Cardiac Arrest, page 6
“He must have stepped out for just a minute, Mrs. Rumway, but I’ll tell him you were here.” Jennifer smiled soothingly. “Can I make reservations in the dining room for you and your party for tonight?”
Wow, that girl was good, Summer told herself. For a second, she considered slipping behind the grandfather clock to avoid Gladys, too, but decided against it. Seeing the look on the toad woman’s face when she turned around and saw her? Priceless.
Yep, definitely worth it. The Battle-Ax turned the exact shade of her muumuu when she finally whirled away from the counter.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rumway.” Summer waggled her fingers. “Have a nice day, now.”
“Watch your step, missy,” the Battle-Ax spat, stomping past her.
“May I help you?” Jennifer called.
“Hi, Jennifer,” Summer said, stepping up. “I’m the murderer.”
The resident services director didn’t even blink. Every inch the professional. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” Summer said. “Here’s my maintenance check. I can give you another one for the association fees in a couple of days.”
“Oh.” Confusion flashed under Jennifer’s carefully applied foundation. Maybe the girl thought she was paying for her grandma or something. “Okay, thanks. Would you like a receipt, Ms....?” Jennifer glanced down at the check.
“Sloan,” Summer said. Maybe if she used her grandmother’s name, Jennifer wouldn’t question her. No sense in reminding anyone Grandma Sloan didn’t live here anymore, in case they’d forgotten. “See ya.”
* * *
From her spot on the bench in front of Hibiscus Gardens, Dorothy was relieved to see Summer pull up, right on time.
“Hi!” Summer greeted her, thankfully lowering the volume on the car radio. “You clean up good.”
“Why, thank you.” Dorothy smoothed her pale yellow suit. And thank goodness she still had the pretty white hat Harlan had bought her when they first moved to Florida. The yellow ribbon around the band matched perfectly.
Summer jumped out of her little orange car to get the door, surprisingly agile in her short, tight red sundress and adorable polka-dot espadrilles. “Sorry, it was too hot for heels,” she said. “Do you need help?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine.” Dorothy slid carefully into the passenger seat. She’d never been in such a small car, but she knew the Europeans swore by them. She hoped it was safe, at least—and that Summer wasn’t one of those reckless Milano drivers.
Ernie waved from down the sidewalk, where he was pushing Grace in her wheelchair, and threw Dorothy a thumbs-up sign.
She gave him a cheerful wave back.
Summer gunned the gas, and Dorothy held on for dear life to the interior door handle. Fortunately, the girl slowed for the speed bumps. “Bad for the shocks,” she said. “Where are we going again? Downtown, right?”
“Yes,” Dorothy answered. “Let’s head by the ocean and then cut over to Tenth Street.”
It was a lovely day for a drive. A few wispy clouds floated lazily through the azure sky, high above the clean, white sands which streamed, seemingly endlessly, along the road. Dorothy watched as a pelican suddenly dove into the water and emerged with a large fish.
She needed to get out more.
“If we’re going to be partners, you have to fill me in on stuff,” Summer said. “Are we on our way to see that Mia girl?”
“No,” Dorothy said. “We’re making a stop first. Take the next left, please.”
“You really know your way around.” Summer sounded surprised. “Do you come down here a lot?”
Dorothy leaned back against the seat. “I did, once upon a time. But this town is so much bigger now than it used to be. When Harlan and I moved here years ago, the downtown area had only a few shops and restaurants.”
Summer snorted, startling Dorothy from her fond memories. “Yeah, Milano’s a major metropolis now.”
“Now let me see.” Dorothy peered more closely out the window as they turned onto fashionable Tenth Avenue. “It has to be here somewhere. Thirty... Thirty-Two... Thirty-Two A... That’s it! Pull over wherever you can, dear.”
Summer squeezed into a spot between a Vespa and a fire hydrant. “Tatiana Fontaine Associates? What is that?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Dorothy got out of the car and began to slip every quarter from her change purse into the pricey meter. “You’re getting married.”
