Deviled!: Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2 (2 page)

T
he sky had
a purplish tinge to it and was darker than usual for this time of year. I made a mental note to check the weather report. Summer storms had a way of popping up on the lake with almost no warning. Hamm beat me to it.

“According to NOAA, there’s a chance of a pop-up storm tonight, but the radar isn’t showing anything ominous for the next few hours. I think we have time for some chips and a beer before we leave you two ladies to your weekend of fun.”

Barb gathered up her doggie duo and headed back to her own boat, satisfied that Bob was no longer a threat. I uncapped three Corona Lights and a Bud Lite—Jack refused to drink beer that required the addition of fruit—and passed them all around. We raised our bottles and toasted June for finally giving Bob a taste of his own medicine. Even Hamm, who usually disapproved of June’s outrageous outbursts, couldn’t hide the smile of approval that tugged at the corners of his lips for her handling of the situation.

“For once, I can completely relate, June. That guy has no redeeming qualities. Last August, I was trying to dock here on a windy day. Francie was on the bow ready to toss him a line, and do you know what that jerk did? Nothing. He stood on the dock with his hands in his pockets. Francie nearly fell off the boat, and the hull got a nice dent where it hit the dock post.”

“I remember that,” I said. “He said something like ‘Be sure to stop in the office to pay for dockage as soon as you get your lines tied.’ I couldn’t believe his nerve. He just strolled down the dock and didn’t offer us any help at all. What an ass.”

We shared our most memorable “Why we hate Bob” stories while we finished up our drinks, but the moment the last chip was out of the bowl, both June and Hamm jumped up and began to move things along. The only thing my husband and my best friend have in common is the inability to sit still for an extended period of time. Before I got to the lime at the bottom of my beer bottle, I was kissing my husband goodbye and being dragged toward the resort by June.

Since we’d had the good sense to have the men deliver our suitcases to the resort earlier, we were able to go straight to the convention registration and reception without the burden of luggage. A quick stop in the elegantly appointed ladies’ restroom to freshen up our lipstick and fluff our hair took all of five minutes. The remainder of the registration process was a bit more complicated.

“Just choose one, June. It’s not like this is a matter of life and death.”

“I know, but I love dressing up, so “Theatrical Makeup Design and Application” sounds really fun. On the other hand, “Improvisation: Comedy on the Fly” is right up my alley. Why do we have to choose only one?”

“Unless you can find a workshop on cloning yourself, you have to choose just one. They’re both scheduled at the same time. How about we go with set design? It might be fun to spend some time in the theater. I hear it’s quite impressive.”

“Okay, that sounds good. I’m already quite talented at makeup and cracking jokes, so it couldn’t hurt to learn a new skill. Why didn’t you just say that from the beginning? We’re missing out on free drinks. Come on.”

My eye roll went unnoticed by June, but it did make me feel a little better. I signed us up for the 9:20-12:00 set design workshop that included scale renderings and let myself be dragged along to the bar. Our lanyard-style name badges included four free-drink tickets to be used throughout the weekend. I handed over ticket number one to the bartender-mime, who with an exaggerated bow and a flourish, exchanged it for a glass of red wine.

We found a high-top table where we could set our glasses down, soak up the atmosphere, and people-watch. I recognized an acquaintance or two from different conventions I’d attended over the years, as well as several drama-department heads from neighboring universities with whom I occasionally work. We exchanged friendly nods and waves as they made their way across the room, everyone trying to impress, network, and make new connections. I was more interested in the tall blond woman who was working the room, stopping at each table for a moment or two.

“Do you recognize that woman, June? She looks like she might be an actress.”

“Whoa, she looks like Angelina Jolie but with blond hair. I don’t think it’s her, but I sure wouldn’t mind if Brad dropped in for a guest appearance.”

“Good day, ladies. You’ve got the Angelina part right, but the last name is DeVille. I couldn’t help overhearing your comment and I’m flattered. My name is Angelina DeVille, and I’m the manager of Devil’s Island Resort and Conference Center.”

