by Dana Dratch
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” my sister said. “And I want to learn more about these other candidates. When are they supposed to arrive?”
“They were supposed to be here forty minutes ago, but apparently none of ’em has a watch,” Stan said.
“What do you know about them?” I asked Ethel.
“Not a blessed thing, dear. I hadn’t even heard of them until their names showed up on the ballot. The only thing I can think is they must all be fairly recent additions. I mean, it is a fairly new building after all. Either that, or I’m getting forgetful.”
“You’re sharp as a tack,” Stan said earnestly.
“Kelsey on five said she ran into one of them, Mike Smith, when she was getting her mail,” Ethel said. “Practically mowed her down. Insisted he needed to go first because he was in such an all-fired hurry.”
Annie shook her head. “Well, that’s not very promising.”
“Looks like he’s not in any big hurry tonight,” Stan said, checking his watch again.
“Who’s Kelsey?” I asked.
“See that kid in the orange at Leslie’s elbow?” he asked, pointing. “That’s Kelsey.”
I spied a plump woman in a coral toga-style evening gown. “Friend of Leslie’s?” I asked.
“What the online kids call BFFs,” Stan said, nodding.
Consider the source. That little reporting mandate had saved my job more than once. That second-hand Michael Smith story might be true. Then again, it might not.
Stan elbowed me in the side. “She’s giving away T-shirts that say ‘Leslie McQueen for President.’ Big bin of them by the door. Calls ’em party favors.”
“Well, I for one could always use another dust rag,” Ethel said. “Or something to clean up after Mrs. Pickles. Too bad they don’t have McQueen’s face on them.”
“Ethel, you are awful,” my sister said, giggling.
“So what’s the deal with dogs on the elevators?” I asked. “I tried to bring Lucy up from a walk, and I got a lecture on public health and hygiene.”
Ethel shook her head. “I never knew it, but apparently the county prohibits them. After Leslie took over, she insisted we follow all the state and local regulations to the letter. She says if we don’t, lenders won’t be able to make loans on these places, and our property values will plummet. I’m glad I only live on two. As it is, I have to take a breather when I make it to the landing. And that stairwell is some kind of hot.”
“No air vents,” Stan agreed, nodding.
“Did you ever check with the county?” I asked, remembering my twenty minutes on hold this afternoon, before Nick had clicked in. I’d called back and left a message, but so far nothing.
“What do you mean, dear?” Ethel asked.
“Sometimes laws are open to interpretation,” I said. “I was just wondering about the county’s current reading of the rule book. There could be some wiggle room.”
“She thinks the dame might be lying,” Stan translated.
“That too,” I said, taking a sip from my glass.
“You mean I might have been schlepping Mrs. Pickles up and down those hot cement stairs for nothing?” Ethel’s voice rose in intensity.
A couple nearby turned and looked at us.
“Ixnay on the volume,” Stan prompted, gently patting her arm.
“I swear, if I find out that woman has been lying to us,” Ethel hissed, “I’m going to wring her scrawny chicken neck.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the evening making small talk and eavesdropping. Typical reporter skills, but I didn’t use them as much now that I was freelancing.
I’d gotten rusty. But then subtlety never was my strong suit.
Dad claims I come by it naturally. He always said, “If Russians were subtle, the world wouldn’t have Fabergé eggs.”
From what I could tell, most of the crowd was here to drink, nosh, and gossip. The election was almost an afterthought. Which was just as well because, more than ninety minutes in, the other four candidates still hadn’t shown.
“Look, there’s Anastasia!” I heard one woman titter, as my sister and I walked past.
“What’s she doing here?” her male companion asked.
“She lives in the penthouse,” chimed in a third woman in a pale pink suit.
“Did you hear about the duchess?” asked her friend in a flowing black midi dress.
“Which one?”
“The one who lives here,” Midi Dress replied. “She’s summering in one of the corner units. She’s American—with a Southern accent. But she married a European duke.”
Heading back across the room five minutes later, I overheard one fifty-something executive type in a blue blazer and gray slacks talking to a buddy in a gray pinstripe suit, as both of them parked next to the buffet.
“Hey, look, there’s Anastasia. And you’ll never guess what I heard tonight. She’s going to be in Penthouse!”
“Damn, man, that issue will break the Internet.”
OK, so anything I learned tonight, I definitely had to double fact-check. And take with a grain of salt. Still, I couldn’t wait to tell Annie.
“That’s nothing,” my sister said, grinning. “It’s usually that I’m getting married, have secretly gotten married, am checking into rehab, or am bravely battling a deadly disease. Or that I’m pregnant. Half the time, I think it’s Mom starting that last one. Wishful thinking.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“She’s just started plotting to get me married off,” I confessed.
“Sure, for now,” my sister said, nodding. “Just wait.”
With four grown kids and not a grandchild in sight, I almost felt sorry for my mother. Or would have if I didn’t actually know her.
I looked across the room and spotted Ernie Doyle with a seventy-plus redhead in a short black sequined dress: Mrs. Ernie.
Stan was right. She did have good legs.
Annie and I split up to work the room. I hated the idea, but we could cover way more ground that way. And from what everyone was saying, the other candidates would be here any minute.
