Red Hot

by Dana Dratch

  “No biggie, but you’re smiling.”

  “It’s the doughnuts. Sugar and caffeine make me happy.”

  “Whatever. You know I think this whole tiff between you and Ian is crazy, right?”

  “Yes, I believe you’ve said as much. Although you never used the word crazy.”

  “It was implied.”

  “So you’d have been OK if he’d planted a mike in your room, too?”

  “The guy is no Leslie McQueen. He wasn’t doing it to make money or dig up dirt. Or take over some crappy condo board job that no one in their right mind would want.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Truth,” he said, slapping my palm.

  “Ian’s father was in danger,” he continued. “Real mortal danger. Harkins had a hired gun breathing down his neck, a secret family in hiding, and a whack-job billionaire who would have killed them all. I mean, if planting a few bugs helps Ian protect his dad? I say bring on the biggest, baddest, buggety bugs you can find.”

  I smiled and brought the cup to my chin.

  “Come on, what if it was our dad?” he said. “What if we could have him back? And all you had to do was plant one of those things at Ian’s place. Would you do it?”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “To be clear, I’m not saying you should date the guy. Just don’t be hacked at him for going to the wall for his family. That’s pretty much what we do around here, too.”

  This coming from the man who’d taken a pretty big hit for the team yesterday himself.

  “Are you OK?” I asked. “Seeing Gabby and all?”

  “Yeah, I actually am. Look, I like her. And I’m always gonna like her. But I don’t want to get back together. I’m good.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Now all we have to do is figure out how to get rid of that goulash and make it look like an accident.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Later that morning, after a long walk on the beach, Baba, Annie, and I were stretched out on chaises by the pool. Each of us had oversized sunglasses, a big sun hat, and a tall, cold glass of juice on the rocks. But that’s where the similarity ended.

  Annie was wearing a sun hat, shorts, and a T-shirt with flip-flops. Baba matched her own straw hat with turquoise clam-diggers and another multicolored shirt—this time in sea tones. And I had covered as much of my skin as was humanly possible.

  “Turns out, Leslie did have a cleaning lady,” Annie said, as she reached for her drink. “How did you find that out?” I asked.

  “Marilyn and Ethel told me last night. It seems Kelsey has already hired her. She’s going to be at Kelsey’s place this afternoon. And Kelsey’s making noises about buying Leslie’s condo, too.”

  “You mean, once the police are finished with it?”

  “I know, it’s a little ghoulish, right?”

  “Not exactly the behavior you expect from a BFF,” I said. “You think Kelsey suspects some of the money is stashed there? Or the blackmail goodies?”

  “I read it more as her attempt to step into Leslie’s designer pumps, but I could be wrong,” Annie said.

  “Heaven help us if there’s a baby HOA president in the making,” I said.

  “Well, there is good and bad news on that score,” she said. “Dennis and Geoffrey have hired another management company. And they’ve both resigned from the board.”

  “So there’s another election in Oceanside’s future?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Did you know that Dennis minored in electrical engineering?” I asked.

  “Gracie did tell me he changed his major after they started dating. Something about pleasing her father. That, and he hated his old major.”

  “Annie, he’s got the know-how to rig that elevator. So does Geoffrey, by the way. His dad is in the business, and he’s some kind of electrical whiz himself.”

  “You’re afraid we covered up for a murderer?”

  “Kinda, yeah. You hear anything from your friend Logan?”

  “Well, he did call last night,” she said, twirling a lock of hair. “Just wanted to let me know that Ethel was on her way home. With Mrs. Pickles. You know, so we wouldn’t worry.”

  “He didn’t ask about Lucy, did he? Because if Mrs. Pickles is really off the hook, they’re gonna start looking at other dogs.”

  “Of course, he didn’t. And I think they’re dropping the dog angle. Since the bite didn’t happen at the time of death, they think it’s probably incidental to the murder. Right now, they’re trying to crack her computer.”

