Cardiac Arrest, page 19
Dorothy took her arm, as they headed to the Mini. “Marilyn wasn’t terribly helpful,” she said. “I was afraid that would be the case, but we had to try. I wonder what that project was that Eduardo wanted Mia’s father to finance?”
“One way to find out.” Summer tucked the flower behind her ear. “Next stop, Chameleon.”
* * *
A few smatterings of well-heeled patrons were beating the late afternoon heat with happy-hour cocktails at Chameleon’s small but festive bar. Dorothy wished she hadn’t already had that glass of unusually dry wine at Marilyn’s house.
Summer’s friend Esmé, a pub towel slung over the shoulder of her lime-green polo shirt, was working the bar. “Hi guys,” she greeted them. “Have a seat.”
Dorothy was about to tell her they weren’t planning to stay, but Summer immediately parked herself on a wicker barstool. “How about a pineapple daiquiri? With extra orange slices. Oh, and can you put one of those cute little plastic shark stirrers in it?”
Esmé raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Make that two, please,” Dorothy put in, easing herself carefully onto the rather high stool next to Summer. She might as well live a little. She was going to miss dinner at Hibiscus Pointe, anyway.
Cookies, wine and daiquiris would probably not have made Dr. A’s list of approved food and beverage choices for his cardiology patients. Of course, look where that health shake of his had gotten him, Dorothy reminded herself.
“It’s not that busy today,” Summer noted, as Esmé placed two icy drinks in front of them, piled high with fruit.
Her friend shrugged. “We don’t really cater to the after-work crowd,” she said. “More like, the after-shopping crowd. Everyone’s headed back by now to do themselves up for dinner. They’ll be back around eight-thirty or nine.”
“Goodness, I could never eat that late.” Dorothy sipped her daiquiri through the looping, see-through purple straw. Delicious.
“Hey, you got a monkey,” Summer said.
“Excuse me?” Dorothy said.
Summer pointed to the miniature orange plastic monkey that was nearly submerged under the chunks of pineapple, orange, coconut, and several cherries. “Cute. My shark is way cooler, though.”
Dorothy smiled, and rescued the monkey by its curvy tail. “I’m not so sure about that.” She set the monkey carefully on her coaster.
Esmé rolled her eyes. “I wish all my customers were this easy.”
“Hey, Esmé, is Eduardo here?” Summer asked.
“Nope,” she answered, as she restocked bottles of Patrón and vanilla vodka on the shelf behind her. “Thank the Lord. Why would you want to see him, anyway? I thought he fired you last night.”
“I actually wanted to discuss that little matter with him.” Summer twirled her shark stirrer. “He owes me money.”
“Get in line.” Esmé pushed a platter of especially aromatic nachos across the counter. “Here, want these? The table behind you sent them back—too many jalapeños or something.”
“Sure, thanks.” Summer eagerly grabbed a steaming, extra-cheesy chip and dunked it in tomatillo sauce. “What do you mean, ‘get in line’? Does Eduardo owe a lot of people money?”
Esmé shrugged. “Well, he does seem to enjoy stiffing people. I can’t wait till he gets his big break and quits this place. Good riddance, I say.”
“Big break?” Dorothy shook her head as Summer pointed toward the plate.
“Get this, he thinks he’s going to be a big Hollywood movie star or something.” Esmé readjusted the butterfly clip in her hair. “Right now he’s doing community theater, with The Milano Players. He answered their casting call for a hearing-impaired actor and he’s actually faking it. That’s how much of a creep he is.”
“Why, that’s just awful!” Dorothy burst out. She couldn’t help it. “Imagine, faking a disability for his own gain.”
“Tell me about it,” Esmé said. “I’d phone in a tip, but I need this job.”
“No worries, I’ll do it,” Summer said. “So, he’s in the play right now? Maybe we should go see it.”
“No, thanks,” Esmé said. “I see more than enough of that guy already. Luckily, he sneaks out for auditions all the time. He got a call back from one last week, incredible as that seems.”