I sauntered over to the buffet table, where a couple of women were debating the merits of one-piece swimsuits versus bikinis.
“So how do you know Leslie?” I asked, as I lifted one of the little puff pastries onto a cocktail napkin.
“I’m a secretary at SecureHome Title. Leslie uses our company a lot. And Becca’s a freelance photographer.”
“Videographer, too,” Becca added. A tiny diamond stud on the side of her nose glimmered in a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t trick of the light. “These days, everybody wants to tour the house online before they trek through in person. Leslie’s a steady client.”
A freelancer myself, I loved steady clients. And relied on them to keep the bills paid. But I was surprised that a secretary and a freelancer could get a mortgage at Oceanside. I couldn’t have gotten a mortgage on my own snug home if I’d been freelancing at the time.
For some reason, lenders read the word “self-employed” as “unemployed.”
“I’m Alex. So how long have you guys lived here?”
“I’m Rose. And we don’t live here. We were just invited to the party.”
“And the hot tub!” Becca said.
“Leslie’s a pretty big deal at her agency, so this is really cool,” Rose said. “I didn’t even think she remembered my name. But when I logged in this week, there was a cute little invitation. To her own home. Plus, I mean, who says no to the chance to dress up and drink champagne in a posh condo? So here we are!”
“Leslie even said we could use the hot tub later,” Becca said, slapping her purse. “We brought our suits!”
“Cool!” I said. “So, do you know any of the candidates? Besides Leslie, I mean?”
“No, I don’t know anything about the election,” Rose admitted.
“I hear one of the guys is a real jerk, though,” Becca said. “He stole an elevator from some mom with an
armful of groceries while she was trying to find her house keys. Just left her standing in the lobby like a pack mule, while he rushed in and took off.”
“That’s just mean,” Rose said.
“That’s exactly what Leslie said when she told me about it!” Becca recounted.
“Do you remember his name?” I asked.
“Kyle something,” Becca said. “Kyle Brown—that’s it! Man, if I lived here, he would definitely not get my vote.”
* * *
“I just spent fifteen minutes talking with a guy, only to find out he doesn’t even live here,” Annie said when we met up on the balcony.
“But he has a connection to Leslie,” I stated.
“He’s a house painter, and she throws him a lot of work, apparently.”
“That seems to be a theme. I just talked with a secretary from her favorite title company, a freelance videographer she hires regularly, and the woman who runs the cleaning service Leslie uses before walk-throughs.”
“This is bizarre,” Annie said, turning to look out at the ocean.
“What’s weird is that everyone seems to have heard some nasty story about one of Leslie’s opponents. But I’m getting the feeling that Leslie herself is likely the original source for all of them.”
“Manuel Garcia reported one of his neighbors for dumping too many boxes in the trash room,” Annie said, snapping her fingers. “And Bill Johnson had someone’s dog hauled off to the pound.”
“I heard Kyle Brown swiped an elevator from a woman when her arms were full of grocery bags. And we already know the ditty about Mike Smith pushing poor Kelsey out of the way in the mail room.”
“A smear campaign?” Annie asked.
“It’s just a stupid HOA,” I said softly. “Who cares who wins? But you know what else is weird?”
Annie tossed her blond mane. “What?”
“This is Leslie’s party. But I haven’t seen the guest of honor in a good fifteen minutes.”
“I’d bet she’s touching up her makeup,” my sister said. “Next up—campaign speeches.”
“Oh goody. Then what say we grab another glass of champagne? The only thing I have to drive tonight is an elevator. That’s assuming the evil Kyle Brown doesn’t poach it from me.”
Unfortunately, my sister was right. Fifteen minutes later, Leslie stepped onto a little stool in front of the ocean backdrop. She’d traded the pumps for flats and added a boxy navy-blue blazer with padded shoulders over the red silk dress.
More presidential?
She clinked a spoon against the side of her glass.
“Neighbors, friends, and soon-to-be friends,” she effused, as the general party noise tapered into silence. “It appears that my opponents are not going to grace us with their presence. Perhaps they’re just too busy to take a few minutes to speak with you. With us.”
At this, there was a general rumble of dismay. Leslie might not have been a real pol, but her timing was first-rate. Ditto her sense of drama.
“Or, just maybe, they know they can’t win,” she finished with an impish smile.
At that, her buddy Kelsey started the applause and the rest of the room quickly joined. It’s amazing what a few cases of champagne will buy you.
As the clapping gained momentum, Kelsey pumped one fist in the air and let out an enthusiastic “Woo, woo!”
Annie and I looked at each other in disbelief.
So where were the other four candidates, and why weren’t they here? My money was on their not getting an invite in the first place.
It was also possible that they didn’t want to give Leslie the home-field advantage. Maybe they’d host their own meet-and-greets elsewhere. Or perhaps, like me, they didn’t believe in over-the-top campaigning for an HOA post.
“But we don’t want to count this as a win yet,” Leslie intoned somberly as her voice rose. “Because. I. Don’t. Take. You. For. Granted,” she said, punching every word against a scattering of “spontaneous” applause.
