Cardiac Arrest, page 23
Summer squinted into the darkness. “That’s weird,” she said. “I can’t tell what kind of car it is, but it’s definitely big and dark. Maybe it’s Mary Lee, trying to sneak in. Hold on, I’ll go check it out.”
“No, wait, dear! Please don’t—”
It was too late. Summer was already charging toward the Towers, the pit-pats of her tennis shoes on the asphalt fading into the distance.
Dorothy switched on her flashlight again, and followed as quickly as she could, casting a wary eye for rattlers. But the mysterious night driver could be even more dangerous than lounging reptiles.
Just as Dorothy reached the floodlit Hibiscus Towers sign, Summer reappeared, out of breath. “Lost the car,” she said. “Whoever it was drove down to the lower parking lot, and I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t want to leave you here by yourself for too long, so I just came back.”
Secretly, Dorothy felt relieved, but it was a shame they’d lost the chance to determine whether the car was the same one that had bumped Summer and Dash off the road—and if the driver was Mary Lee. Or Gladys, for that matter. “Thank you, dear, but you needn’t have worried about me. I was right behind you.”
“Well, what if you got bitten by one of those poi—I mean, venomous—snakes?” Summer gazed back down the hill beyond the Towers. “I think the person saw me and floored it out of the complex. There’s an exit from the lower parking lot. I can get my car and keep looking around, just in case.”
“We might as well wait until morning, don’t you think?” Dorothy said. “If the driver knows we’re suspicious, he or she isn’t going to return to their garage right now, or park anywhere else in plain sight. And we’d never make it to the storage unit area in time to see the person drive in.”
“I guess not,” Summer said. “But hey, I’ve got a better idea. We can go over to Mary Lee’s condo right now and stake it out. If she was out driving tonight, she has to go home sometime, right?”
“True,” Dorothy said. “I’m not sure exactly where Mary Lee lives. One of the Towers, I think, but we can look her up. I have a Hibiscus Pointe directory right on my kitchen counter.” And maybe she could grab a sweater, while she was at it. The night air was growing decidedly chilly.
“Okay,” Summer said. “But we’d better make it fast.”
As soon as they entered the condo, Mr. Bitey jumped down from Dorothy’s cozy chair and planted himself at her feet, meowing plaintively.
“Sorry, fella,” Dorothy told him. “I’m afraid you’ll be dining European-style tonight.” She went straight to the counter and rummaged for the resident directory under the teetering pile of What’s Your Pointe? newsletters, health brochures, grocery circulars, insurance come-ons, and regular donation requests from various political committees. One did acquire a remarkable amount of correspondence after sixty-five.
“You should just throw all that stuff out.” Summer picked up Mr. Bitey’s bowl and filled it from the plastic bin of dry cat food in the utility closet. The fickle feline immediately deserted Dorothy and darted toward his dinner. “That’s what I do. My grandma gets tons of junk mail. Even though she’s dead.”
“Well, you never know.” Dorothy moved over to another stack on the dining room table. “Some things end up being very important—aha, here it is! Mary Lee lives in 32-13 Tower B.”
Summer was already halfway to the door. “Maybe we can still get there before she does. Go on,” she added to Mr. Bitey, who had inexplicably abandoned his dinner to follow her. “Get away. I’m allergic to you, remember?”
Dorothy grabbed her flashlight from the counter and her white crocheted cardigan from the back of a dining room chair. Not her warmest sweater, but it would have to do.
“You know, I’m beginning to agree with your idea about Mary Lee,” she told Summer, as she relocked the door. “It’s possible she’s mixed up in all of this somehow. But I just don’t understand it. Mary Lee adored Dr. A, and she’s been very upset since his death. Why on earth would she have wanted to harm him?”
Summer shrugged. “Maybe it was an accident. You know, like a case of really bad luck, and she freaked out afterward.”
“Luck?” Dorothy pressed the button for the elevator. “There’s no such thing, in my experience.”
