Cardiac Arrest, page 15
“What a striking necklace,” Dorothy said.
“Thank you,” Marilyn said, lightly touching the diamond. One of the facets caught the light from the chandelier, momentarily dazzling Dorothy. “Tony gave this to me last Christmas.” Her expression clouded. “Mia got a tiara from Vandemere and Company. As if she isn’t enough of a princess.”
Marilyn’s jealousy and resentment, it seemed, knew no bounds. “Any more news on the investigation?” Dorothy asked, eager to change the subject.
“I haven’t heard from Detective Donovan since that night at the Pewter Spoon,” Marilyn said. “He sent someone the next day to pick up that awful note. But it’s just as well he hasn’t been bothering me, because I’ve been so busy with all the arrangements.”
Dorothy raised her eyebrows. “For the funeral?”
“Mia wasn’t interested, apparently, and no one in Tony’s family speaks English, so everything fell to me.” Marilyn took a sip of wine. “I’m quite used to handling his affairs, of course.”
But Dr. A’s so-called brother did speak English, Dorothy wanted to say. Who could forget his awkward explanation for Signora Amoretto’s outburst in the receiving line? And as for those other faux family members, did Marilyn really believe they were her late lover’s parents? Or was she in on this whole odd situation?
“Are the Amorettos here this evening?” she asked Marilyn. “I don’t believe I’ve seen them.”
Dr. A’s assistant looked uncomfortable. “They weren’t invited,” she said. “I told Mia that she should include them, but she refused. Tony’s family never even met her when he was alive, in fact.”
Dorothy folded her cocktail napkin neatly to trap the sandwich crumbs. “Well, that can be a blessing with in-laws, sometimes,” she said, lightly. “Dr. A’s family lived in Italy, then?”
“Yes,” Marilyn answered, with a touch of hesitation. “A friend of Tony’s contacted them after...what happened. Tony didn’t mention them often, but he did confide in me once that he wasn’t sure they’d approve of his fiancée.”
“And why was that?”
“Because she wasn’t Italian,” Marilyn said, in a low voice.
“Mia’s name is Italian.” Dorothy smiled. “That might have counted for something.”
“Maybe,” Marilyn said. “But she didn’t care, anyway. She only put in a brief appearance tonight at the funeral home. As far as I know, she didn’t bother to introduce herself to the family, even to offer condolences.”
“Perhaps she needed to get home to supervise the set up for the memorial,” Dorothy said. From what she’d seen so far, however, Tatiana Fontaine and her Bluetoothed associates had everything well under control. “Marilyn, that friend of Tony’s who contacted the Amorettos, do you know his name?”
“No. It could have been a woman, for all I know. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I thought I’d send a condolence card,” Dorothy answered. Surely Marilyn knew who had been close enough to her employer/lover to give his family such bad news. And she was obviously acquainted with Eduardo. “Did you ever hear Dr. A mention someone named Vince Russo?”
“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.” Marilyn swirled her wine. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with the florist over there.” She nodded toward a woman in a green apron who was unobtrusively freshening up a huge basket of lilies with a spray mister. “She’s doing the floral arrangements for the funeral, too.”
“Of course,” Dorothy said, disappointed that she hadn’t been able to extract more information from Dr. A’s assistant.
She worked her way through the crowd toward one of the buffet tables, where white-coated chefs sliced turkey, roast beef and ham. Everything smelled heavenly.
Where was Eduardo? she wondered, frowning. He had to be around somewhere, if he was in charge of the catering.
“Hey, Dorothy,” Summer said breathlessly, coming up with an empty tray. “I have to help pass out champagne, so I only have a sec, but Detective Donovan’s over near the bread station.”
“Perfect,” Dorothy said. “I’d like to have a few words with him.”
“Better you than me. I’m not going near him.”
“What’s the story on Eduardo?” Dorothy said.
