Cardiac Arrest, page 3
In any case, it would be tough for a young person to come up with anywhere near that much money without a job. “My, two thousand dollars for rent seems quite steep.”
Summer swirled a fry in ketchup. “I guess,” she said. “Cheaper than a decent place in L.A. or New York, though. Syd’s really into money. That’s why our mom left him. She has a crystal store on the Pier.”
“I see.” Dorothy was a bit taken aback by such personal information. Perhaps people from California were much more open. She’d never been there herself.
“I don’t get the free dinners because I never make it to the dining room by five,” Summer went on. “That’s right in the middle of the day. I usually end up getting takeout.”
“Mmm.” Dorothy often did the same thing herself—and she wasn’t past tucking a roll or two from the dining room into her purse for the next morning’s breakfast. “So your sister in New Jersey contributes to the rent, also?”
“For now,” Summer said. “She said it’s worth chipping in so I’m not living with her. And we have a deal that she can come down here and stay at the condo whenever she wants. She’s not going to float my half forever, though. I guess that’s fair.”
“Ah.” What a peculiar arrangement, Dorothy thought. And a very strange family dynamic, too. But one never really knew what went on in other people’s lives. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for this girl, who seemed to live by very different rules, in her own little world.
Not unlike her daughter Maddie, when she was young. But Dorothy wasn’t going to think about that now.
“If you don’t mind my asking, dear, isn’t it a bit strange for you, living at a place like Hibiscus Pointe? Surely a young woman like you might prefer other options.”
Summer slurped the last of her piña colada and dug out the last frothy piece of pineapple. “It’s not too bad, actually. Milano’s a cool place and there’s no way I could afford a regular apartment. Plus, Hibiscus Pointe has a great pool and a gym and everyone pretty much leaves me alone. The ones who aren’t already trying to kick me out for being under fifty-five, anyway.”
Dorothy couldn’t help feeling there was more to it than that, but she didn’t want to pry any further. Then she’d be almost as bad as Gladys Rumway.
“You don’t suppose the cops believe I killed Dr. A, do you?” Summer suddenly leaned across the table, her blue eyes clear and innocent. “I mean, that would be crazy, Mrs. Westin. I hardly even knew the guy.”
“Please call me Dorothy, dear.”
“Okay, Dorothy, but I can’t be, like, a suspect or anything, right? Detective Donovan said, ‘especially you, Ms. Smythe-Sloan’ when he told us not to leave town.”
Well, he probably considered Summer a person of interest, at least, Dorothy thought. She had given the doctor that awful drink, after all. But there was no sense in upsetting the poor girl even more. “No one knows yet how Dr. A died. The detective was just being thorough, asking you, me and Marilyn so many questions.”
“Maybe.” Summer gazed at a tiny bird pecking at a sweet potato fry beside her chair.
“Why don’t we try to stay positive?” Dorothy said. “That’s what I always do.”
“Can I get you ladies anything else?” Dorothy noticed that their waitress was smirking slightly beneath her navy Le Bâteau Bleu visor. Summer’s teddy-bear scrubs were a soupçon out of place among the umbrella-shaded tables filled with elegant ladies who lunched.
Summer looked at her hopefully. “Do you want dessert? We can split something if you want.”
“We have coconut cake, Key Lime pie, berries and cream, mango torte, and, if you ladies are really brave, our signature dessert, Death by Chocolate,” the waitress rattled off. She placed a small, leather menu book between them on the table.
“Well, mango doesn’t agree with me, I’m afraid,” Dorothy said. “And I’d like to consider myself brave, but maybe we should skip the Death by Chocolate today.”
“We’ll take the Key Lime pie,” Summer told the waitress. “And the coconut cake, too, with vanilla ice cream. Nice tat, by the way,” she added, handing back the menu.
The waitress flushed, and adjusted the collar of her polo shirt. It failed to entirely cover the unsightly deck of cards inked beneath her blond ponytail.
“You know what I think?” Summer said, when the waitress had flounced off. “I’m almost a hundred percent sure that that Marilyn woman knocked off Dr. A.”
