by Dana Dratch
I had to admit, this story made no sense at all. At least, not to me.
I pulled Annie’s ballot out of my purse. Four names, plus Leslie. The names didn’t mean anything to me. But they wouldn’t.
Other than Annie, Ernie, Stan, and Ethel Plunkett (who I hadn’t even met), I didn’t know anybody in the building. And the place was large enough that even the residents probably didn’t know more than a few of their neighbors.
I definitely needed to learn more about the other candidates. And it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a little more information on Leslie McQueen, too.
Because at this point, I had nada.
CHAPTER 11
I considered our walk an hour well spent. Lucy and I got some quality outdoor time together touring the neighborhood. We even found a coffee bar with a walk-up window—which yielded a large mocha latte for me, and a big dish of water for Lucy—plus two bone-shaped treats after the barista pronounced her “winsome.”
While I was no closer to figuring out what was going on with the election at Oceanside, at least I understood the problem a little better. And the players.
So I chalked that up as progress.
As we strolled into the lobby, I noticed a cluster of women chatting near the elevators. All three were in tennis whites and carrying racquets. Since they weren’t sweating yet, I concluded they were on their way out to the courts.
I jabbed the call button and stroked Lucy’s back. Keep the little dog calm, and she might not notice we were getting on an levator.
Not my best idea. But it beat taking her and the scooper up nine flights of stairs.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you—are you sure you’re in the right place?” A fiftyish petite brunette with a deep tan inserted herself between me and the first elevator door.
Lucy looked at the woman, then at me. As if she was watching a tennis match of her own.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said with a smile.
I didn’t know who she was. But I was pretty sure I didn’t want to talk to her.
“I don’t think so,” she continued, thrusting her face even closer and giving me a hard squint. “Animals aren’t permitted in the elevators. If this was really your building, you’d know that. Are you a dog walker? Or a renter?”
I felt like saying, Lady, I’m the one who’s going to shove you out of the way with a slightly used pooper-scooper when that elevator finally arrives because I’ve got a nervous dog and a breakfast date with pancakes.
But I didn’t. This was Annie’s home, and I was her guest. So I decided to try a little tact. Preferably as little as possible.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” I replied. Or your badge number.
“I’m Leslie McQueen. I’m president of the homeowners’ association.”
OK, that explained a lot.
“I’m Alex Vlodnachek. I’m visiting my sister in the penthouse.”
“Anastasia can’t possibly be your sister,” she said, looking me up and down.
“Well, according to our parents, she is. But we only have their word for it,” I added lightly.
McQueen’s expression was a thundercloud. But what fascinated me was her hair. A nimbus of carefully curled, obviously dyed blackish-brown that came to her shoulders, it didn’t move. I’m guessing in this heat, that took at least a full can of hairspray. Maybe two.
“Well, I hope she’s not letting you stay there unaccompanied. That’s strictly forbidden. And guests are limited to seven consecutive days, as per our state hospitality statutes.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “And I’m very sorry your ‘sister’ didn’t inform you,” McQueen said, using big air quotes, “but dogs are not allowed in the elevators. Animals must be confined to the stairs. That’s not just our rule, but a county health department regulation. And if there are any little accidents along the way, be sure to clean them right up,” she said, smiling. “We don’t want to have to issue any citations.”
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I have breakfast plans,” I said, stepping back and to the left—closer to the elevator door.
But Leslie McQueen wasn’t having it. She put her arm across the door frame, blocking my path.
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t see how you could actually be related. For the security of the building, I’m going to have to verify your status. I need to see some identification.”
My status was steamed. I so wanted to tell her exactly where to put that tennis racquet. Or hey, just to be helpful, do it for her.
“Well, hello, Leslie,” a chipper voice called out from behind me, as the elevator bell finally dinged. “I see you’ve met my sister Alex. She’ll be staying with me for the foreseeable future. And this is my brother’s dog, Lucy. I’m sure I told you about my brother. He’s a partner in a Manhattan law firm.”
