Permanently Booked (2 page)

No wonder those fancy Hibiscus Pointe brochures didn’t show any pictures of the library. For what it cost to live here, the residents sure got ripped off.

There weren’t even any decent magazines, unless you counted superscary health news, overpriced real estate, or crossword puzzles with all the answers written in.

Dorothy frowned. “I’m going to check out the reading room.”

Summer followed as far as the doorway. The reading room held two or three beat-up leather recliners and a long wooden table with mismatched chairs. That was pretty much it. A third room, just beyond it, served as the business center. It boasted two dinosaur-age computers and an equally extinct printer.

Maybe, if anyone ever got that thing working again, she’d print a few copies of her résumé. Not that she’d updated it lately, as she hadn’t held any recent paying jobs long enough to list. Her last employer, a doctor, had ended up murdered on her first day of work. But at least she and Dorothy had solved the case.

“Mrs. Caldwell?” Jennifer Margolis, the Resident Services director, hovered at the library door. The pretty, dark-haired girl, about Summer’s age, was dressed in her usual Hibiscus Pointe blazer and floppy corporate tie. Ugh. Couldn’t they come up with a hipper uniform?

“Sorry, she’s not here,” Summer called, over her shoulder.

“Oh, hey, Summer.” Jennifer’s face brightened as she walked in, and Summer immediately felt guilty for dissing her outfit. It wasn’t Jennifer’s fault. Unlike her, the girl had an actual, paying J.O.B.—and Jennifer had given her a lot of breaks lately, even fending off the Residents Board on her behalf.

“Too bad I missed her.” Jennifer looked truly disappointed. “I have the first copies of the latest
What’s Your Pointe?
newsletter to show her. She wrote a great article about our book club relaunch on Friday. She’s so excited about it.”

“That’s nice,” Summer said. Did anyone actually read those newsletters?

Dorothy stepped past Summer, shaking her head. “Something just isn’t right,” she said. “Those banker’s boxes we packed for the book sale are all jumbled up, and—” She stopped when she saw Jennifer, and smiled. “Oh, hello, dear.”

“Hi, Mrs. Westin, how are you today?” Jennifer glanced around the room. “It does look a little disorganized in here, doesn’t it? Maybe we should turn on more lights.”

“We did.” Summer headed over to the librarian’s desk and peered behind it. A bunch of papers were scattered on the floor, and one of the file drawers was open, with a couple of colored folders sticking out. Didn’t the librarian have a chair? Yep, there it was: the black, swivel kind, lying on its side. Looked as if it was broken, too.

Ms. Ruiz back at Samo—Santa Monica High—would never let anyone mess up her library like this. “Someone’s definitely been here, guys,” Summer said. “And it wasn’t Goldilocks.”

“I’ll make a vandalism report, and get Security down here right away.” Jennifer reached for the cell phone at her slim waist. “When Mrs. Caldwell gets back, she can tell us if anything’s missing.”

“Wait just a sec. We didn’t check over here.” Summer jogged to the book stacks and glanced down the narrow rows of shelves. They were almost as dusty as Grandma Sloan’s. But at the last section, she stopped short.

A gray-sweatered arm was sticking straight out from behind a pile of coffee table books on the floor. An old-school gold charm bracelet dangled from the wrist.

Summer’s stomach pitched like a sunfish caught in a tsunami. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back against the nearest shelf, feeling the cool metal edge press into her back. This could not be happening again. Two dead bodies in less than two months? No way.

“I’m sure Lorella would have heard us by now,” Dorothy called. She sounded weirdly far away in the tiny library.

Summer looked back at the still form on the carpet and bit her lip. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

Chapter Two

“What’s wrong, Summer?” Dorothy hurried toward the book stacks. The poor girl looked as if she’d encountered a ghost in the semidarkness.

With some trepidation, Dorothy followed her friend’s gaze to the motionless figure of Lorella Caldwell. “Oh my goodness.” Dorothy placed a hand to her heart, making a fist so it wouldn’t tremble. “She’s...”

“Dead,” Summer said, in a near whisper. She was gripping the bookshelf behind her very tightly for support.

That wasn’t possible, Dorothy told herself. Lorella always exuded such determined energy, in her quiet way.

She leaned forward, just a smidge. The librarian lay facedown on the edge of the carpet, her reading glasses askew on their beaded blue chain. A small dark-cherry stain marked her gray head, and her left arm protruded at an unnatural angle, as though she’d been reaching for something.

Or someone. Dorothy suppressed a shudder. “Maybe she’s still alive,” she said, trying to sound hopeful. “She might just be unconscious. Maybe some kind of spell...”

“Think maybe she’s been here awhile. Doesn’t seem like CPR would help, or anything.” Summer gingerly knelt beside Lorella and placed two fingers to the woman’s neck. “Nope. Oh, wow, her eyes are open.” She quickly looked away, her face paling beneath her tan. “Sorry, that really freaks me out. It’s like she’s staring at me.”

“Try the wrist,” Dorothy said. “Sometimes it’s easier to find a pulse there.” Then she spotted the dried drops of crimson on the carpet. Lorella’s wound was no longer bleeding. “Never mind,” she said quietly.

She leaned forward to gaze more closely at the eerily still woman she’d worked beside just last week. Head wounds often bled profusely, she knew, but the bump on Lorella’s head looked particularly nasty. Could she have fallen—tripped over one of these piles of books, perhaps—and injured herself?