“Well, I’m kind of avoiding him, too,” Summer said. “He’s in a really bad mood, chewing people out all over the place, so I’m trying not to get fired.”
“Did you have a chance to check on the Internet for Vince Russo’s parents?” Dorothy asked. “Sofia and Jimmy?”
“Just really quickly,” Summer said. “I was at the pool when you called, and then I had to get here early. Sorry, I didn’t find anything. Maybe they were illegal immigrants.”
Dorothy sighed. “Oh dear.”
“I did check Dr. A’s website again, though,” Summer added. “His bio says he went to med school in the Caribbean somewhere.”
“That’s not very helpful, either, I’m afraid,” Dorothy said.
“But guess what?” Summer tucked her tray under one arm, with a grin. “There’s a death cake in the dessert room. Mia’s going to cut it later.”
“A death cake?” Dorothy said, appalled. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, it was supposed to be Mia and Dr. A’s wedding cake,” Summer replied. “You know, white with white frosting? So they changed it to all chocolate.”
“Goodness,” Dorothy murmured.
“Maybe they should put those cute little sugar skulls on them, and gummy worms,” Summer said. “Oops, gotta go—there’s Eduardo over by the ice sculptures. He’s giving me the evil eye.”
Dorothy nodded, and made her way toward the bread station first. It looked as if Detective Donovan had a fondness for focaccia and bread sticks, which he’d loaded on his plate alongside equally hearty helpings of mozzarella, cherry tomatoes and olive oil.
“Good evening, Detective,” she greeted him, assembling a similar, though considerably smaller, plate for herself. She couldn’t help noticing again how handsome he was, in a buttoned-down sort of way. “It looks as if you got a bit of sun today.”
“Hello, Mrs. Westin,” he said. “Yes, I was out on Captiva.”
“How lovely,” Dorothy said. Did detectives have days off in the middle of an important investigation? She’d never really thought about that.
Maybe he was extremely confident that he could solve Dr. A’s case without undue hurry. Or perhaps he’d simply needed to escape the stress of his job. He certainly looked very relaxed right now. She might be able to knock him off guard by with a bit of chitchat. “Do you have a boat?”
“A skiff. Snook season just opened, so I try to grab time on the water whenever I can. I headed out last night before the sun was up.”
So that’s why he’d been down near the beach last night. Dorothy looked at her plate. Harlan had loved to fish, too. Nothing, not even possible murder, could have dragged him away from his rods and lures.
“I hope you won’t find this presumptuous, Detective, and it may not be the most appropriate time, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Detective Donovan sighed. “I hope I’ll be able to answer them. We have a very competent team working the case, but I can’t say we’ve made a lot of progress so far. I did send someone down to Martin’s Auto Body to take a look at your friend’s car door, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“Oh, no,” Dorothy said. “I figured you’d have everything under control. However, Summer and I may have uncovered some information that might prove helpful to you.”
The detective twirled a breadstick in oil. “Ah yes. I ran into Ms. Smythe-Sloan and her boyfriend last night. Or this morning, I guess I should say.”
“Summer and Mr. Hamel are not romantically involved, Detective.” Was it her imagination, or did he look a tiny bit relieved? No wedding ring, she noticed. “Not that it matters,” she added, quickly.
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “We’re still waiting on one or two more reports from the lab, but so far the results haven’t given us much of interest on that shake. Just the ingredients Ms. Marshack and Ms. Smythe-Sloan mentioned earlier, plus considerable amounts of caffeine and ephedra, which can prove harmful to persons with cardiac histories.”
“Did Dr. Amoretto have issues with his heart, then?” Dorothy asked. How very ironic.
The detective shook his head. “Not until he died. The medical examiner didn’t find any evidence of earlier damage during the autopsy.”
“So other than the caffeine and ephedra, there weren’t any drugs in the shake?” Dorothy trailed him back to the bread table. “No poisons, either?”