My sister wasn’t exactly lying. She did have a brother who was a Manhattan attorney. And a brother who resided with Lucy. They just weren’t the same person.
But I’m guessing lawyers were a lot scarier to Leslie than bakers. Extra carbs or no.
But my sister was on a roll. “If we’re lucky, my brother will be joining us soon, as well. I’m so glad you all have had a chance to meet, but we really must get going. We have breakfast reservations.”
With that, Annie bounced into the elevator and Lucy and I followed.
As the doors closed, Leslie McQueen looked totally deflated. Except for her hair.
CHAPTER 12
“How do you put up with that?” I asked Annie, as we rolled back toward the building, stuffed to the gills with eggs, pancakes, bacon, and sparkling cider. The lemon ricotta pancakes were delicious. Even Lucy had one with her bacon and eggs. Without syrup, of course. The winsome pup has to watch her figure.
I was able to snap a couple of extra pics for my South Beach story. Including one of Annie in her wide-brimmed hat and big sunglasses, chatting with some people enjoying mimosas at the next table, while Lucy listened intently.
“I’m never here,” my sister replied. “So that helps. But, honestly, it wasn’t always like this. In the beginning the atmosphere was great. The building was new and luxe. Everyone was so happy to be here. And they were so friendly. Even right after they formed the HOA, things didn’t change that much. At least, not that I noticed. But the last few months? This is awful. It’s not the same place.”
“Maybe that’s why someone challenged Leslie for president,” I suggested. “I sure would like to know a little more about these guys,” I said, using the ballot as a fan. Not even eleven o’clock and it was already steamy.
“Well, then you’re in luck,” Annie said, grimacing. “We’ve been invited to a candidates mixer this evening in Leslie’s apartment. She’s calling it ‘Cocktails and Candidates. ’ ”
“Oh geez,” I said. The name conjured visions of the cutesy names for every rubber-chicken dinner I’d covered during election season. My favorite: a pancake breakfast dubbed “Eggs and Issues.”
No matter what they called them, no one ever ate the food. Candidates were too busy pressing the flesh. Constituents were trying to extract promises from the candidates. And reporters were just trying to get straight answers from anyone who might actually know something.
I was lucky to finish a glass of juice.
“I know,” Annie said, wincing. “The Evite arrived a couple of days ago. And I wasn’t planning to go. But it would be a good opportunity to meet everyone and maybe learn a little something.”
“You really think she’s going to let me in the door?” I asked. “Especially after this morning?”
“She has to. She’s courting my support in the election.”
That made sense. Leslie McQueen might not be a name-brand, but everyone had heard of Anastasia. Women were desperate to learn her beauty secrets. Guys just wanted her phone number.
And having her endorsement would lock up the single-male voting block for Leslie. They’d cast their ballots for Lucrezia Borgia herself
if they thought it might give them a shot with my sister.
“The thing about dogs taking the stairs?” I asked. “Is that true? I mean, about it being a local health department rule?”
I had my own beef with the health department back home. First, a crooked health inspector took a bribe to ban Nick from using my kitchen for his bakery until we’d installed a laundry list of pricey upgrades. Now I was in renovation limbo. And despite leaving a flurry of phone messages, I wasn’t getting any return calls from Nick.
“You know, I have no idea,” Annie said. “Since I never had a dog, it never came up. Come to think of it, I haven’t noticed any lately. But I didn’t realize that until you mentioned it. To be honest, when I hit town, I always have a pile of flyers from the association in my mailbox. Announcements, notices, rule changes. I just toss them into recycling.”
Service dogs were allowed everywhere—that much I knew for a fact. So Leslie McQueen couldn’t ban all dogs. I also had a sneaking suspicion that her edict might have been bluster. Or wishful thinking.
Election or no election, travel story or no travel story—Lucy’s health and comfort came first. So when we got back to the penthouse, I knew exactly what I had to do next.