Summer stopped short in the middle of the street. “I am?” A baby-blue BMW honked as it very nearly clipped her.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Dorothy told her. “This will be fun.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, do you ladies have an appointment?” The woman behind the massive French writing desk, bare except for a tasteful lamp and a blurry, framed photo of a dreamy bride, looked Dorothy and Summer up and down.
“No, we don’t.” Dorothy squared her shoulders. “I am Violetta LaFleur from Ocean Drive and this is my lovely granddaughter, Samantha. She’s visiting from Los Angeles and she’ll only be in Milano for a day or two. We were hoping to meet with Tatiana before she leaves.”
“Impossible. Ms. Fontaine is fully booked.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Dorothy said. “Might any other bridal consultants be available? I do apologize for the short notice. It’s so difficult to plan a million-dollar affair in three months.”
“Two million.” Summer tossed her hair. “Never mind, Grandmother, we can just find someone in Beverly Hills. That’d be less hassle, anyway.” She leaned toward the receptionist. “We’ve already booked the Wilshire.”
The woman took in Summer’s designer dress and Christian Louboutin espadrilles and sat up taller in her chair. “I’m afraid Ms. Fontaine is currently with a client on location, but perhaps one of her associates has had a cancellation. I’ll be back momentarily.” She crossed the nearly empty room, heels clicking, to a set of double doors.
Minutes later, Dorothy and Summer were seated in the office of a consultant named Marcy, sipping Chardonnay.
“So tell me more about your wedding plans so far,” Marcy said, eagerly. “What is your grand vision?”
Summer turned to Dorothy, looking panicked. “Don’t be nervous, dear,” Dorothy said, patting her hand. “Let me handle this.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Summer seemed relieved.
“Actually, we heard some simply marvelous things about the plans for another one of your client couples,” Dorothy said. “Mia Rivera-Jones and Dr. Anthony Amoretto?”
“Oh, yes.” Marcy lowered her voice. “Such a shame about the doctor. He was a very...charming man.”
“And after all your work planning that wedding.” Dorothy tsked sympathetically.
“The event’s still on, actually,” Marcy said. “Not the ceremony, of course, but Ms. Rivera-Jones has decided to go ahead and host the reception at her home this Saturday night. It should be quite the celebration.”
Dorothy’s mouth dropped open. Celebration?
Beside her, Summer stared hard at the black-and-white floor, tapping one straw heel to the leg of her gilded chair. She was clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
“Of her fiancé’s life, of course,” Marcy corrected quickly. She looked from Dorothy to Summer. “You’re acquainted with the bride, then?”
“Our families are friends,” Summer said. “Work friends. My dad’s in the movie biz.”
“I see,” Marcy said, but Dorothy could tell she didn’t. Mia’s father was in real estate.
“Samantha had planned to give Mia a call while she was in town,” she put in quickly, “but under the circumstances...”
“Oh, I’m sure Mia won’t mind. She appears to be bearing up remarkably well.” Marcy leaned forward. “Between us, there were a few times when Tatiana was afraid the wedding would be called off.”
“My,” Dorothy said. “Pre-wedding jitters?”
“You might call it that.” Marcy gave a tiny, knowing smile.
“Mia said she and Tony fought a lot,” Summer put in.
Marcy’s lips suddenly tightened. Apparently she had just remembered that discretion was a key element of her job. “Really? She never mentioned that.”
“Do you know where we might be able to find Mia, other than at home?” Dorothy asked, quickly. “We don’t want to intrude, with so much going on.”
“Mia’s quite fond of Chameleon over on Sixth,” Marcy said. “She often stops by there for lunch with her girlfriends. They’re catering the reception on Saturday, in fact. You might check with the maître d’, Eduardo.”
“We’ll do that.” Dorothy stood up, and Summer followed her lead after a last gulp of wine. “Thank you so much for your time, Marcy.”
“But Ms. LaFleur, what about Samantha’s wedding details?” Marcy looked confused.
