”

  The elevator bell sounded, and the door opened to the lobby. Lucy rushed through it—tugging me by the leash.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I called behind me.

  “Any time,” Stan said, waving.

  Outside, I don’t know who was happier to see that big patch of lawn across from the building’s portico—me or Lucy. Let’s just say we were both relieved.

  Newly refreshed, Lucy sniffed her way from one end of the perfectly manicured horseshoe-shaped lawn to the other. When a grasshopper jumped, it startled her and she took off at a trot.

  Near the curb, I reined her in, reached down, and touched the concrete. Still cool. Perfect.

  I looked over at Lucy. “We’re going to take a nice long walk and see all kinds of inter
esting things. Along the way, maybe you can tell me what happened to those booties. And the sunglasses.”

  She looked away quickly. The sure sign of a guilty conscience.

  CHAPTER 10

  As we walked South Beach in the cool of the morning, I ruminated over what I’d learned so far about Oceanside and its curious election.

  No one seemed to know who’d called the election. And no one seemed to know any of the candidates—except for Leslie McQueen. So I definitely needed more information on both angles.

  Leslie seemed to be big on fines. At least, for some of the residents. And she didn’t like dogs. A definite strike against her in my book. I looked over at Lucy, who was busily sniffing a patch of scraggily dandelions near the curb.

  How could anyone not like dogs?

  Suddenly, Lucy’s oversized ears shot straight up. She turned her head and looked at me. And if I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn the expression on her face was shock. Pure shock.

  I’d long ago become convinced she could read my mind. Or maybe just smell my emotions. Either way, the pup was wired.

  “Just trying to figure out some of my fellow humans,” I explained. “Sometimes they make zero sense.”

  She appeared to give that some thought. Then she licked a dandelion and resumed sauntering down the walkway—with me bringing up the rear.

  I was also curious about one more detail that was probably irrelevant: Why had Leslie McQueen wanted to be president of the HOA in the first place?

  From what Annie had said, it seemed as if Leslie had created the position for herself. First, by pushing for an association. Then by swanning in to lead it. Why? What was she getting out of it?

  She’d claimed a sense of civic duty. But if she was truly that high-minded, she wouldn’t be playing favorites with the rules and strong-arming retirees out of their money and due process.

  In my early days at the newspaper, a really smart editor told me that everybody does things for a reason. Figure out the reason, and you’re halfway to the story. But without the reason, the story won’t make sense.