CHAPTER 13
I’d been on hold with the county for twenty minutes—and transferred three times—when call-waiting buzzed. I checked the number.
Nick!
The county could wait. I wanted to hear what was going on at home.
“So how’s the little dog liking the big city?” he asked.
“Your little dog is a big dog now,” I said. “She’s eating at fine restaurants, charming the locals, and hobnobbing with supermodels and politicians.”
“My girl’s a star,” he said. “Seriously, is she taking her vitamins and wearing her booties?”
“Yes, on the vitamins. We’re having mixed success on the booties.”
No lie. It took both Annie and me fifteen minutes to find Lucy’s missing shoes (stuffed under a couch cushion), and another five to get them on her.
Once we did, she proceeded to high-step one leg at a time in slow motion, like something out of a horror movie. And the only way I could get her into the elevator was to carry her.
Ever lithe and leggy, Lucy had grown taller and stronger over the past few months. She had to weigh at least forty pounds, easy.
At this rate, I was going to have to take up weight training. Or join Annie for that next early morning exercise class.
“OK, Lucy’s fine. Annie sends her love and, it goes without saying, all of us wish you were here. Now what the blazes is going on in that kitchen?”
“Everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about. The contractor just had to run a few more tests, that’s all.”
“Black mold?”
“Odds are it’s not. He just needs to be sure. Before they start.”
“They haven’t even started yet?”
“He says a couple of preliminary tests are totally routine with an older home. You have to find out what’s behind the walls. And we’re still mostly on schedule. I mean, it might add an extra day or two, tops. But as soon as we get the results back on the wiring and the, uh, other stuff, we’re good to go. And he says it’s probably safe to sleep there.”
“Probably?” I’d been sleeping there for over two years. And, at various times, so had most of my family. What had I done to us?
“Look, I’m sure it’s all fine. We just haven’t gotten the official OK yet. Ian would have let me stay at the inn, but they’re booked solid.”
I had a feeling I knew exactly where this was going. “So where are you staying?”
“Trip and Tom’s guest room,” Nick said. “Just for a couple of days. Until we get the all-clear. And I brought them a big batch of brioche rolls. You know, as a way of saying thank you.”
That explained how Trip knew about my mold problem before I did. And why he didn’t want to be the one to tell me.
Once again, Trip had galloped to the rescue. Only instead of a white horse, his ride was a shiny red Corvette convertible.
In Fordham, Virginia, just outside D.C., I have the smallest house—a snug hundred-year-old bungalow—in a pretty neighborhood with rolling lawns and plenty of trees. And, up until now, I’d felt lucky to have it.
Trip and Tom lived in Trip’s townhouse in the heart of historic Georgetown. Most of the time, my neighborhood smells like freshly mown grass, mulch, and—occasionally—new paint. Trip’s smells like money.
So Lucy wasn’t the only one who was getting a taste of the good life this week. The question was, when those test results came back, would any of us want to go home?
CHAPTER 14
“Leslie has a corner unit on eight,” Annie said, as we rode down in the elevator. “I’ve never been there myself, but I hear it’s quite the place.”
I tugged at my dress. Annie had kitted me out in a Kelly green paisley vintage sheath from her closet. She finished off the minidress with a pair of matching strappy sandals and a tiny beaded bag that dangled from my shoulder on a fine gold chain.
I suspected the purse cost more than I made in a month.
She’d even helped me with my hair. And thanks to the perfect combination of her skill and products, I had red, silky waves that fell just past my shoulders. My own hair. Only, somehow, better.
I felt glamorous. Even standing shoulder to shoulder with a supermodel.
Too bad Ian Sterling couldn’t see me now.
Wait, where did that come from?
I’d wanted to bring Lucy to the party. Preferably sporting a dressy lace collar, like the one she’d worn to a friend’s recent wedding. When Ian’s father, Cecil Harkins, married long-time love Daisy Campbell in the backyard of the B&B, the pup had been their ring bearer. Sensing she was part of something important, Lucy’s tail had never stopped wagging. And that was before she’d discovered the bacon in Nick’s pocket.
