Murder on the Half Shell (A Red Carpet Catering Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter 5

Penelope, Max and Arlena left for breakfast together the next morning after spending a leisurely Saturday afternoon and evening on the boat. Penelope felt rested, and had enjoyed the downtime floating out in the ocean, eating, drinking wine and reading over a few scripts with Arlena. She was contemplating her next project, and had brought several with her to consider.

Max offered his arm to the ladies as they stepped off of the yacht and onto the dock. The two old fishermen who had watched Penelope fall into the water the previous morning were out on the back of their boat again. They always seemed to be out there, in the same fraying aluminum deck chairs, wearing beat-up sun visors and staring wordlessly at everyone who walked past them, offering an occasional nod or wave. The only thing that changed with them was their clothes, on occasion, and what type of drink they were holding. If it was morning, it was coffee mugs, and any time after noon it was almost always a beer can.

Something was different about them this morning though. Usually, they smiled benignly, keeping to themselves but acknowledging their dock neighbors. Today they stared more intently, scowling at the group as they passed. Penelope glanced away after her wave was not returned. 

“I guess they woke up on the wrong side of the floor this morning,” she muttered to herself.

The trio walked up the dock towards the shore, passing the usual boats and more than a few empty slips. When they reached the marina’s office, Penelope noticed a boat she’d never seen before rocking gently against the dock. It was a plain white speedboat with big blue letters that spelled POLICE along the sides and back. She pointed it out to Arlena and Max who walked slightly ahead of her, discussing what they might order for breakfast.

Max glanced around at Penelope and the boat.

“Yeah, so?”

“I was just thinking I’ve never seen a police boat here before,” Penelope said. “We’ve been here a month, and I’ve never even seen a police officer, now that I think about it.”

“We know how much you like police officers, Pen,” Max teased.

Penelope took one more look at the boat then quickened her pace to catch up to them.  When they stepped onto the sandy walkway that headed to Ocean Avenue, Penelope noticed a definite change in the air, a tension in the faces of the people they passed.

“Which way is this Inn you’ve been going on about?” Max said, adjusting his reflective sunglasses as he looked up and down the beach. “Where are all the sunbathers? It’s a beach, right?”

Arlena scoffed. “This isn’t South Beach or Ibiza, Max. Why do you think we’re filming a movie that takes place in 1890 here? Shane doesn’t want a bunch of random people in neon bikinis in the background. We’re practically on a deserted island.”

“They do get some tourists,” Penelope said, “but we’ve sectioned off most of the beach for the shoot. We hardly see anyone who isn’t with the production.”

They made a right on Ocean Avenue and headed towards The Andrea Island Inn. It sat at the north end of the beach, and was owned by a lovely older woman named Jeanne. Her skin was baked to a wrinkly finish from sitting on the hotel’s rooftop deck with her guests, watching the ocean roll in and out for over forty years.

Jeanne told Penelope she had taken over the Inn from her parents, just like they had from her grandparents, who had built the Andrea Inn on the biggest bluff overlooking the ocean. They were one of the original families to settle on the island and are fiercely proud and protective of it. The Inn was indeed impressive, but was starting to show its age, mostly in the thin sheets and worn-around-the-edges comforters on the beds.

The main hallway of the lobby was spacious and stretched from the front of the building out to the rear veranda and the swimming pool that overlooked the ocean. Jeanne kept the wooden double doors on each open during the day to let in the natural light and ocean breeze.

They entered the restaurant and Penelope’s heart skipped a beat when she saw two of her chefs sitting at a table in the rear corner talking to a couple of police officers. One of the officers was a large black man, his biceps straining the short sleeves of his pale blue golf shirt as he leaned his elbows on the table. A badge-shaped emblem with the state of Florida in the middle of it was stitched on his shirt, the word POLICE under it in dark blue letters. The other officer was a slender Spanish woman in a matching uniform, her arms folded tightly at her chest. 

Francis looked down at his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his head shaking slightly as he listened to the conversation at the table.

Quentin sat up straight, his expression one of concern as he answered the officer’s questions.

Jeanne hurried over to the podium to greet them. “Oh good lord, Penelope, I’m so glad you’re here. Oh, and Miss Madison and…”

“This is my brother, Max,” Arlena said.

“Oh, well,” Jeanne said. Her usually serene smile had been replaced with a nervous grimace. She began gathering up various menus, almost dropping them at one point. Her eyes flicked towards the back of the dining room at the table with the police officers. “They’ve been trying to call you, Penelope. Those detectives are asking about the two young girls you have working for you.”

“Why, what’s going on?” Penelope asked, alarm sending a red flush up her neck to her cheeks. She pulled her backpack from her shoulders and reached inside for her phone. She had three missed calls, one from an unknown Florida number, one from Francis and one from Joey. “My phone must be on silent. I can’t believe I missed all of these calls.”

“Nobody knows where the girls are,” Jeanne said, lowering her voice and glancing furtively around the room. Her silver curls swayed around her glasses that were always perched on the end of her nose when not swinging by a lanyard around her neck. “Their parents are really upset. They’ve been up and down the beach looking for them all weekend. No one has seen them.”

“That’s terrible,” Penelope said. “Do you think they crossed over to the mainland?”

“The ferry captain doesn’t remember seeing them,” Jeanne said, putting the menus in the crook of her elbow and wringing her hands. “The detectives came by this morning, started questioning my guests.” Jeanne shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear, let’s get you a table.”

“I’ll be right over,” Penelope said to Arlena. “I’m going to check on my guys.”

Jeanne led Arlena and Max in the opposite direction to a four top next to the large picture window overlooking the ocean. Penelope weaved her way to the table in the back. A few of the diners eyed her quietly while others gazed curiously at the back table.