  Baba reached into her straw bag and pulled out a bottle of the sunblock she’d gotten from Annie. She checked the cap and gave the bottle a good shake.

  “Alex, why don’t you just use the sunblock I gave you?” my sister asked, taking in my mix-and-match combination of hat, multiple scarves and long-sleeved shirt. “It’s good stuff.”

  “Strong,” Baba said, holding up the bottle as she added another coat of the lotion on her arms.

  “I have—it just doesn’t work for me,” I confessed. “I don’t know what the deal is. I’ve been using it since I got here, and all I do is burn and peel.”

  Part of the reason for my cover-up was to hide from the sun. The other part was to hide. I’d seen Muppets with better skin.

  “I didn’t give you that stuff until yesterday,” Annie said. “Did you bring a bottle with you? Because I’ve never seen it outside Miami.”

  “No, I found some in the guest bathroom when I arrived,” I said, pulling the bottle out of my purse. “And I put it on right away. But it just doesn’t help.”

  “Let me see that,” my sister demanded.

  I handed it to her. She looked at the label, then she took off the cap and sniffed it.

  “Alex, this isn’t the bottle I gave you,” she said.

  “No, that one’s still in the gift bag. But this is the same stuff. It was in the linen cabinet in my bathroom.”

  “Alex, this is all my fault,” she said sheepishly. “Welcome to the dark side of modeling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t sunblock. It’s mayonnaise and cooking oil. Probably with a little Tabasco and vodka thrown in.”

  “What? I’ve been rubbing that stuff on my skin since I got here! I look like a boiled lobster.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Annie said. “It’s an old trick in modeling. And a nasty one, to boot. You’re all staying in a house together. And you’re all competing for the same gigs. Or space in the same show or magazine layout. So some of the . . . well, more malicious girls switch a competitor’s shampoo for dish detergent. Or hair conditioner for furniture cream. Or, in your case, sub out sunblock for something that will do pretty much the opposite. Before we arrived, I let this place out to a bunch of girls from another agency. A friend of mine is a director there, and they were in a bind. After they left, I had a service tidy up and change all the linens. But I forgot to go through the cabinets.

  “And this,” she said, holding up the offending bottle, “is definitely not sunblock.”

  CHAPTER 69

  “On the bright side, at least now we know you’re not allergic to the sun,” Trip said, as we rode the elevator down to the fifth floor.

  “No, I’m just allergic to mean models,” I said. “And possibly mayonnaise.”

  “So what’s our best move here?”

  “I’m hoping Kelsey won’t be home. High-powered junior executive that she is. But if I’m wrong, you keep her busy while I excuse myself to use the bathroom and chat with the cleaning lady.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said, as we exited the elevator on the fifth floor.

  “She’s down here,” I said, leading the way. I was still wearing the same jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I’d worn to the pool. But I’d lost the hat and scarves. And added a lot more concealer. At this rate, I figured, my face was more makeup than skin.

  We’d packed a couple of leftover doughnuts into a little gift bag with some wax paper. It wasn’t a co
ndolence dish, but I figured it would at least get us through the door.

  As we approached, I could hear what sounded like a vacuum cleaner inside. I pasted a smile on my face, as Trip rapped on the door.

  The vacuum cleaner quit. Silence.

  Trip knocked again. The smile was beginning to hurt. Or maybe it was the sunburn.

  I saw a shadow behind the peephole. Then the bolts turned, and the door opened slowly.

  A petite middle-aged woman looked up at us. She wore a gray and white uniform dress with heavy stockings and spotless white nurse’s shoes. Her black hair was pulled back into a low, practical bun.

  “Lady not here now,” she said slowly in heavily accented English. Then she looked at the floor.

  Trip held up the gift bag with the doughnuts.

  “We just wanted to drop this off,” I said, pointing. “Can we come in?”

  “The lady is not here now,” she repeated.

  “Should we warn her about the murderer?” I asked Trip. “You know, so she can look out for herself?”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. Then she looked down again.

  I handed her the bag. “Doughnuts. And they’re not for Kelsey, they’re for you. Let’s go inside, I’ll make us some coffee, and we can chat.”