“Grandmother, I can’t have my wedding be anything like Mia’s if she’s still going to have the party part. She would be so pi—”
“Exactly,” Dorothy broke in. “Let’s go, Angel.” She extracted an engraved business card from the silver holder on Marcy’s desk and gave the wedding planner her best patronizing smile. “We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Nine
“Are you sure you can make it all the way to the restaurant?” Summer asked, doubtfully. She didn’t want poor Dorothy fainting on the sidewalk. “It’s four blocks to Sixth Street and, like, five hundred degrees.”
“I’ll be fine.” Dorothy tried to fan herself with the bridal consultant’s business card. “We’ve already got a parking space, and they’re hard to come by, especially at lunchtime. You can get the car and pick me up on the way back.”
“Well, okay.” Summer took three steps and spotted a buttercream chiffon skirt in the window of Denim and Diamonds, paired with a studded leather vest. “Ooo, cute outfit,” she said. “Maybe we should go in. They have air conditioning.”
“There’s no point in my holding you up,” Dorothy said. “Why don’t I start walking and you can meet me at that outdoor café on Eleventh?”
“La Trattoria,” Summer said, still gazing at the skirt and vest. In her short time in Milano, she’d already started internalizing her own personal GPS system for navigating the shopping district.
“Yes, that’s it. They have a bench outside. But don’t be too long, dear. We have a lot of ground to cover, and we don’t want to miss Mia if she’s there for lunch.”
“Okay.” The cool blast from the AC felt great on Summer’s face as she threw open the door to Denim and Diamonds. “No problem.”
Half an hour or so later, she located Dorothy standing among the crowd outside La Trattoria. The waiting bench was occupied by a woman with a stroller and three screaming kids.
Summer quickened her pace. “Sorry,” she said. “Have you been standing the whole time?”
“Well, yes,” Dorothy admitted. “But it did take me a while to make it here.” She looked at the shopping bags on Summer’s arm and raised her eyebrows slightly.
Summer knew what her friend was thinking. “I got some really cool stuff on sale,” she said. “But don’t worry, I used my dad’s platinum card. He gave it to me for emergencies.”
For some reason, Dorothy looked even more worried. “You have so many lovely clothes already. Are you sure buying new outfits qualifies as an emergency?”
“Sort of,” Summer said. “My dad doesn’t mind paying for clothes and entertainment. I just have to pay for the boring stuff. You know—rent, food, my car...”
“Ah,” Dorothy said. “What an interesting arrangement.”
Maybe it was a little weird, Summer thought. Luckily, Syd was a firm believer in appearances. That meant clothes and social events were very important.
Chameleon was even more packed than La Trattoria. A morbid-looking guy in an expensively tailored suit stood under the shaded host stand, absorbed in his reservation book. He seemed oblivious of the hopeful diners who surrounded him.
“Guess that’s Eduardo,” Summer said to Dorothy, in a low voice. “Are we going to eat here?”
Dorothy glanced at the engraved menu enclosed in a glass case by the street. “It’s not cheap,” she said. “Perhaps we could stick to appetizers, or dessert.”
“They probably won’t let us do that, during peak hours,” Summer said. “Should we just ask our buddy Eduardo when Mia usually comes in here, or what? He may not tell us, though, unless we bribe him. A lot.”
Dorothy checked her purse. “I’m a bit low on cash, unfortunately.”
Summer sighed. “Me, too. But hey, we might as well give it a try. I mean, what’s the worst the guy could do to us? He probably can’t afford a bowl of soup at this place himself, unless he gets free leftovers from the kitchen.”
“All right, then.” Dorothy adjusted her hat. “Let’s go.”
Eduardo lifted his long, pointy nose for about two seconds when they showed up at the host stand. Then he busied himself striking out names with swift, careful strokes in his reservation book. He probably made them all up, Summer thought.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Eduardo?” Dorothy asked. “Marcy from Tatiana Fontaine Associates recommended you as someone who might be able to help us.”
“Yesssss?” He raised one eyebrow, still disinterested.
Summer made herself look equally bored and rattled her multiple, uber-fashionable shopping bags loudly, so he would be sure to notice she had money to burn.