“Marilyn?” Dorothy said, in surprise. “Why, I’ve known her for years.” She frowned. “Well, I don’t really know her, I suppose. But she’s always appeared very professional, and quite loyal to Dr. A.”
“I’m telling you, she’s like some kind of barracuda,” Summer said. “And I guarantee, those two were hooking up.”
Dorothy raised her eyebrows. “Gracious. Why ever would you think that? Dr. A recently became engaged.”
Summer shrugged. “The guy was a sleaze. I don’t know why I ever let him buy me those drinks.”
“Perhaps he was just being polite?” Dorothy tried, hopefully.
The girl looked at her as if she was completely out of touch with the Milano nightlife scene. True, Dorothy had to admit. Hip Hip Hibiscus Nights back at the complex hardly qualified in that respect.
Summer removed the straw from her drink and sucked up the last of the coconut dregs. “I didn’t actually want to work for the guy, but cash is cash, right?”
“I suppose so,” Dorothy said, doubtfully.
“After you went into the examining room today, I was in the kitchen, having some carrot cake, since I didn’t have time for much breakfast. Dr. A came in and his face was all red. I thought maybe he was mad I was eating his cake, but he said he was looking for a pen or something—he kept opening up drawers and stuff. I was afraid he’d make a pass at me, because he was breathing kind of heavy.”
“Oh dear,” Dorothy said. “His poor fiancée. And poor you as well, of course,” she added, quickly. She couldn’t help thinking how many ladies at Hibiscus Pointe would have loved to have been in Summer’s position.
Perhaps being young and beautiful wasn’t always so wonderful. It was hard sometimes for Dorothy to remember that far back. Admittedly, she was never as attractive as Summer, but she’d had her share of admirers—before Harlan, of course.
“So I asked Dr. A if he wanted that shake I’d made him earlier. You know, to distract him. I didn’t want to lose my job or anything. He didn’t answer, but he put his hands to his throat, so I got it for him anyway.”
The waitress brought their desserts and placed them all in front of Summer, with an assortment of forks and spoons. “Coffee, ladies? More drinks?”
Dorothy quickly shook her head, without waiting for Summer’s response. “Just two glasses of ice water, please.”
“Dr. A took a sip or two, tops,” the girl continued. “Then he made these weird, gasping sounds, and reached out to grab me.”
“Oh, my,” Dorothy murmured.
“And that’s when Marilyn walked in on us,” Summer went on. “Jeez, did she look pissed.”
Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, to see whether any of the other diners had heard the offensive language. No one was paying a whit of attention.
“She stormed off and I got away from Dr. A, no problem.” Summer twirled her spoon. “I’m used to dealing with guys like that, you know? But then his face turned blue instead of red, and he started falling on me big-time, which I really didn’t appreciate.” She gave a heavy sigh.
“It’s all right, dear,” Dorothy said. “Go on.”
“So I pushed him and he fell to the floor. That’s when I realized he was out cold. But he didn’t bump his head or anything.”
“Marilyn didn’t see any of this?” Dorothy asked.
“No,” Summer said. “She didn’t show up again and start screaming till after he hit the ground. Unless she snuck back to spy on us from the door or something.”
“I see,” Dorothy murmured. She looked more closely at the teddy-bear print on Summer’s scrubs as the girl busied herself with a spoonful of ice cream that had dripped on the table.
If Dr. A had been that close to her, wouldn’t at least a few drops of that green shake have stained her clothes?
She stole a quick peek under the table to check the girl’s shoes. Spick and span white tennis shoes, obviously brand new.
Dorothy took another sip of her water. “You must have jumped away from the doctor very quickly to avoid all that nasty green goop.”
“Yeah, I have pretty good reflexes,” Summer said. “And I hate doing laundry. It’s not like I’m ever going to wear these scrub things again, though.”
She was either extremely quick-witted, Dorothy thought, or completely without guile. Possibly both. “Did you tell Detective Donovan all of this?” she asked. She had excused herself briefly from the questioning, to get dressed in something more presentable than a paper gown. It was possible she’d missed some important information.