She paused to let the clapping stop. “You know me,” she said almost conversationally. “You see me every day. This building is my home. I love this place. I know what it is now. And I know what it can be. I understand the spirit of this unique and beautiful community. I’m Leslie McQueen, and I want to be your HOA president!” she shouted, triumphantly thrusting her left fist into the air.
The room broke into thunderous applause. Kelsey pumped her fist and “woo-wooed” again—joined by Leslie’s two tennis friends from this morning.
Annie and I clapped politely. I looked around and noticed that Stan and Ethel were nowhere to be seen. Given that the evening was turning into a Leslie McQueen love-fest, produced, directed by, and starring Leslie McQueen, that was probably for the best.
CHAPTER 15
“She salted the crowd,” I said, as we stood in the hall-Sway just outside Annie’s penthouse.
“Is that what they call it in politics?” she asked, fishing the keys from her evening bag.
“I don’t know about politics. But it’s an old trick that carnys, con men, and fly-by-night auctions use to control a crowd or create a bidding war. Big corporations do it too, for press announcements or in-house symposiums. You load the crowd with friendly faces. In this case, a bunch of nice people who feel like they owe Leslie big-time and were touched to get an invite to her home. And you plant a couple of shills—like Kelsey and the tennis team—whose job it is to applaud in the right places and get the crowd fired up.”
“What’s the purpose?” she said, putting the key in the door.
“Right now, almost everyone who was in that room believes that Leslie’s a shoo-in to win the election. Some people will vote for her because they want to say they backed a winner. Or they want to curry favor, in case they need something later. Then you have people like Stan. He hates Leslie. But it looks like she’s going to win in a landslide. And the other candidates are practically invisible.”
“Or have the reputation of being jerks,” Annie added, jiggling the key.
“Exactly. So he’s just planning not to vote.”
“That’s awful,” she said. “And totally diabolical.”
“What still bugs me is why? Why do all of this? And where were those four other guys tonight? One or two sending their regrets I can understand. But all four of them?”
“That was weird,” my sister agreed, still fiddling with the lock.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“For some reason, it’s really sticking,” she said. “I mean, sometimes when it’s really humid, I have a little trouble, and I have to wiggle it a bit. But this is truly stuck.”
She gave it a sharp twist. “Ah, there we go.”
I heard the bolt slide, and she pushed open the door.
“Lucy’s going to wonder what kept us so long,” I said, sailing into the living room. “Come to think of it, so do I.”
“Hey, Lucy-girl, your second- and third-favorite Vlodnacheks are home!” Annie said, giggling.
“Third and fourth,” I corrected. “You forgot about Baba.”
“I would never forget about Baba,” Annie said. “But she’s in a category all her own. Like a super Vlodnachek.”
Ian may have looked like a man who could handle anything. But Baba really could. And had.
That I was alive and causing trouble was a testament to her nose for danger and her skill with a cast-iron frying pan. And one would-be murderer probably still had the goose egg to prove it.
Ironically, the only thing she couldn’t do with that frying pan was cook. Not that I cared. Baba was my hero.
“Got that right. Hey, I don’t see Lucy in here,” I said, my head whipping left and right.
I walked into my room, half expecting to see her asleep on my bed. Exhausted after hiding her booties again.
“You closed that door,” Annie said. “She couldn’t have gotten in there.”
“She does that at home sometimes.”
I never understood it. But someh
ow the pup had learned how to work doorknobs. She didn’t do it all the time. I’m guessing just when there was something she really wanted on the other side of the door. So the levers in Annie’s condo would be a piece of cake. That’s why I was always so careful to lock the outside doors.
“Hang on,” my sister said. “I’ll check my room.”
Annie came flying back out, her face a cloud of distress. “She’s not there.”
“The balcony door is still locked.” It had been the first thing I checked. And Lucy couldn’t manipulate locks. Especially these.
We spent the next five minutes looking behind and under every piece of furniture in the penthouse. By then, we were disheveled and frantic.
“Does anyone have a key to this place?” I asked in desperation.
I wanted to believe some dog-friendly acquaintance had just taken Lucy for a walk. It beat the alternative.
Annie shook her head vigorously. “Just my Miami assistant. And she’s pregnant and on bed rest. Leslie was pushing for a key. She said the management service needed it in case of emergencies. I told her if there was an emergency, they could call me, and I’d have someone let them in. The truth is, if it was a real emergency, I’d let them break down the door.”
“Where is she?”
I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t afford the luxury. That sweet, innocent creature was alone and lost in a strange place. And it was all my fault. I should have stayed home, and let Annie go to the party. What was I thinking?
“We know she’s not here in the apartment,” Annie said matter-of-factly. “If she somehow got out, where would she go?”
“Not far,” I said. “She hates the elevators.”
“Could she have tried to follow us? You know, by smell?”
“Lucy likes to smell things. But she’s not a scent hound. At least, not that I know of.”
Found eating out of a back-alley garbage can and brought home by Nick’s ex-fiancée Gabby, Lucy’s family tree remained a mystery. The only thing we could say for certain: She was a dog.
And I’d never seen another exactly like her. An adorable puppy, who was turning into a beautiful russet-colored adult, she was truly one of a kind.