“I’m Violetta LaFleur from Ocean Drive,” Dorothy began, “and this is—”
“Summer!”
A waitress with curly dark hair half-braided down her back and huge silver hoop earrings leaned out from the patio railing. “It’s Esmé, from Burn the other night. How are you, girl?”
“I’m, uh, great.” Other than people thinking she was a murderer. Summer tried to sound fabulous, despite their cover being completely blown. “How about you?”
Esmé came up behind the maître d’ and looked at the reservation book over his shoulder. “Oh, look, a spot for two just opened up,” she said. “You can find room for my friends, can’t you?”
Thank you, Summer mouthed. Esmé grinned and beelined it back to the patio, where a clueless tourist was about to light a thick Cuban cigar.
Eduardo frowned. “This way, ladies. I may have a very small table in the back.”
Dorothy seemed a little worried again, probably about the astronomical lunch prices.
“No sweat,” Summer whispered, as they followed the maître d’ through the crowded, colorful dining room. “This can be another one of those emergencies.”
Papier-mâché chameleons of varying sizes and styles hung from the ceiling and framed prints of the whimsical creatures lined the walls in every shade of the rainbow.
Snakes with legs. Gross. Summer was reminded again of the dearly departed Dr. A.
When Eduardo had said “back,” he wasn’t kidding. He dumped them at a table just outside the doors to the noisy, steaming kitchen.
“Now what do we do?” Summer reached for the bottle of Pellegrino in the center of the table, and a waiter immediately ran over to pour it into her glass. “We’ll never even see Mia from here if she comes in.”
Dorothy opened her menu. “Well, my dear, I guess we will simply enjoy a lovely lunch.”
Summer was halfway done with her crab cakes and Dorothy was working her way through her chicken and tangerine salad when Esmé appeared beside their table.
“And how is everything, ladies?” she asked.
“Amazing,” Summer said, her mouth full of crab and tartar sauce.
Dorothy patted her lips with her napkin. “Just delicious. And thank you so much for helping us get a table.”
“Glad to help,” Esmé said. “I’m on break right now, so I thought I’d stop by. Summer, is this your grandma?”
“Yes,” Summer said. “I mean, no. This is my good friend Dorothy. We live in the same complex.”
“Which one?” Esmé waved. “Nah, don’t bother telling me. There are so many gated communities in this town, I get them all confused.”
“Would you like to sit down?” Dorothy asked. “I’m sure we could get another chair.”
“No, thanks,” the waitress answered. “I’d get instantly fired. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you guys. Eduardo’s wound kind of tight.”
“Hey, Esmé, do you by any chance know Mia Rivera-Jones?” Summer asked.
She shrugged. “Yeah, she hangs out here a lot with her friends, usually on Thursdays. They come straight from Maurice Georges—you know, that snooty salon down the street? I guess Thursday is mani-pedi day in Social World.”
“Good to know,” Summer said.
“But hey, we’re catering that big party Mia’s throwing at her place Saturday night,” Esmé said. “I signed on to pass hors d’oeuvres. We could use one more person, if you want to make a little extra moolah.”
“Sure, I’ll do it,” Summer said. “That’d be fun.”
Free food. And a perfect way to find out more about Mia Rivera-Jones. She could tell, from the bright expression on Dorothy’s face, that her partner was thinking the same thing.
“Okay, I’ll let Eduardo know,” Esmé said. “They’ll probably have to do a background check on you, but that’s it.”
The crab cakes in Summer’s stomach started to pinch. “No problem,” she said.
Esmé took her phone out of her long red apron. “Here, give me your number and I’ll get back to you with the details. It should be a blast. The party was supposed to be a big, black-tie wedding, but then Mia’s fiancé ended up dead.”
“We heard,” Dorothy murmured. “Very sad.”
“Yeah,” Summer said. “Bummer.” No way was she going to mention that she’d actually been on the scene. Neither was Dorothy, apparently. Her friend was busy inspecting the sweetener selection.