“Not exactly.” Summer turned her attention to the coconut cake.
Dorothy frowned. “Well, why not?”
Summer didn’t answer right away. “I didn’t want him to think there was anything going on between me and the doctor,” she said, finally. “Marilyn kept her mouth shut, too, because she was the one he was doing.”
Dorothy nearly choked on her ice water.
“There were only three of us in Dr. A’s office. If anyone bumped that guy off, it had to be her,” Summer said. “She could have put something in that shake after I put it back in the fridge. I mean, I know I didn’t, and it couldn’t possibly have been you.” She grinned. “Or are you hiding something, Dorothy Westin?”
“I assure you, I am not.” Dorothy smiled back. Against her better judgment, she rather liked Summer Smythe. At least she was direct, and had a sense of humor, unlike many of the people she knew.
“So you believe me, right?” Summer put down her fork. Her eyes, again clear and blue as the bay behind her, bored into Dorothy’s.
The funny thing was, she did believe her. And Dorothy’s sense of intuition had served her well over the years.
She could be wrong, of course. Maybe she just didn’t want to imagine—if Dr. A had indeed been murdered—that this lost young girl was a killer. She wasn’t sure about Marilyn, whose true colors seemed to have bloomed today. But hadn’t Dr. A mentioned his fiancée had stopped by the office earlier that morning, on her way to The Waterfalls?
Perhaps the visit had been nothing out of the ordinary. But wasn’t there an expression about most crimes being committed for love or money? It might be a mistake to count out Mia Rivera-Jones.
Chapter Four
Summer awakened from an unexpected nap, feeling groggy and disoriented. She was also sweating like she’d overdone it in the infrared sauna.
Maybe that was because she was superstressed out after the whole deal with Dr. A. Or it could have been the ginormous lunch she’d had with Dorothy. But most likely it was the sticky, noisy plastic sheet Grandma Sloan used to cover the rose chintz couch. She yanked it off and stomped on it until it was crumpled enough to kick under the coffee table.
The time on the cable box said 4:45. As if on cue, Summer heard the daily stampede of residents emerging from their condos and flooding the hall, on their way to dinner at five sharp. For such a pricey place, the walls were about as soundproof as Kleenex.
From somewhere in the heap of wadded plastic, her phone buzzed. Joy. The name and the emotion rarely matched, but Summer answered anyway. She might as well get this over with.
“So, how’d it go today?” Joy never said hello. “I figured you started early. Are you out of work yet?”
Summer sighed. “Yeah, I’m out. Permanently.”
“I knew it!” Joy immediately exploded. “How did you manage to blow it this time?”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Summer quickly delivered the details, leaving out the newly deceased’s letching on her. Joy already thought she was a tramp.
Which, for the record, she wasn’t.
For once, Joy was speechless. “Oh,” she said, finally. “Wow, that’s too bad. But you’re going to find something else, right? It’s almost the end of the month and I’m not forking over the bucks while you live for free.”
“I know that, Joy,” Summer said. “Every day you give me the countdown. Chill, would you? I’ve got this covered.”
“Good,” Joy replied, “because I’m the one who always has to deal with Syd.”
“It sucks being the favorite, doesn’t it?” Summer hung up and headed toward her bedroom for her bathing suit. A little private pool time while the geezers were at dinner would do wonders for her mood.
As she rummaged in her suitcase for something clean, she made the mistake of flipping on Grandma Sloan’s ancient bedroom TV. The lead story on the local News at Five was the untimely death of popular Milano cardiologist Dr. Anthony Amoretto, known to his adoring patients as Dr. A.
Summer dropped down on a moving box, purple bikini in hand. The screen showed a makeshift memorial, with flowers ranging from single red roses to extravagant bouquets, handwritten notes, sun-melted candles, and a sprinkling of stuffed animals, set up outside the concrete-and-glass professional building on Cypress Ridge.