“She could’ve given him some of those seven-layer bars like the ones she made for Ernie and Grace, with the mango in them. I mean, Mia knew he was allergic to the stuff, but who else would?”
“Marilyn, perhaps, although she denied it.” Dorothy frowned. “Speaking of mangos and allergies, we need to chat with that waiter—Scotty, was it?—from Mia’s party. He’s working at Chameleon tomorrow, but that may be too late. He’s the only one who can tell us whether anyone directed him to offer me those tarts. Do you suppose your friend Esmé could give us his number?”
“Worth a try.” Summer texted on her phone, nearly running into the sliding-glass doors. “It’s almost eleven, so she’s probably out.”
Eleven? Dorothy felt wide awake now, no doubt because she’d gotten up so late. Her schedule was completely off these days. Most evenings, she and Mr. Bitey were reading in bed by nine. Many of her friends, she knew, were already asleep by then. Some even retired directly after dinner.
Was Mary Lee a night owl? It was hard to imagine the petite woman, who flitted around the complex like an overly sugared hummingbird, ever taking as much as a nap.
Hopefully, they would find her home and long asleep when they arrived at Tower B.
“Esmé didn’t text me back.” Summer tossed her phone back into her bag.
“We’ll call first thing tomorrow when Chameleon opens, then,” Dorothy said. “In the meantime, don’t you think we should tell Detective Donovan our suspicions about Mary Lee? We have no proof, of course, but still...”
“Are you nuts?” Summer took Dorothy’s arm as the walk curved toward the pool area. Tower B was located well beyond it, on the other side of the manmade lake. “The less we tell that guy right now, the better. I spent plenty of time talking to him last night, believe me. He just thinks I’m a liar.”
“He said that?” Dorothy found it hard to imagine the restrained detective resorting to name-calling.
“Noooo.” Summer’s voice wavered slightly. “But he hates me, I can tell.”
Even in the darkness, Dorothy could sense her pouting, like a little girl who hadn’t gotten the present she wanted for her birthday. “He doesn’t hate you, dear. He’s just doing his job, for heaven’s sake. Really, you mustn’t—”
Her words hung in the chlorine-tinged air as the moon suddenly broke free of the inkjet clouds, illuminating the menacing shapes of the tarp-covered tables and lounge chairs surrounding the pool.
Was she mistaken, or was that something floating in the floodlit water?
Goosebumps rose through Dorothy’s crocheted sweater, even before a stiff Gulf breeze blew through the palms.
The object bobbed slightly, and spun its way slowly toward the deep end.
No mistake.
Chapter Thirty-One
“What’s that thing in the pool?” Summer tore toward the gate, pulling her key card from her shorts pocket, and jammed it into the lock.
Instant fail.
She tried a zillion more times, with the same, red-flash result. Had the Residents Board had her key card disabled, to get rid of her? She kicked at the gate, then jumped back, startled, as it gave way with a metallic clang.
Dorothy pushed past her toward the pool. “Oh my, it’s a hat.” She collapsed heavily against one of the tables, her hand to her temple. “Thank goodness.”
Summer recognized that hat. Straw, shaped like a bird’s nest, not a lot of sun protection. Unless its owner was very small.
Like Juliette-Margot.
Summer scanned the rest of the pool and spotted a swirling heap of fabric, slowly sinking under the surface in the deep end. Way too large for Juliette-Margot, she told herself, her heart skipping in relief. But whoever it was, the person needed help. Fast.
She dropped her bag and raced toward the pool. The victim was probably unconscious.
“Here, take the rescue hook.” Dorothy grabbed a long metal pole from the fence and tossed it to her.
Summer dipped the hook under the surface, catching the person under what she hoped were arms. Then she pulled the motionless body up through the water and over to the side of the pool.
Jeez, what a load. It took all of her strength, plus a lot more than Dorothy’s, to pull the deadweight out of the pool. Summer did her best not to let the person’s head, which felt like a wet, steel wool poodle as it brushed her knees, hit the concrete deck.