“Not that the ME could determine,” Detective Donovan said. “I told you, we don’t have all the results yet, so we’re not making this public. The ingredients were a little strange, if you ask me. Asparagus, wheatgrass, peppermint oil, concentrated fruit extracts. All common, organic items.”
“Oh.” Dorothy stopped in her tracks. “So perhaps Dr. A wasn’t murdered after all?”
“It’s entirely possible that he died of natural causes.” The detective started on the focaccia, and Dorothy wondered briefly whether his hearty appetite might very well match Summer’s. “Ms. Smythe-Sloan mentioned that he seemed to have difficulty breathing before he collapsed. That in itself might have brought on cardiac arrest.”
“I see,” Dorothy said.
“The autopsy also determined that the cause of death was most likely a closed airway, not brought on by choking,” Detective Donovan went on. “That indicates he could have suffered an allergic reaction of some kind. But Ms. Marshack claims she and Dr. Amoretto created the drink recipe themselves.”
“So someone could have added another ingredient,” Dorothy mused aloud, before she caught herself.
“Exactly. Which leads us directly back to—”
Marilyn. Possibly Mia. And... Summer, of course. Oh dear. Dorothy stood up straighter. “Detective, were you aware that Dr. Amoretto had been living under an assumed identity?”
He carefully brushed a bread crumb from his blazer. “Is that so?”
Dorothy hesitated. It didn’t sound as if he’d known about this possible angle. “We believe his real name was Vince Russo. He was from Brooklyn and a lifetime friend of the maître d’ at Chameleon, Eduardo Silva.”
Detective Donovan looked more alert. “Interesting.”
“It’s possible they may have had some kind of business relationship. Or even a romantic one. Mr. Silva is here tonight, in fact.”
The detective placed his empty plate on a tray stand behind him. “Where is this Mr. Silva now?”
Dorothy looked around. “Well, I’m not sure. He’s in charge of the catering tonight.”
“Thank you, I’ll take things from here.” Detective Donovan smiled, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Westin.”
“Of course.” Dorothy watched as he strode away, scanning the crowd. He didn’t look relaxed anymore. He looked like a man on a mission.
She put down her untouched bread plate. At least the toxicology reports hadn’t pointed directly to Summer—or Marilyn, either, for that matter. And the detective did seem eager to talk to Eduardo. Perhaps he was holding more cards than he was ready to put down on the table.
“May I interest you in a citrus tart, Mrs. Westin?”
A red-haired waiter with sixties-style glasses held out a tray of delectable goodies.
“Oh, my, what’s in these?” Dorothy eyed the flaky little pastries with the creamy yellow filling.
“Lemon, orange and pineapple, I think,” the waiter said. “With a peach glaze. They’ve been very popular. You should try one.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Dorothy perused the tray and delicately lifted a tart that looked especially juicy. “I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Summer backed away from the table with her dripping tray. Just her luck that the champagne glasses were real crystal. If that stupid drunk guy hadn’t bumped into her like that, she could have transferred all the glasses safely onto the table without them crashing to the floor.
“You, miss!” Eduardo appeared out of nowhere, waving his long arms like a broken-winged bat. “How could you have allowed this to happen? Are you really that clumsy?”
“I...um...” Summer was burningly conscious of the gathering crowd in the champagne room. Some guests stared at the scene in horror. Others checked themselves and whatever they were holding for miniature shards of crystal.
Drunk Guy had disappeared, of course. But Summer did see Detective Donovan frowning from the far end of the table. Not at her, but at Eduardo, she was pretty sure. But the idea that he was here at all was mortifying. Why did he always see her at her worst? It had been less than twenty-four hours since the beach road fiasco.
Fabulous. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just awesome.
Eduardo snapped his fingers, and three bus boys came running like greyhounds after a mechanical rabbit. “Get this mess cleaned up,” he told them. “Immediately.”
“I’m really, really sorry,” Summer said. “This jerk bumped into me and—”
“Get out.” Eduardo’s long face twitched. “Just get out.”