The camera focused on a huge, hand-painted sign with a big red heart that read: You’ll always be in our hearts, Dr. A!!! Rest in Peace.
Gag.
“We’re all completely devastated,” a wax-complexioned woman in a fuchsia print pantsuit sobbed to the perky-looking news reporter. “How could this have happened? He was so young and full of life. And so handsome, too.”
As the reporter turned her mic to another sniffling mourner, a tall young woman wearing a perfect little black dress emerged from the building, on the arm of a much older guy in a sharp navy blazer and white pants. Summer hoped he was the woman’s dad. Behind them was a pencil-necked guy in a seersucker suit, carrying a briefcase.
“Dr. Amoretto’s fiancée, Milano socialite Mia Rivera-Jones, and her father, real estate billionaire Rupert Jones, have just stepped out with a member of their legal team,” the reporter said, breathlessly. “Ms. Rivera-Jones, Felicia Hernandez from WMLO News!” she called. “Our condolences. Can you share any further developments in the death of your fiancé?”
“No comment,” the lawyer said shortly, leading the Rivera-Joneses through the crowd to a waiting silver Lexus. Stonefaced, Mia ducked her majorly moussed head and slid into the backseat as a uniformed chauffeur opened the back door.
Whoa. Summer leaned closer to the screen. That was the same chick who’d slammed into her outside Dr. A’s office this morning, just as she was about to go through the revolving door.
Small world.
Still glued to the TV, she slipped on her bikini bottoms, carefully tightening the little ties at the sides, and hooked the triangle bra top behind her back.
Onscreen, the Lexus roared off, trailed by shouting reporters and camera crews. Summer spotted Detective Donovan getting into his unmarked car at the edge of the crowd.
Felicia Hernandez saw him, too. She rushed right over and thrust her WMLO microphone in his face.
“Detective, what can you tell us about the circumstances regarding the death of Dr. Anthony Amoretto?”
“This is an ongoing investigation,” he replied. “We have no statement at this time.”
Jeez, he looked even hotter than Summer remembered. Maybe half a foot taller than she was, broad shoulders, nice-fitting navy suit...
“Will there be a press conference?” Felicia wasn’t about to let him go. “Is it true that foul play is suspected?”
“No comment at this time,” Detective Donovan repeated. “We’ll keep you guys posted.” He adjusted his Ray-Bans and disappeared into his plain black cruiser.
Summer snapped off the TV. Too bad he was a cop. Briefly, she wondered again if he thought she was a murderer.
That would suck.
She wasn’t going to think about it. Retrieving her still-damp beach towel from the bathroom floor, she grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and headed to the pool.
* * *
“Goodness, where is everyone tonight?” Dorothy asked her close friend and frequent dinner companion, Ernie Conlon.
Ernie inspected the roll basket and selected a bread stick. “Haven’t you heard what happened to that heartthrob doctor all the ladies are in love with? They’re probably off in mourning somewhere.”
“Actually, I know quite a bit about that.” Dorothy gave him an abbreviated version of the morning’s events.
Ernie put down his bread stick. “I didn’t know you saw a cardiologist. Have you been feeling all right lately, Dorothy?”
“I’m just fine,” she told him, passing him the butter dish. “I had a little incident about a year ago or so. Nothing to worry about.” Trust Ernie to be more concerned about her health than the news of a murder.
“Well, if you ask me, that guy probably had it coming.”
“Ernie!” Dorothy scolded, shocked.
He shrugged. “You fool around with all those ladies like that, you take your chances.”
Dorothy didn’t necessarily agree with him, but he did have a point. In her experience, especially since she’d moved to Hibiscus Pointe with Harlan years ago, some women could become quite competitive—even spiteful—whenever a man was involved.
Actually killing a person, though—that was another story.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Ernie said.
“Thank you, Ernie, but I assure you I was never in any danger.”
“Walter? Where are you, Walter?” a woman’s voice called loudly. “You aren’t hiding over there by those drapes, are you? How about a large table with some privacy, maybe in the corner? We ladies have some very important things to discuss.”
