Cardiac Arrest, page 12
Ernie put down his coffee. “Dot, you can’t possibly be thinking of going to see some guy you don’t know. And at his house?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t even tell you A.J.’s last name,” Dash said. “He likes to be mysterious. From things he’s said, though, I’ve gathered that he moves around a lot.”
“My apologies, everyone.” Marilyn reappeared at the table, looking slightly flushed. “That call took a bit longer than I expected.”
I bet, Summer thought. Maybe she was having another fight with Eduardo, the guy she claimed she didn’t know but punched out anyway.
“Did you want coffee or anything, Marilyn?” Ernie asked her.
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said. “Even decaf keeps me up at night. It looks as if you’re all about ready to leave, anyway.”
While the men settled the bill and the other ladies stopped by the powder room, Summer waited alone in the darkening Pewter Spoon parking lot. She never understood why it took so long for people to get moving. Especially the ones who were being fake-polite. They really overdid things.
“Are you sure I can’t drop you home?” Marilyn asked Dorothy and Ernie, as they came up with Dash.
“That’s very kind, Marilyn, but Hibiscus Pointe is out of the way for you,” Dorothy said. “Dash and Summer have their car, so things will work out swimmingly.”
“Well, all right, if you’re sure.” Marilyn stopped beside her gray Saab and pulled her keys from her purse. A gold monogram “M,” a tiny flashlight and a bunch of other attachments—including a small can of mace—dangled from the ring.
She sure was well prepared, Summer told herself. Eduardo got off lucky.
“How odd.” Marilyn frowned. “There’s something stuck under my windshield wipers.”
“Probably an advertising flyer,” Dash said.
“Or maybe someone dinged your car and left you a note,” Summer said. The others turned to look at her. “Hey, at least then you’d have their number. That’s a good thing, right?”
Marilyn unfolded the Pewter Spoon napkin. In the beam of her little key flashlight, her face was equally white.
“What does it say?” Dorothy asked. “Marilyn?”
Summer squinted over her shoulder to read the blurry capital letters printed in black marker:
YOU’RE NEXT.
Chapter Seventeen
“What a night.” Dorothy dropped her purse on the kitchen counter. “Can I get you anything, dear?”
“No, thanks. I’m full.”
Dorothy hid her surprise. Ever since she’d met Summer, the girl had been a bottomless pit. “I’ll put Mr. Bitey in the powder room,” she said, then frowned. “Where is that cat?”
“Oh, he’s okay,” Summer said, from Dorothy’s favorite chair. She was carefully petting a wary Mr. Bitey on her lap. “We’re getting to be friends. Sort of.”
“What about your allergies?” Dorothy asked.
Summer shrugged. “We’re working things out, see? Hey!” She jerked her hand away as Mr. Bitey jumped to the floor and skittered away. “He tried to nip me, the furry little dog bait.”
“You’ll warm up to each other soon, I’m sure,” Dorothy said, taking a spot on the couch. She was glad that Summer had offered to see her back to her condo. After such an eventful evening—from the wake to Ernie’s car and the note on Marilyn’s windshield—she had to admit she still felt a bit spooked.
She’d insisted that Marilyn call the Milano PD from the Pewter Spoon parking lot—not that the distraught woman had needed much persuasion.
Unfortunately, Detective Donovan wasn’t in, and they’d had to leave a message with Gladys’s cousin Merle. That made Dorothy even more nervous.
“So what do you think the deal is with those creepy messages?” Summer said. “Two in one night. I bet Marilyn wrecked Ernie’s car and wrote herself that note.”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Dorothy sighed. “I have to say, I would never have believed she could be capable of causing harm to anyone or anything. But after witnessing her odd behavior of late...”
“Odd?” Summer snorted. “I keep telling you, she’s a total psycho.”
Marilyn certainly did have a penchant for drama, Dorothy had to agree. Her rudeness and histrionics on the morning of Dr. A’s murder, the unsettling behavior during her and Ernie’s visit, and of course the matter of slugging her employer’s friend at the dearly beloved’s wake was...well, quite insane.