“It’s so nice to meet you. I thought for sure you were a famous surprise guest.” My flattery didn’t seem to faze her or cause her to conjure up a fake emergency to escape our close scrutiny. She simply gestured to the nearest waiter who rushed to our table, slid three glasses of rose champagne in front of us without spilling a drop, and silently melted back into the sea of socializing guests.

Ms. DeVille lifted her glass and waited for both of us to select an elegant, pale-pink-bubble-filled flute. “I would like to propose a toast. It’s more of an apology, actually. I heard the two of you had an ugly run-in with my brother-in-law, Bob, this afternoon. On behalf of the resort, I would like to sincerely apologize for his behavior and assure you that it is my main objective for the two of you to have a memorable time for the rest of your stay here on our island.”

June raised her glass. “Boy, word travels fast around here, but I’ll drink to that.”

We clinked our glasses and took a sip of the delicious champagne. “That’s very kind of you Ms. DeVille,” I added.

“Please, call me Angelina. And it’s the least my husband and I can do to make up for Bob’s dreadful behavior. He’s a constant thorn in our side, but we’re unable to get rid of him or even reprimand him, thanks to his birthright. It’s unfortunate. I’d like you both to come up to my suite for some refreshments after the reception and to pick up the all-access passes we’ve arranged for you. They will allow you free access to all park amenities, complimentary food and beverages at all resort eateries, and even full use of the hotel spa services. We’re in the penthouse suite. Stop by any time after you’ve settled in. You’ll need this code in the elevator to reach the top floor. There’s a keypad beside the floor number. I also took the liberty to have your things moved to a more comfortable room.”

She scribbled digits on a napkin and handed it to me. With that, Angelina disappeared into the crowded room, and June and I were left staring at each other, confusion and delight on our faces. June spoke first.

“Did she say complimentary food and beverages?”

“I believe she did. Upgrade too. Who would have thought that finally getting to dump Bob overboard would come with the added benefit of all-access resort passes? Well-played, June.”

“Let’s finish these drinks and find our new room so we can freshen up before we head up to the penthouse. Maybe they left us some complimentary snacks.” In true June fashion, she was already rushing toward the lobby before I even set my glass down.

“Check out this room, Francie. I should dump people in the lake more often.”

“I agree. This is quite lavish. I can’t see how Bob, acting like Bob, has caused all of this extravagance. I’m not complaining though. Let’s unpack and change our clothes. Then we can get up to that suite before Angelina changes her mind.”

“Cheers to that, Drama Diva. Now how do we decide which one of us is wearing this magnificent scarf and who gets the hip hat? We need to make an impression, I think.”

“I’ve got dibs on the hat. Look at my hair. After all those rides today, I don’t think I can get a comb through it, and there’s no time to wash it and start over.”

“It’s a deal. I think I’ll accessorize with some of the silver jewelry your sister loaned us from her Silpada business. I want to make a statement.”

I checked out June’s look. She had chosen a black tank top, black skinny jeans, and black heels that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment, topped off with enough silver to give Fort Knox a run for its money. And then there was the scarf. June had wrapped the length of shimmery gray, taupe, and beige fabric loosely around her neck and let the ends fall to below her knees. It totally worked.

I left my curly hair down and arranged the black fedora I scored at a trade show discount sale on top of my head at just the right angle. The “barely flawed” Manolo Blahniks I acquired on eBay, a little black dress, and a great pair of black-and-silver dangly earrings completed my ensemble.

After appraising ourselves one last time and appropriately admiring each other’s impeccable fashion sense, we grabbed our handbags and made our way to the elevator for the short ride up to the penthouse. I’m not a fan of tight, enclosed spaces, but when I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the mirrored elevator walls, I had to smile. We were indeed an impressive pair.

T
he letter
P
at the end of the indicator panel beside the door lit up, and the ding announced our arrival. My right ankle wobbled a bit as my heels sunk into the plush gray carpet of the hallway. It was a far cry from the flat, generic floor covering on the rest of the hotel levels, but it didn’t take us long to get acclimated to the luxurious environment. We strutted our stuff down the long corridor to the only door at the end of the hall.