  “I’m Alex Vlodnachek, by the way. And this is Trip Cabot. We’re visiting my sister Annie, upstairs.”

  “Mia,” she said simply.

  “So how come you pretend not to speak English?” I said, once we’d clustered in Kelsey’s kitchen. Unfortunately, her coffeemaker had more buttons and levers on it than Annie’s.

  “Let me do that,” Mia said, with no trace of an accent. “It’s what people expect. It’s what they want. Half the time, they think I’m illegal.”

  “But you’re not, clearly,” I said. She spoke English better than I did.

  “Hell no, my people are from California originally. Family’s been here longer than most of the folks I work for. Look, is there really a murderer running around?”

  “’Fraid so,” I said. “But unless you were helping Leslie McQueen with her blackmail business, I doubt you’re in any danger.”

  “Blackmail? So that was it,” Mia said. “Knew she was into something shady. Just didn’t know what.”

  “What was the tip-off?” Trip asked.

  “She was so secretive. I mean, everyone is, to a certain extent. I understand it’s a little unnerving to have someone come into your house and sift through your stuff, even when it’s a pro you invited. It feels unnatural. Especially for new money. Old money, they’re used to it. But with McQueen? Not a scrap of paper. Password protected everything. Big heavy cabinets with double locks. Lock boxes in strange places. The weird thing is, she was the same way with the other two places. And they weren’t even hers.”

  “What other places?” I asked.

  “She had a couple of other units in this building that she was selling for clients. You know, as an agent. Sometimes, if I finished her place early, she’d have me hightail it down there and give one of them a little TLC. Light dusting, vacuum, shine up the stainless in the kitchen—that sort of thing. Didn’t take fifteen minutes, and she’d throw me some extra cash.”

  “Which units?”

  “Well, there was one on the fourth floor. But she sold that to a young guy. That was just a month or so ago. The other place is on seven. Still for sale, as far as I know. Number 7112. Why?”

  “I have a friend who’s looking for a place,” I said. True enough. But I doubted Harkins and Daisy would relish high-rise condo life. No garden.

  “So how did you meet Leslie McQueen?” Trip asked.

  “My main gig. The woman there inherited a second home when some local relative died. Needed to sell it. So she called McQueen. One day, I’m there cleaning the kitchen and she passes me a note. In Spanish. With a fifty. Do I take side jobs and would I be interested in cleaning her place once a week?”

  “I didn’t know Leslie spoke Spanish,” I said. Even dead, the woman was full of surprises.

  “She didn’t,” Mia said, grinning. “Used some online translation thing. The note was a mess. But I got the gist. And the job. She paid good money, I’ll give her that. Her little friend here? Not so much. First thing she tried to do was cut my fee. Not doing that.”

  “So why tell them you’re illegal?” Trip asked.

  “I never actually tell them anything,” Mia said. “But when I got my first cleaning job, I sussed out it was what the woman wanted, so I just didn’t correct her. When people hire a maid, they want a clean house, but they don’t want anyone who’s going to learn their secrets or gossip about them. At least, not to people they know. They’d hire a deaf-mute, if they could find one. I’m the next best thing. So, you know, give the people what they want.”

  “Do you have a lot of clients?” I asked. I was thinking my sister might need a new cleaning service. Or at least someone to clear out that linen closet.

  “My main gig’s a big house off Collins Avenue. She’s nice. And I’ve been doing that one for over fifteen years. I just pick up a few extra jobs for spending money.”

  “Seems to be a hard way to make a living,” I said, as she set up three cups and pulled out a plate for the doughnuts. “Why do you do it? Just between us.”

  “When I started this, I was a divorced single mom with two very bright little girls. And Collins Avenue? Great school system.”

  “So you could work and send your kids to a good school?”