Something else bothered Dorothy, too, but it seemed much too silly to bring up. Both Ernie and the tow truck driver had concurred with her that those tires had been destroyed by a sharp, bladelike object—and she couldn’t help thinking of Marilyn’s seeming obsession with knives. Dorothy put that disturbing thought straight out of her mind.
Summer kicked off the stilettos that had sent Signora Amoretto into such a tizzy. “I was thinking on the way home that Eduardo could have demoed Ernie’s car, too. Then he could have followed you guys from the funeral home to the restaurant and left the note on Marilyn’s windshield.”
“Well, it was written on a Pewter Spoon napkin,” Dorothy said, slowly. “That meant he would have had to have gone into the restaurant to pick one up. Maybe we could check with the hostess to see if she saw a man fitting his description.”
“The hostess?” Summer said. “Okay, but maybe you should ask her. She and I don’t get along that well.”
“I’ll give the restaurant a call right now.” Dorothy headed toward the phone and the thick Milano directory on the counter.
“Here, all you have to do is press Send,” Summer said, holding up her cell phone.
“Why don’t you just read it to me?” Dorothy said, from the kitchen. She truly did dislike cell phones in general, but especially the popular ones like Summer’s that allowed users to dial directly on the screen.
“Hello, may I speak to the hostess, please?” she asked, when someone came on the line.
“This is Carly,” a young woman said, in a flat, bored voice. “I’m the hostess.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Dorothy gave Summer the “okay” sign. “I’m wondering whether you might be able to help me?”
“We have a forty-five minute wait right now,” Carly said. “Hold, please.”
Dorothy sighed. “Hello Carly,” she said, speaking more quickly when the line clicked again. “I’m afraid a member of our party was confused about our reservation time this evening and—”
“Uh, Carly left for the night,” a nasally voice mumbled. “This is Martin.”
“Oh,” Dorothy said, disappointed. She was fairly certain that Martin had been their minuteman waiter. “Did you happen to notice a tall, dark-complexioned man with slicked-back hair who came into the restaurant around seven p.m.? He was looking for our party, I believe, but he didn’t see us and left.”
“Sorry,” Martin said. “A lot of guys who come in here look like that. You can check with Carly when she gets back on Tuesday.”
“Thank you, young man.” Dorothy hung up. “Well, that wasn’t terribly helpful.”
“No worries,” Summer said. “Maybe I’ll find out more about Eduardo when Dash and I hit Aqua Marine tonight.”
“Oh, Dash will be able to make it, then?” Dorothy said.
“Yep. He just texted me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Dorothy said. “I really didn’t think you should go to that nightclub on your own.”
“I go places by myself all the time.” Summer shrugged. “I always watch my back.”
Dorothy certainly hoped so. Whoever had keyed the warning into Ernie’s car door had no doubt intended the message for both of them.
She drummed her fingers on the counter, thinking. Who else, other than Eduardo or Marilyn, might have done such a thing?
Dorothy stopped drumming. “Do you think there’s any chance Gladys Rumway might have been behind those messages?”
Summer nearly fell out of her chair, she sat up so fast. “Yes! Dorothy, you’re brilliant!”
“Well, I don’t know as I’d go that far,” Dorothy said. “It’s hard to imagine Gladys harming anyone, but she does seem to have had the opportunities to wreak havoc.”
“I wouldn’t put it past that muumuu-ed moose,” Summer said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” She began to tick off on her fingers. “First, Gladys got to the Pewter Spoon ahead of us. That means she could have done the job on Ernie’s car on her way out of the wake. Second, she left the restaurant before we did, so she also could have left the message for Marilyn. And third, she’s just a real—”
“Troublemaker,” Dorothy finished. “But surely she wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to scare us off the case. Why would she do that? She clearly has the utmost confidence in her own detective abilities.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want any competition,” Summer said. “So she can solve the case herself and everyone at Hibiscus Pointe will think she’s a pro detective.”