I was just about to knock when the door flew open and a young girl hurled herself out of the room, careening toward us and barely avoiding a head-on collision. She didn’t stop to apologize or to chat, which would have been impossible anyway, since she was sobbing pitifully as she charged past us, down the hall, past the elevator, and into the stairwell.

“What the heck was that?”

“I don’t have a clue,” I replied. “Do you think we should leave? Maybe this isn’t a good time for a social visit.”

Before June could comment, a second figure appeared in the doorway.

“Won’t you come in, ladies? I apologize for that little scene. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked, I assure you.”

It doesn’t happen often, but I admit I was speechless. The person who had just addressed us was beyond Brad Pitt, even borderline Heathcliff. Thankfully, June stepped up to the plate and extended her hand.

“Hi. I’m sorry. We must have the wrong room. We were looking for Angelina DeVille. I’m June and this is Francie.”

“Of course you are. We were expecting you. I’m Damien, Angelina’s husband. Won’t you come in?”

June and I gave each other the “here we go” look and graciously accepted the darkly handsome man’s invitation to step over the threshold into the world of the rich and possibly famous.

Angelina stood up from her seat by the expanse of glass overlooking the sparkling lake. The white wingback chair embellished with a golden brocade pattern could have been a throne positioned in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows to take full advantage of the view. The sun had peeked out from behind the gathering clouds and was just starting its westward journey toward the horizon, creating a backdrop of luminous color. She was wearing a long dress of shimmering, honey-colored silk, nearly the exact shade of her waist-length hair, and standing there in front of the window, surrounded by the soft glow from outside, it was easy to imagine how ancient civilizations would have worshipped a sun goddess. Glancing at June and then down at my own black-on-black ensemble, I got the sinking feeling we might cause a solar eclipse if we got too close to her.

“Please, please, come in. I’m so glad you came.” Angelina gestured toward the sofa across from her chair. “Make yourselves at home. Help yourself to something to eat or drink.”

Between the couch and the two chairs now occupied by Mr. and Mrs. DeVille was an elegant cherry-wood coffee table laden with plates of crackers and cheese, and we weren’t talking Ritz and Kraft Singles. Two open bottles of wine, a Pinot Noir and a Chardonnay, completed the inviting repast.

June and I sat across from the stunning couple and helped ourselves. After all, we didn’t want to seem rude. I chose a glass of the red, and June loaded her plate with as many fancy crackers and exotic cheese wedges as it could hold. As I sipped my drink and mentally ticked off the events of the day that led us to this beautiful penthouse suite, Damien reached across the table and set two gold-trimmed, glossy-red cards in front of us.

“Please accept our heartfelt apologies once more for the deplorable behavior of my brother, Roberto.”

“Who the heck is Rober—”

I nudged June in the ribs and surreptitiously coughed “Bob” into my elbow. Printed on the front of the cards in gold letters were the words
Devil’s Island VIP
. On the back was a list of all the venues, eateries, services, and attractions to which the passes allowed the holders free and unrestricted access. We were going to need a magnifying glass to examine all the possibilities. Near the bottom of the card, two words caught my attention. I spotted the name of the world-renowned spa, Heaven’s Gate. This conference was getting better and better by the minute thanks to the obnoxious, thorn-in-the-side, black sheep of the DeVille family. Who’d a thought?

The four of us chatted for ten minutes or so, we complimenting the couple on the vast resort complex and its wide range of amenities, and they asking questions about the drama conference and our plans for the next few days. When the topic of the marina came up, we all shifted uncomfortably in our seats.

I tried to skim over the topic. “My husband and I have been bringing our boat over here for years and always manage to have a wonderful time.”

“Don’t worry,” Angelina said. “I know what you must be thinking. You have a good time as long as you don’t need to go into the marina office for anything while Bob is on duty.”

Being a competent journalist, June was adept at steering awkward conversations in new directions. “So, Damien, there can’t be too many people around here with your name. I saw that tonight’s feature at the dinner theater is Damien the Magnificent, Magician Extraordinaire. Could it be? Is it you?”

Damien stood and took a theatrical bow. “At your service, m’lady. Perhaps you would care to join me on stage tonight for a special performance?”