One by one, lights turned on in the condos facing the pool.
Helen Murphy stepped out on her balcony, and Summer heard Dorothy shout something up to her. Everything else was a blur as she focused on the task at hand.
Rolling the unresponsive victim onto her back, she struggled to detangle the yards of wet fabric that clung to them both. Finally she got a look at the person’s face.
Whoa. She and Dorothy had dragged up Gladys Rumway.
Summer’s heart skipped a few more beats. Hopefully it wasn’t too late.
For the second time in less than a week, she’d have to perform CPR. Gladys was almost as gross as Dr. A, but she couldn’t think about that now. Just as she tried to turn the woman’s head to drain any water out of her nose and mouth, Gladys jackknifed up, puking half a pool of water into Summer’s face.
Well, that was a good sign. And at least she could breathe on her own now.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Rumway.” Summer patted her hard on the back, trying to get rid of more water. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Get away from me!” Gladys gave her a push, as she sputtered and choked. “You tried to kill me!”
Summer drew back on the heels of her tennis shoes. “What?”
Gladys vomited another stream of water, then started to cough and shiver. Dorothy ran over and tried to wrap her sweater around her, but it hung off one of the woman’s huge shoulders like a fingertip towel.
“Mary Lee warned me about you,” Gladys sputtered, the second she stopped coughing. “And I didn’t listen. She was going to meet me here to give me the scoop. What have you done with her, you murderous trampy pants?”
Trampy pants? Summer’s mouth dropped open. Well, that was a new one. The ungrateful piece of polyester whale blubber. She should have let her drown.
“Now, Gladys,” Dorothy said, in a soothing tone. “You’ve had a nasty shock, and you need to conserve your strength. Let’s try to keep that blood pressure down, shall we? An ambulance is on its way to take you to the hospital.”
Gladys glared at her. “You can take yourself an ambulance, Dorothy Westin. I’m not going anywhere.” She spat another mouthful of water onto the concrete and blew her nose onto the already-saturated sleeve of her muumuu.
“Wait a sec. Did you say Mary Lee was going to meet you here at the pool?” Summer asked. “Tonight?”
“Summer didn’t try to drown you, Gladys,” Dorothy added, quickly. “She’s been with me all evening.”
Gladys’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I bet. I don’t know why you’re protecting her, Dorothy. Mary Lee called as I was fixing myself a bedtime snack and said she had something important to tell me, but it had to be in person. I got dressed and then when I got here I saw that little girl’s hat in the pool. I leaned over to check it out and—”
“Mary Lee pushed you in,” Summer finished.
“She’d never do that to me,” Gladys said. “She wouldn’t hurt a palmetto bug. And she’s about the size of one, too.”
Dorothy swept her flashlight beam over the pool area. “There’s some kind of pole lying on the other edge of the pool. A shuffleboard stick, if I’m not mistaken.”
“See? That’s what she used, then,” Summer said, triumphantly. It totally made sense. Fun-sized Mary Lee would never have been able to shove Gladys in on her own, unless she’d knocked her way off balance.
“Well, I don’t remember much. I must have gotten hit in the noggin before I went in the drink.” Gladys gingerly felt the back of her head, where a large bump was rising out of her poodle curls. “I can’t swim, either.”
Maybe she’d been a little hard on Gladys, Summer thought. After all, the Battle Axe had almost died. She sounded more miserable than mad now, and she was shaking so hard her teeth sounded like those fake ones you wound up with a little key.
The pool gate clanged again. “Move aside, please. I’m a doctor. Retired.” A silver-haired man dressed in a short, terrycloth bathrobe strode toward them, with Helen Murphy skipping at his heels like a nervous dachshund.
“They’re bringing equipment over from the assisted living facility,” she said. “In case the ambulance doesn’t get here right away.”
“If anyone comes near me, I’ll sue!” Gladys waved the newcomers off, flinging water in every direction. She jerked a fat thumb toward Summer. “She did it! She pushed me in!”