  Mia nodded. “Every morning, I’d get there before sunrise, and see them to the school bus. And every afternoon, they’d get off the bus and hang out with me until it was time to go home. They’d play in the yard or do their homework in one of the unused rooms. And there are a lot of unused rooms. Plus, when people don’t think you speak English, they don’t hesitate to talk business in front of you. And they don’t mind if you dust their desk and happen to see their mail—especially those investment account statements.”

  “How does that help?” I asked.

  “I see what does well and put my money there. Plus, her nibs is on the front end of every fashion trend that comes down the pike. She gives me and the kids the leftovers and the rest goes to charity. I’ve got the two best-dressed scholars on the East Coast and a collection of Prada bags I could retire on.”

  “We won’t say a word,” Trip promised.

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re in college now. University of Maryland and Columbia. God help me, they both want to be journalists.”

  CHAPTER 70

  “Let me guess, our next stop is the seventh floor?” Trip asked, as he pushed the elevator button.

  “No, we’re having dinner with the fam, then you’re going back to your hotel.”

  “Used and dumped. The story of my life. But at least you’re buying me dinner first. Just for the record, why am I being excluded?”

  “You have a real job to worry about. I got myself into this mess, and I’m going to get myself out.”

  “No offense, Red, but you can use all the help you can get. And I’m not just talking sunscreen.”

  I shook my head. “If I get caught, I might be able to talk my way out of it. I’m a freelancer—no one cares. But you’re an editor at a major metro daily. It’ll be a scandal. We can’t risk it. Besides, if I go down in flames, I’m gonna need someplace to live. And Nick’s already developed a taste for life in Georgetown.”

  “Did he really say that?” Trip sounded genuinely touched.

  “Loved the townhouse. Hated the commute.”

  “Oddly, I’m planning a tattoo using that exact phrase. You think the cops have been into the unit on seven yet?”

  “That depends on how many people know about it. I’m guessing not many.”

  “OK, but if you see crime scene tape . . .”

  “We give up and come home. Yes, Mom.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, I met up with Gabby on the seventh floor.

  “You got the glov
es, sugar?” she drawled.

  “Yup,” I said, pulling them out of my purse. “Have you got the silver thingamabobbies?”

  “You know it.”

  I closed the door behind us and turned the privacy lock. The living room was empty. Just a wide expanse of windows and gleaming espresso hardwood floors. I couldn’t tell if the owner had moved out or if the place had never been occupied.

  “It sure is clean,” Gabby said with admiration.

  “Leslie was repping it. And I’m hoping she might have been keeping a few things here, too.”

  “You think it’s bugged?” she asked, mouthing the last word.

  “Hope not,” I whispered. “But maybe we get in and out quick, just to be on the safe side.”

  I walked into the kitchen. Not so much as a coffeemaker. I opened the refrigerator and freezer. Nothing.

  I pulled open the cabinet drawers. I found some extra lightbulbs. And a roll of painter’s tape.

  In a lower cabinet, there was also a partially used can of paint.

  “Find anything?” I called.

  Gabby popped into the kitchen. “There’s a queen-size bed in the master bedroom. Sheets, frilly little duvet and everything. And there’s a big flat-screen on a little cabinet, with a little DVD player. But no DVDs. You think she used this for a crash pad? Or a love nest?”

  “Or it could just be an attempt at staging. You know, to show you how big the room is.”

  “Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s the only furniture in the whole place.”

  “Let’s check the bathrooms,” I said. “I’ll take this one, you take the other one. Maybe there’s something in there that might help.”

  Two minutes later, we met in the hallway.

  “I didn’t find a thing,” I whispered.

  “Me either.”

  I looked at the bed again. For some reason, it reminded me of Lucy. Then it dawned on me: the eyelet fabric of the coverlet resembled the dressy little collar she’d worn as the ring bearer at Daisy and Harkins’s wedding. And her collar had had a little hidden pocket to conceal the rings.

  I grabbed the coverlet, yanked it off the bed and started crawling around on it—running my hands over the outside seams. Then I worked my way toward the center, searching for anything inside the fabric. At one point, I looked up, and Gabby was staring at me gape-mouthed.