“True,” Dorothy said. “But Marilyn’s note said, ‘You’re next,’ which implies that it was written by the murderer. And we know that Gladys couldn’t have killed Dr. A.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Summer said. “She’s definitely evil.”
Dorothy smiled at an image of Gladys with horns growing from her head, dressed in a red unitard. “Let’s not get carried away, dear,” she said. “Gladys had no motive. And she wasn’t in Dr. A’s office that morning.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The poison could have taken a while to work, remember?” Summer put an arm across her face to protect herself as Mr. Bitey suddenly leaped into her lap again. “We should go back and check out Dr. A’s office ourselves. Like, at night or something.”
“Out of the question,” Dorothy said. “I’m sure there’s a more than adequate security system in that building. And the police have already done a very thorough investigation of the crime scene.”
Summer didn’t seem convinced. “But maybe we could find something they missed.”
“I highly doubt it,” Dorothy told her. “Speaking of the police, though, I’m hoping we might hear something from Detective Donovan. Marilyn called him from the restaurant almost two hours ago. Perhaps Merle didn’t give him our message. Do you suppose, if Gladys is at all mixed up in this, that her cousin might be protecting her?”
“Donovan probably called Marilyn instead,” Summer pointed out. “She’s the one who actually called, right? Or hey, maybe he doesn’t consider two threatening incidents in one night a big priority.”
She sounded rather hurt, Dorothy noticed. “Well, I hope Marilyn saved that napkin, at least. Perhaps he can have the handwriting analyzed.”
Something warm and furry brushed against her legs. Mr. Bitey had deserted Summer and was now winding around Dorothy’s ankles. Oh dear. In all the excitement, she had somehow forgotten to feed him.
“If it’s still readable, you mean,” Summer said. “Marilyn crumpled it up and stuffed it in her purse. The letters were pretty smudged and shaky to begin with.”
Dorothy headed toward the utility closet, where she kept Mr. Bitey’s bag of dry food in a plastic container to avoid the endless parade of sugar ants. When she set down his dinner on the speckled linoleum, he immediately pounced from his usual waiting spot beside the refrigerator.
“It’s too bad the note writer used marker, because that makes it difficult to know how hard the person pressed down.” Dorothy tsked in frustration. “That might have helped us to figure out whether the person was male or female.”
“You saw that on Citizen’s Arrest, didn’t you?” Summer said. “I bet Gladys would have pressed down pretty hard.”
Dorothy smiled. “You may have a point there, dear.”
“There’s no way to tell anything from the writing on Ernie’s car, either,” Summer went on. “The person probably scratched them in really fast, and key writing doesn’t look the same as handwriting, anyway.” She sighed. “Too bad you guys had to park so far away, or there might have been security cameras.”
Her phone buzzed loudly.
“Detective Donovan?” Dorothy asked, hopefully.
“Nope. Joy. She probably has another dumb job lead for me. She just can’t give it a rest.”
“Did you tell her what happened with Dr. A?” Dorothy asked.
“Yeah, she was kind of upset,” Summer said. “But she did pay the whole rent this month.”
Dorothy returned to the couch. “I always wished I’d had a sister. I was an only child, sadly.”
“Ha, you were soooo lucky,” Summer said. “Do you have any kids? Grandkids?”
Dorothy hesitated. Even after so much time, it was painful to talk about Maddie. “A daughter,” she said, finally.
“Is this her?” Summer held up a framed photo of Maddie standing in front of a plane, camera in hand and her long, red hair blowing in the wind. “She’s really pretty. Wow, is she a storm chaser or something?”
Dorothy cleared her throat. “She was. More of a photographer, really.”
“Oh.” Summer quickly returned the picture to the side table. “You mean, she, um, died?” Her voice came out in a whisper.
“Yes,” Dorothy said, flatly. “She did. If you don’t mind, dear, I’d rather not talk about it. Maybe some other time.”