“Do you remember what day that was?” Summer asked.
“Monday, I think. He was gone all morning, so we got to set up for lunch in peace.”
Dorothy looked at Summer. Her partner had to be thinking the same thing. Dr. A was murdered on Monday morning and Eduardo went AWOL from Chameleon at the very same time. That was certainly something to consider.
“Miss? Can we get another round here, please? Stat.” A sixtyish man with a very poor toupée twirled his index finger to indicate himself and his twenty-something companion, who was absorbed in her phone.
“Gotta go.” Esmé sighed. “Losers, all of these people.”
“Oh, hey, Esmé, just one more thing,” Summer said. “You know that guy with the funky red hair and hipster glasses who worked Mia’s party? He was passing around desserts, I think. Citrus tarts.”
“You mean, Scotty?” Esmé said. “The skinny drink of water who thinks he’s going to be the next Bobby Flay?”
“That’s him.” Actually, she had no idea, but the chances were good. There weren’t a lot of serious redheads in Milano. Maybe they didn’t like the beach much. “Does he work here, too?”
“Yeah, but he’s off this weekend,” Esmé said. “Along with everyone else, apparently. They’d all better be back by Tuesday, or I’m not splitting my tips this week.”
“Too bad.” Summer sighed. “I wanted to ask him something.”
“Sorry, Scotty’s taken,” Esmé said. “His ditzy girlfriend hangs around here a lot while he’s working.”
“Do you know where he lives, by any chance?” Summer tried.
Esmé’s dark eyebrows shot up. “No, sorry. Jeez, girl, you must have it bad. I mean, Scotty’s okay and everything, but—”
“Yo, Miss!” Toupée Guy broke in. “Is there a problem? We’re thirsty here.”
Esmé rolled her eyes. “The drinks are on the house, too, okay?” she told Summer and Dorothy, before snapping the pub towel off her shoulder and heading down the bar.
“Thanks!” Summer called after her. “You’re a peach.”
“That was very generous of your friend,” Dorothy said.
“Yeah.” Summer slurped the last of the daiquiri off the shark stirrer and dropped it in her purse. “They should pay her more. Otherwise, this place would be deader than Dr. A.”
Dorothy shuddered. “Really, Summer.”
She grinned, as she swiped the face of her hot pink phone. “Hey, news flash. Tonight is the final performance of Subtle Signs of Murder at The Milano Playhouse, starring the fabulously talented Eduardo Silva.”
“Does it really say he’s fabulously talented?” Dorothy rescued a nacho chip that threatened to drop off the plate.
“Ha.” Summer’s laugh came out with a slight snort. “That was just my addition to the online reviews from The Milano Daily News. The play is closing tonight because it tanked. And guess whose performance as the deaf butler especially sucked?”
“Gracious,” Dorothy said. “Reviewers used to be so clever with their scathing remarks. They’re using very coarse language these days.”
“I improvised a little again.” Summer admitted, with a last tap of her phone screen. “Just got us four tickets for eight p.m. You, me, Ernie and Dash, if the guys don’t have plans. I’ll text them.”
“We’d best be on our way, then.” Dorothy gingerly removed herself from the barstool.
“This is going to be perfect.” Summer practically vaulted across the Mexican tile floor. “I’ll get that deaf butler to talk, no problem.”
Dorothy carefully tucked the little orange monkey in her purse and hurried to catch up. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed an evening at the theater.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“So when is this thing going to start, anyway?” Ernie asked, grumpily. “These actor folks need to get the show on the road.”
“They wish,” Summer told him. “The Milano Players are about a thousand times off-Broadway.”
Dash rearranged his lanky frame in the velvet theater seat and checked his Rolex. “They’re only half an hour late so far,” he said. “That’s about right for these deals.”
“Do you go to the theater often, Dash?” Dorothy asked. Summer thought her friend looked especially nice tonight in her royal-blue dress and black beads. She’d applied a little more makeup than usual, too, and a hint of White Shoulders.