“Oh, I’m honored,” June replied, “but I’d rather take notes and try to figure out your sleight of hand. Francie, however, is a born performer. She’d be perfect, I’m sure.”

“If you don’t mind,” I added, “I’d love to play magician’s assistant for an evening. It sounds intriguing.”

“I look forward to it then. Now if you ladies will excuse me, I need to prepare for tonight. Adieu.” He took his leave with a flourish, disappearing through a door which I assumed led to his office or bedroom, and it seemed like a good time for us to depart as well.

“Angelina, it’s been so nice getting to know you and your husband. Your hospitality is really above and beyond the call of duty, but we appreciate your generosity and plan to take in as much as we possibly can while we’re here. See you tonight.”

“Yes,” June agreed, “and thanks again for the VIP cards.”

“I’m delighted that you came up. There will be a table right up front reserved for you this evening. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”

We stood to leave but as we did, one of the silver bangles on June’s wrist caught on her scarf. While trying to detach her accessories, her hand jerked, bumping her not-quite-empty wine glass on the table. The glass tipped, but June made a great save. Rather than splashing her beverage all over the DeVille’s designer couch, she sloshed it on herself, soaking her pretty scarf.

“No worries. At least I was drinking chardonnay. You can’t even see it.” June was being magnanimous. After all, it was my scarf.

“Please, I insist you leave it with me. I’ll have it cleaned and delivered to your room.”

Angelina wouldn’t take no for an answer, so June untied the length of silky fabric and handed it to our host.

Angelina walked us to the door, and our visit was complete. We got halfway down the plush corridor, congratulating ourselves on the success of our trip and how lucky we were to make friends with the owners of the resort, when the heel of my designer footwear got snagged in the carpet again. I stepped right out of my shoe, never missing a stride, which was better than doing a face plant since I didn’t really want to test my theatrical makeup skills just yet. I got down on my knees and was tugging on the shoe, trying to free it from the carpet, when we heard loud, angry voices—familiar voices—coming from behind the door we’d just closed behind us.

“Listen, Angie, just let me take care of this. I guarantee we won’t be cleaning up these messes again. I’ve got it handled, and if any trouble comes down on me . . .”

The plush, shoe-eating carpet finally gave up my heel, and the momentum rocketed me straight onto my back in the middle of the hall.

The penthouse doorknob turned, and I had to make a quick recovery. June and I scrambled toward the elevator so we could avoid being accused of eavesdropping. We stumbled into the mirrored elevator just as Damien crashed through the door of the suite, shouting back at Angelina to let him take care of their problem. June stabbed at the
Close
button, and seconds before the steel doors met, Damien’s piercing stare connected with mine. The indicator light for the lobby couldn’t have come on fast enough.

“What the heck just happened, Francie? That guy went from Don-Draper-charming to Norman-Bates-scary in the blink of an eye.”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad we got out of there when we did. I hope Angelina is all right.”

June frowned. “What do you think Damien meant about ‘handling their problem?’ Was he talking about that hysterical employee, or Bob, or maybe us? He seemed furious.”

“I don’t know. It could be anything. We should probably leave it alone.”

Before June could reply, her phone interrupted, chirping an alert signal. She flipped open her clutch to retrieve it and read the message on the screen. “It’s a severe weather alert.”

My first thought was Hamm. “We should run over to the marina to warn the guys in case they haven’t heard the update. Hamm said the bad weather wasn’t supposed to roll in until overnight. He hasn’t responded to any of the recent texts I’ve sent him. His phone might be dead.”

The elevator glided to a stop on the lobby level, and the doors slid open to an empty hall.

“Oh no, not again. You’ve got to get that man a backup phone charger this Christmas so you aren’t always worrying.”

June pulled her phone out of her tiny handbag again and checked it for missed messages. “I haven’t heard from Jack since we left the marina either. You’re right. Let’s head over to make sure they got the latest weather update. If both of their phones are off, they probably haven’t heard the new forecast yet.”

“That settles it, then. Plus, a brisk walk will help burn off all that fancy wine and cheese so we’ll have room for dinner.”