“I’m really, really sorry.” Summer bit her lip.
“Please don’t be,” Dorothy said, with a small smile. “I promise you, Maddie wouldn’t want either of us to feel badly.” She glanced through the kitchen at the rooster clock. “Oh my, it’s ten o’clock already. You should hurry on home so you can get ready to meet Dash.”
“I guess so.” Summer disentangled herself from the chair and retrieved her questionable funeral shoes from the floor. “No rush.”
“Will you call to let me know when you get to your condo?” she asked. “Maybe we should have Security escort you.”
“No worries, I’ll be fine.” Summer’s hand was already on the doorknob.
“Well, all right, if you’re sure,” Dorothy said. “And Summer?”
Her partner stuck her blond head back inside. “Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
Chapter Eighteen
Summer cruised slowly down Ninth Street, craning her neck to look for a parking spot. “Glad we took the Mini,” she told Dash, who grimaced in the cramped passenger seat. “Downtown is even more packed than usual tonight.”
“It’s the Milano Sea Grape Wine Festival this week,” he replied. “There’s some kind of surfing competition going on, too. The Gulf Coast version,” he added, after Summer threw him an amused look. “Not exactly Hawaii or Southern California, I imagine.”
Summer swerved into a tight spot between a motorcycle and a Prius with New York plates. “That’s the place up there, right, with the sidewalk all lit up in blue?”
“That color would be aquamarine,” Dash corrected. “Remember, you’re in Milano now. You have to upsell things.”
“Got it,” Summer said, as he jogged around the front of the car to open her door. He looked even more gorgeous tonight, in a well-fitted European sport coat and freshly shined Italian loafers. His wavy hair was slightly on the long side, making him look extra boyish.
Maybe he had a brother.
The two of them got admiring glances from both men and women as they headed toward the club. Hopefully, her short yellow tube dress and strappy stiletto sandals weren’t too casual.
“Nice night, huh?” Dash said.
Summer nodded, taking a few deep breaths of salt-tinged air. The palm trees lining the sidewalk were wound from trunk to top with festive twinkle lights, reminding her a little of home. The huge, full moon above the skyline was the clincher. A total waste of romance.
Dash guided her straight to the front of the velvet-roped line. “Hamel and guest,” he told the doorman in the open-necked, blue silk shirt. “We’re on the list.”
The doorman glanced at his clipboard, then at Summer, and unclipped the rope, talking to someone on his Bluetooth as he ignored the protests of the tourists still in line. “Have a good evening.”
“Were we really on the list?” Summer asked, as they walked down a blue-lit floor and stepped through a set of blue-green satin curtains.
“Oh, absolutely,” Dash said, with a wink. “Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman.”
Summer felt herself blush in the darkness. Why couldn’t any of the other guys she met—say, Detective Donovan, maybe—say nice things like that and mean them?
But tonight was strictly business, anyway. There would be plenty of other clubbing opportunities. Right now, they needed to get the scoop on Eduardo.
“How are we going to find A.J., with all these people?” Summer asked Dash over the pounding music, as they headed past a tri-level dance floor. Blue lasers crossed over their heads like crazy heat lightning.
He nodded toward the central revolving bar and reached for her hand. “Just stay with me, okay?”
The bartender looked up as they approached. “Dash, man,” he said, over the throbbing techno beat. “Long time no see. Who’s the Swedish supermodel? “
“Hey, Ramon,” Dash said. “This is my pal, Summer. We’re looking for A.J. Is he around?”
“Upstairs, in his office.” Ramon jerked his thumb toward a glass-sided elevator designed to look like a huge, princess-cut diamond set in flashing blue prongs. Summer felt dizzy just looking at it. She hated heights.
“Is there, um, any other way upstairs?” she asked Dash, as they waited with two other couples and a gaggle of drunk bachelorettes for the elevator to descend.
“Not unless you want to navigate a couple of catwalks in your fabulously impractical footwear.”