“I catch a show every now and then,” Dash said. “It’s not really my thing, but Julian’s on the board of directors here. They needed a legal type, I guess.”
“How nice,” Dorothy said.
“You ladies should have let me know you needed tickets,” Dash added. “I could have gotten us in gratis.”
Dorothy smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but it’s so important to support the arts. None of the actors are paid in these community productions and the shows rely on behind-the-scene volunteers.”
“Well, if they ever raise the curtain, some of these guys and gals might get their big break,” Ernie said.
Maybe sooner than they thought, Summer told herself, if her plan worked.
“That’s some conservative look you’ve got going, with the power suit and the tight little hair bun,” Dash said. “Love it, though,” he added quickly, when Summer frowned at him. “And the shoes are knockout.”
“Thanks. I’m here in a professional capacity tonight.” She threw Dorothy a tiny smile.
Dash raised his sandy brows. “Professional?”
Summer pretended to hit him with her program. “I’m a talent scout, for a very famous Hollywood producer.”
“Really.” Dash looked highly amused. “Are you licensed?”
“ATA,” Summer said. “Want to see my card?”
“You’re kidding,” Dash said. “Oh, wait a minute, I get it. Your dad, right?”
“Maybe.” Summer crossed her legs and jiggled one white pump off her big toe. “I’ve carried it in my wallet for years.”
“I can see you as an agent, actually,” Dash said. “You might want to lose the sunglasses from the top of your head, though. This is an evening performance.”
“It’s part of the look,” Summer said. “One of my ex-stepmoms was an agent.” She twisted in her seat to scan the crowd. “Hey, there’s your buddy A.J. from Aqua Marine, in that group of guys a couple of rows back.”
Dash turned to follow her gaze. A.J., wearing a billowy, pink silk shirt and an understated purple-and-yellow swirled vest, waggled his fingers at them. “Fancy meeting you two here,” he called.
“Likewise,” Dash said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” A.J. ignored the disapproving looks of the theatergoers around them as the houselights dimmed and the orchestra began to swell. “Closing night, you know. How very appropriate.”
The eggplant-hued curtain rose to reveal a set of an English manor dining room. A bunch of maids dressed in long black uniforms with starched aprons and little white caps came out and started dancing around the table. Eduardo stood in the corner and silently directed them to their duties.
Sort of like his role at Mia’s party last night. Except he hadn’t been that silent when she’d broken a few stupid glasses.
“Hey, you didn’t tell me this was a musical,” Ernie whispered loudly to Dorothy, when the maids suddenly burst into song. Now he really looked grumpy.
“Shh, Ernie.” Dorothy put a finger to her lips.
The music was peppy enough, but Summer didn’t catch much of the lyrics. Some important guy was coming to dinner, or whatever. The fake British accents made things even more confusing. She held her phone inside her Coach bag, using the flashlight app to check out the program.
“Bored already?” Dash murmured. “It’s the opening scene, for Pete’s sake.”
“Just doing a little research.” Summer flipped to the cast bios at the back of the glossy program.
Not much info about Eduardo Silva’s appearance as Butler Two. Just his head shot in a black turtleneck. Mr. Silva’s credits included three or four bit parts in various Milano Players productions, and, oh yeah, a minor role in a film by a student at the Queens Film Academy. He was also a graduate of Juilliard.
Interesting. Summer had always thought Juilliard was for actually talented people.
She glanced up again to check out the action onstage. Eduardo was gesturing wildly to a nervous maid in a feeble attempt at American Sign Language.
Even someone who wasn’t an expert in ASL could tell it was all a load of garbage. She’d taken a few classes in high school to fulfill her language requirement and she was pretty sure the guy was signing something along the lines of, “The fish over the table is low.”
Things only got worse in the next scene, when Eduardo’s character found the lord of the manor’s stiffened corpse in a china cupboard, stabbed with an icepick.