But this time, my sister felt that bringing Lucy might be pushing it. And this was Annie’s turf.
So the pup had the run of the penthouse living area. After we’d puppy-proofed it thoroughly. And I’d hidden her booties.
Those Doggles were still missing.
Before we could knock twice, a uniformed cater waiter opened the door and ushered us in, while a second one immediately offered champagne from a silver tray.
To keep a position she claimed she’d never wanted, Leslie had spared no expense. Several uniformed waiters circled constantly with trays. I’d done that same job recently for an event. So they had my sympathies. I hoped Leslie McQueen tipped better than my former employer. But I doubted it.
There was a buffet table of nibbles set up at one end of the expansive living room. And the entire place was decked out in campaign chic—yards of red, white, and blue bunting set off with clusters of red, white, and blue balloons.
As I took my glass, I glanced around. The cocktail party was in full swing. And I didn’t know a soul.
The layout was vaguely familiar, though. Like an echo of Annie’s place, on a smaller scale. Glass doors to the deck made the most of the ocean views on two sides. The furnishings and knickknacks were fragile and pricey. As if they’d been purchased from an exclusive boutique and arranged “just so” by an interior designer. The result looked expensive. But impersonal. Cold.
Annie’s place was very minimalist. She was never there and didn’t want to waste time dusting tchotchkes when she was. And if anybody knew her way around boutiques and design, it was my sister. But her place was open, bright, and cheery. Welcoming.
This one? I couldn’t wait to leave.
Maybe it was the company. As if on cue, Leslie swooped over to greet us. Clad in a red silk dress with short butterfly sleeves, matching pumps, and lots of inky black mascara, our hostess would have fit right in at “Eggs and Issues.”
She actually attempted an air kiss with Annie, who promptly pulled back and looked down to adjust the tiny purse on her own shoulder.
&nb
sp; “So glad you could make it—both of you,” she added in a booming stage voice. “So, Anastasia, can I take this to mean you’re firmly in Camp Leslie?”
Worst summer camp ever.
“I’m so glad you invited us,” Annie said brightly. “I can’t wait to learn more about the candidates. And I have to say, Leslie, you have a beautiful home.”
My sister, the master of the conversation pivot.
“Why, thank you!” Leslie gushed. “That means a lot coming from you. You know I hired a decorator at first. But in the end, I had to redo it all myself.”
Yeah, right.
“Well, we were going to have speeches, but none of my erstwhile opponents have arrived just yet. But when they finally do, we’ll each take a few minutes to talk about the issues that are truly important to us. In the meantime, I’m sure you know most of the people here. Just enjoy yourselves.”
And with that, she was gone.
What issues? It was a condo building. Keep the lights on, the pool clean, and the elevators running. What’s to discuss? It’s not like one of them was going to draw up a trade pact with France or negotiate peace in the Middle East.
From what (admittedly little) I knew about presiding over an HOA, it was a thankless job. Someone was always dissatisfied. Residents were constantly suing or being sued. And people called to complain at all hours of the day and night.
Yet this woman was spending oodles of cash to snag the dubious honor. It was like campaigning for a suicide mission.
My spidey sense was definitely tingling.
“Look, there’s Ethel Plunkett,” my sister said, gesturing with her glass.
I looked over and saw a well-kept older blonde chatting animatedly with Stan.
“I’d love to dish the dirt with her,” I admitted.
“Now’s your chance,” Annie said, and I followed her lead.
“Ethel, I want you to meet my sister, Alex. She’s staying with me for a while. And she brought the family dog. Alex, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Plunkett.”
“Call me Ethel,” she said. “And it’s nice to see a friendly face. After that kerfuffle with Mrs. Pickles, I’m getting the cold shoulder around here.”