“That’s ridiculous, Gladys Rumway!” Dorothy said.
Summer looked up at all the wide-awake, horrified seniors staring down from their balconies, then over at Dorothy. “I think we’re done here,” she said, as a siren wailed in the distance.
Gladys launched herself at Dorothy’s knees, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Dorothy, you’re my friend,” she begged, with what sounded like a fake cough this time. “You can’t let them take me. You know what happens in the hospital. You check in, you don’t check out.”
“Nonsense.” The doctor tightened the belt of his bathrobe, which had slipped to reveal his hairy chest. “You’re going to the ER for evaluation. Standard procedure after a near-drowning. And that’s a nasty-looking knot on your head.”
“Really, Gladys, you’ll be just fine.” Dorothy tried to extract herself from the dripping woman’s clutches.
The siren sounds grew louder. Summer was pretty sure there was more than one emergency vehicle now. A second ambulance, or even the police. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out. “You stay here,” she told Dorothy, jumping to her feet. “I’ll handle Mary Lee.”
“Summer, you are not going over there on your own.” Dorothy tried to follow, but Gladys still had a killer grip on her legs.
“No worries, I’ll be right back,” Summer called, breaking into a jog. “I can take that fruit loop in a L.A. minute.”
Actually, it was several minutes before she even made it into Hibiscus Tower B. The entrance was locked for the night. And even if she’d had it on her, her key card was only supposed to work for Tower A. Unless the Residents Board had had that access disabled, too.
She finally snuck in the building behind two caretakers reporting for the graveyard shift. They were either so busy talking that they didn’t notice her, or they didn’t care.
She couldn’t remember Mary Lee’s apartment number, but there was a convenient directory sign near the elevators. 32-13.
The elevator gave a few sickening lurches on the way up. Summer tried not to think about what could happen, say, if the elevator doors opened between floors. Would anyone hear her scream? What if someone pushed the button on another floor and the car started moving with the doors still open?
She really, really didn’t like heights. All that nothingness below, until you hit the bottom. Splat.
Her heart practically stopped beating until “32” lit up on the overheard panel. The doors finally opened in a slow, agonizing way. Who would have thought she’d ever be glad to see that ugly, fake Oriental carpeting again?
Summer stepped out, looked both ways—perfect, no one in sight—and sprinted down the hall toward 32-13.
The door was wide open.
Jeez. Sometimes she forgot to lock her condo, but she’d never actually leave the door open. Mary Lee was even more of a sieve-brain than she’d thought.
Or maybe she was just an extremely trusting person.
Summer glanced around the hallway again and casually walked in.
This was way too easy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Mrs. Messinger?”
Summer stepped further into the condo. She was going to play things totally cool, as if she had no clue it belonged to a cookie-baking murderer-freak. “Uh, Mary Lee?”
No answer. Summer twirled slowly through the foyer on the toes of her tennis shoes, overwhelmed by all the...pink.
And she’d thought her Grandma Sloan had bad taste.
Just about everything in the place—the walls, the carpet, the curtains—matched a shade sample off the Pepto Bismol color wheel. The superstrong air freshener, or whatever it was, stank like burnt cotton candy mixed with bubble gum.
She was so busy spinning in awe that she almost did a face plant over a bulging paisley suitcase left smack in the middle of the hall.
Someone was taking a little vacay. A very long one, Summer guessed, in the opposite direction from the Collier County Jail.
A succession of loud thuds sounded from behind a closed door off the large, pink living room.
Was Mary Lee in there by herself, or was someone beating her up?
Quickly, Summer tried to straighten the suitcase, but it kept tipping over the other way. Finally she left it on its side and ran to duck behind a potted rubber plant. Not much of a hiding spot, but the closest piece of furniture was a wingchair half a mile across the room. If anyone spotted her there, she’d be stuck between the chair and the wall.
A few more thumps came from the closed room, followed by a crash. Something was definitely going on in there. Should she give another shout out for Mary Lee?
But then the other person, if there was one, would hear her, too.