No one in the audience gasped. In fact, there were a few titters. On the other side of Dorothy, Ernie snickered into his hand at Eduardo’s frantic reaction. Butler Two was running around in circles, clutching his head.
“Quite a storyline,” Dash muttered. “I’ll have to give Mom a heads-up. She may have some real competition on the mystery front.”
Dorothy reached across Ernie to touch Summer’s knee. “The duchess,” she whispered. “Does she look familiar?”
Summer squinted at the stage. Heavy-set, dark hair with a widow’s peak—definitely a wig—froggy jowls, diva attitude. “Whoa. That’s Dr. A’s fake mother from Italy.”
“Shh!” Some crabby person tapped Summer on the shoulder. It apparently didn’t register with the woman that her own theater companion was slumped beside her in his seat, snoring like a jackhammer.
She skimmed the headshots for Subtle Signs of Murder again. Yep, the whole Amoretto family was there. At least now she and Dorothy knew where Eduardo had found the actors for Tony/Vince’s wake. And she’d be willing to bet they’d all list the gig on their résumés.
This was awesome—just the break she and Dorothy needed for their investigation. If Eduardo hired all these guys, then he had to be Dr. A’s killer, right?
On the other hand, Marilyn was probably in on the charade, too. Was she really as clueless as she pretended to be about Tony’s “family?” The two of them could have planned the murder together—and now they were fighting over Dr. A’s money.
Summer couldn’t wait until she and Dorothy made the big reveal of the killers, like they did on Citizen’s Arrest. They’d get Detective Donovan and all their suspects in one room—maybe in a fancy hotel, or something—and then bam!
They’d need to be very careful not to embarrass the detective, though, even though they did solve the case first. And everyone would apologize to her for even thinking she had anything to do with Dr. A’s murder.
The second the curtain fell and the house lights rose for intermission—Summer hadn’t even bothered trying to follow the mess going on onstage—she popped up and threw her bag over her shoulder. “Time to go to work.”
Dash stepped into the aisle to let her out. “Where are you headed?”
“Backstage,” Summer said. “To find my prospective client.”
“Don’t you want us to go with you, dear?” Dorothy glanced at the horde of theatergoers headed for the lobby—or possibly the parking garage—and lowered her voice. “That’s not much of a disguise. Eduardo might be dangerous.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. He’s a wimp.”
Dorothy sighed. “Well, try to slouch, then, at least.”
“I’ll tail you,” Dash offered. “Don’t worry, I’m good at being inconspicuous.”
Summer doubted that, due to his general hotness, but it was a good idea for someone to keep an eye out, just in case.
“Why don’t we older folk hit the lobby?” Ernie rose and extended his hand down to Dorothy. “I wouldn’t mind giving the legs a stretch. And maybe getting a drink, in case the second half is worse.”
The four of them followed the crowd through the side doors. The bright, wainscoted lobby was filled with well-heeled patrons of the arts, dressed in everything from long dresses to Hawaiian shirts.
Summer glanced toward the growing line at the bar. “Maybe I should grab my wine first. It’ll fit with the whole agent thing.”
“You could always try to catch Eduardo after the show,” Dorothy said.
“No, that’s when tons of people hang around at the stage door for autographs,” Summer said.
“From that guy?” Ernie said.
“Good point.” She straightened her suit jacket, as Dash handed her a Pinot Gris. “Come on,” she told him. “You can be my unpaid intern.”
“As fabulous as that offer sounds, I don’t think it’s a smart idea,” Dash said, as the two of them made their way through the crowd to the stairs. “Eduardo might recognize me from A.J.’s entourage.”
“I’m the one he’ll probably remember.” Summer pulled her sunglasses over her eyes.
“You are somewhat memorable,” Dash told her, with a grin. “In a good way, of course.”
“Thanks.” Summer grabbed Dash’s arm. “Look, there he is! The tall guy in the maroon bathrobe, outside the stage door.”
“That’s a smoking jacket,” Dash said. “He’s just begging to be noticed. I’ll stay here and wait for my cue.”
“Cue?”