“Oh. Sure.” Summer stepped back to get out of the way of the busboys with their mops and dust pans.
“Okay, folks, let’s move along. Broken glass on the floor. Watch your step,” Detective Donovan said, from the doorway.
Summer cringed even more. It was like a déjà vu from the wake. Most of the guests turned discreetly away, except for Gladys Rumway. She was eagerly watching Summer’s humiliation with the focus of a line ref at a tennis match. Mary Lee, looking nervous as always, tried to coax her friend away, but Gladys was transfixed.
“Okay, so where do you want me to go next, then?” Summer asked Eduardo. “How about the dessert room?”
The catering director pulled his skinny self up even taller, sniffing like a put-upon hotel manager from one of those British TV shows that were supposed to be funny. “Miss, I want you to leave the premises. As in, now.”
“What?” She couldn’t possibly have heard him right. “You’re not actually firing me, are you?”
“Yes, I believe I am.” Eduardo strode toward the staff-only staging area set up behind a gold velvet curtain.
“Hey, wait, what about my pay?” Summer beelined after him. “You owe me. I got here, like, six hours ago to help set up.”
“Pay?” Eduardo whirled on his heels. “You must be joking. Your earnings this evening wouldn’t even begin to pay for all that shattered Waterford crystal.”
“I’m sure Mia Rivera-Jones can afford a few extra glasses.” Summer threw off her apron. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t give that stuffed penguin with the ice up his butt the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Pushing past Eduardo, she grabbed her bag from the staging area and rushed blindly down a side hall.
It was so unfair she’d lost this gig. She needed all the cash she could get right now. And she’d told Joy she was going to rake in some bucks tonight.
Just as she was about to crash through the French doors that opened into a huge, tree-filled atrium, Summer spotted a bathroom on the left and took a detour.
This particular powder room looked as if it belonged in some superexclusive club. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany doors with gold handles ensured privacy for the stalls and enormous, gold-framed mirrors hung above the black marble sinks. Candles glowed in the lounge area and every imaginable guest amenity was displayed in an antique French hutch.
Nice. Summer reached for a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and enveloped herself with mist from the black-tasseled atomizer. Soooo much better.
The powder room door flew open and she quickly ducked behind the Laura Ashley drapes. Someone was in an even bigger hurry than she’d been, and sounded just as upset.
Summer peeked around the drape. The woman, whoever she was, ran straight to one of the sinks with her hands over her face and turned on the water full blast. Then she started bawling.
What do I do now? Summer asked herself. She was pretty much trapped in the lounge. If the person saw her, it would totally look as if she’d been spying or something.
The woman, her dark, silky hair pulled into a high ponytail and her red satin dress clinging to her supertanned, slim frame, sobbed even harder. Suddenly, she turned, grabbed a huge bouquet of lilies and snapdragons arranged in a pricey-looking vase, and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into almost as many pieces as a tray full of broken Waterford champagne glasses.
Impressive. Obviously, this chick wasn’t overly worried about having her pay docked—or facing the wrath of Mia Rivera-Jones.
Maybe that was because she was Mia Rivera-Jones. There was no mistaking that angular but gorgeous face in the mirror. Summer retreated behind the drape again, on the double. Things just kept getting better and better tonight.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Mia gave one of the vase pieces a kick with the toe of her pointy Jimmy Choo. “You lying, cheating, stinking, toad-faced piece of freaking slime!”
Tony Amoretto? Eduardo? Summer wondered, as the grieving fiancée started with the waterworks all over again. The girl was mad, not sad. Summer could definitely relate. Not that anyone who’d cheated on her had actually died, as far as she knew. But still...
“Mia?” She stepped out from the lounge area.
The heiress froze, mid-sob. “Do I know you?” Her voice came out in a hiccup.
A miracle, Summer told herself. The girl didn’t recognize her. Sometimes people like Mia Rivera-Jones didn’t notice much beyond their own perfect nose jobs.