“And that was the last time you saw them?” The male detective was directing his question at both of her chefs across the breakfast table. He was making notes in a leather-bound notebook in front of him as they spoke.

“Yes, sir,” Francis said. “We all did. It was a big party, and practically everyone from work was there. Hey, Boss,” he said as Penelope neared the table.

“You guys okay?” Penelope asked.

Quentin continued to stare at the table.

“This is Detective Williams and Detective Torres,” Francis said, nodding towards the other side of the table. “They’re looking for Sabena and Rebekkah.”

Detective Torres leaned forward.

“And you are?”

“I’m Penelope Sutherland. I’m the head caterer on the movie,” Penelope said, extending her hand. Torres stood up rigidly from her seat and shook firmly. Detective Williams stood up and looked down at Penelope, towering over her by at least a foot. He shook her hand with similar authority then retook his seat.

“Miss Sutherland…” Detective Williams said, flipping over a page in his notebook. “We have you on our list of people to talk to. You hired Rebekkah Flores and Sabena Lambert to work as waitresses on the set?”

“Yes. On occasion, we have the girls come and serve for us. It’s usually either for lunch or dinner, no more than twelve to fifteen hours a week.”

“How well do you know them?” Detective Torres asked. Her arms had found their way back into a tight fold across her chest.

Penelope thought for a second. “I’ve only known them for a few weeks. I do know they’re best friends. Sabena told me she and Rebekkah have been since they were little.”

Detective Williams took notes as she spoke.

“They’re hard workers. I’ve never had an issue with them not showing up or causing any problems during service. Have you tried locating their phones?”

Detective Williams shook his head. “We aren’t able to track either phone, which is unusual. It appears they’ve both been turned off, or the batteries are dead.”

“If they decided to go somewhere together for the weekend and they didn’t want their parents to find out, they could have just turned them off to avoid being found,” Penelope said, hopefully.

“Maybe,” Detective Williams said with a note of skepticism, staring at his notepad. “Teenage girls and their phones, though…Miss Sutherland, how did the girls come to work for you?” He glanced up at her.

“I put an ad on Craigslist, an open call for servers who could work flexible hours but nothing permanent or full-time. I just needed a couple of people to fill in for two or three hours here and there when we have a larger service. They came to meet me together and I hired them on the spot. They’re sweet girls, and good students, according to their parents. Florida doesn’t require me to get work permits for underage hires, but I had them bring me written permission agreements. I remember both of them were signed by their mothers. I can get their employment information for you, those permissions and the hours they’ve worked.” Penelope glanced over her shoulder and saw that Jeanne was filling two mismatched mugs for Max and Arlena, coffee for him and hot water for her.

“That would be helpful, Miss Sutherland,” Detective Torres said, pulling a card from her front pocket. “You can email everything to me.”

“Sure. I’ll do it as soon as possible,” Penelope said.

“Can any of you think of anything else that might be helpful?”

Penelope and her chefs all shook their heads. Then Penelope said suddenly, “I saw Sabena’s mom Saturday morning at Rose’s beach shop on Ocean Avenue. She hadn’t heard from Sabena and couldn’t reach her on the phone.”

Officer Williams flipped back a few pages in his notebook and nodded, then made a quick note and closed it. “Thank you for your time. We might be in touch again, so please stay available.”

“We’re all here most of the time,” Penelope said. “A captive audience on the island.”

“That’s why it’s strange two girls could just up and disappear,” Detective Torres said sharply.

“And you’re positive they didn’t head over to the mainland, lose track of time in Miami or something like that?” Penelope asked.

“Unfortunately no one remembers seeing them together or separately since Friday. There aren’t any cameras on the ferry, but there’s one in the mainland terminal. We’re still reviewing the footage, but so far there’s no sign of either of them,” Detective Williams said. “They’re officially missing persons, critical missing because of their age.”

Penelope bent Detective Torres’ card lightly between her fingers, glancing down at it. “Of course, if there is anything we can do…any of us,” she motioned to her two chefs, “let us know. I hope they turn up soon.”

The detectives excused themselves and left the restaurant, stopping to say something to Jeanne at the hostess podium. As they approached the door, a couple entered. Penelope guessed they were Rebekkah’s parents from the worried looks on their faces and the resemblance between Rebekkah and the woman.

“Were you able to tell them anything helpful?” Penelope asked, glancing back at her chefs.

“Someone told those detectives Sabena and Rebekkah were drinking at the party,” Francis said. “But I swear, Boss, I only saw them drinking water, nothing else.” Quentin and Francis both looked relieved that the detectives had left, and a little queasy.

Penelope flicked her eyes towards the door again, and saw the couple talking with the detectives, a nervous Jeanne wringing her hands and listening. “Did you see the girls leave with anyone after the party?” she asked Francis.

“Last I saw, they were with Regan. He said he would make sure they got home okay. They all live in that development off the main avenue, past Rose’s. When we left, the party was winding down, but there were still a bunch of people hanging out.”

Penelope pictured the development he was talking about. It was the only large cluster of houses on the island, three or four winding streets with modest ranchers that looked like they might have been new in the 1970s. She figured it would be about a fifteen-minute walk from the beach party to where the girls lived.

“Have any of you guys seen Regan this weekend?” Penelope asked, remembering how she had found him early Saturday morning, passed out on the avenue.

“We haven’t. The other chefs from our crew went over to the mainland Saturday morning, and they’re not back yet,” Quentin said, shrugging. “Maybe they know something, but I doubt it.”

“You guys didn’t want to get off the island with them?” Penelope asked, shifting her weight and adjusting her backpack on her shoulders.

“Nah,” Francis said. “We hiked on the other side of the island and camped out Saturday night. Just came back into town for breakfast an hour ago.”