Somehow Dorothy doubted that. Lorella’s wound was at the back of her head, and she had fallen forward. But that arm...She shuddered again.

Jennifer joined them and gasped. “Oh no,” the Resident Services director said, her voice barely a whisper. “Poor Mrs. Caldwell. What do you think happened?”

“Looks like someone wasn’t too happy with her,” Summer said. “Because there’s the murder weapon.” She jumped up and hurried over to a smooth gold metal bookend, lying near the far corner of the stacks.

It was shaped a bit like an Academy Award statuette, Dorothy thought. If Oscar had been female, writing a book on his lap, and stuck to an L-shaped piece of metal.

Summer gave a quick nod. “Yep. Blood.”

“There’s a trail of spots on the carpet and floor, too.” Dorothy frowned. “They’re nearly the same color, but I see them now.”

“I—I’ll call for help.” Both Jennifer’s hand and voice shook as she tried to dial.

“That’s okay, I’ll do it.” Summer slipped her own cell from her pocket.

“Thanks.” Jennifer took a few steps back. “Oh my gosh. I’m really sorry, but I think I’m going to be sick.”

Dorothy hurried to put her arms around the young woman, who was now violently shuddering. “There, there, dear,” she said, patting her gently on the back, as Summer gave 911 the details and answered the operator’s questions. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

But everything was not fine, of course. Lorella Caldwell was dead.

It was true that neither of them had really known Lorella. Summer had never even met her, in fact. But no one, especially a lovely, hardworking librarian, deserved a terrible fate like this—and it happened right here at Hibiscus Pointe, too. Who else might be in danger?

A killer had targeted one of their very own neighbors, and someone else might even be next. Dorothy had full confidence in the Milano PD, she told herself quickly, but weren’t she and Summer, as residents, in a perfect position to assist with the upcoming investigation?

Of course they were. Lorella’s killer needed to be unveiled and brought to justice, the sooner the better—before he or she could strike again. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t really known the woman. It was the right thing to do.

Jennifer was sobbing now, very quietly, in Dorothy’s arms. “We can’t let the other residents know yet,” she said, with a hiccup. “Everyone will panic, and then the media will be here, and—”

“I’m sure people will notice the emergency vehicles,” Dorothy said. “We can’t very well stop those, now, can we?”

“Ten minutes,” Summer called. “They’re sending help from Bonita. Some big accident down by the beach.”

Dorothy sighed. The Milano emergency response teams were frequently overwhelmed and forced to call upon nearby towns for help. With all the seniors in this town, and adventurous tourists, one would think they’d work ways into the city budget to avoid that. Rather than, say, gold-plated nameplates for the council persons’ parking spots.

“You’re right, Mrs. Westin.” Jennifer stepped back and swiped at her big brown eyes, which were now heavily leaking mascara. “I guess I just panicked. I’d better go break the news to my boss and see how he wants to handle everything. Roger’s going to freak over this.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Dorothy said. From what little she had observed of the frequently absent general manager of Hibiscus Pointe, Roger was more likely to be concerned about how a murder on the grounds would affect his next tee time. “Here, dear.” She reached into her purse. “Let me give you a tissue before you go.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Westin.” Jennifer dabbed at her eyes.

As Dorothy returned the tissue packet to her purse, her hand brushed against the envelope Trixie had entrusted to Summer for Lorella.

Goodness. In all the excitement, she had entirely forgotten. Should they open it, now that Lorella was gone? Summer had to have imagined she’d seen the word
kill
through the envelope. But still, under the circumstances...

“Should I get a hold of Detective Donovan, too?” Summer called, from the doorway. Reception was poor inside in the library. “I’ve got his number in my phone.”

“He’s off duty, but I know he’s at the tennis courts right now,” Jennifer said. Another line of mascara had streaked the collar of her crisp white blouse. “His grandma’s playing in the tournament.”

“Oh.” Summer frowned.

Dorothy’s friend seemed overly concerned about the detective’s whereabouts, and Dorothy wasn’t sure that concern was entirely due to the current situation. After their last investigation, he and Summer had seemed a bit sweet on each other, though neither of them would admit it.

It was possible the detective was still concerned that Summer had been a person of interest in their previous case. That had to have put a damper on any blossoming romance.

“Wait, isn’t Mrs. Donovan in a wheelchair?” Summer asked.

“Wheelchair tennis is very popular now,” Jennifer said. “The head pro over at Majesty Golf & Tennis, Garrett Reynolds, coaches her, I think.”

“Well, they make you mute your cell phone at tennis tournaments,” Summer said. “I’ll run over to the courts and get Donovan.” Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared through the doorway, but poked her head back inside a few seconds later. “The note,” she said to Dorothy, breathlessly. “It had to be Trixie. Be right back.” Then she was gone again.

Fortunately, Summer’s words didn’t seem to register with Jennifer, which was probably a good thing. No sense in anyone jumping to conclusions yet, or starting rumors about possible culprits. Besides, the Resident Services director would have enough on her plate soon.

“Someone should stay with the...um, with Mrs. Caldwell,” Jennifer said. Her face was nearly as pale as the lifeless librarian’s. “Would you mind, Mrs. Westin? The first responders will be here soon.”

“You go ahead, Jennifer,” Dorothy said. “I’ll be just fine.” She wasn’t entirely certain of that, but Lorella shouldn’t be left alone, under the circumstances.

After the young woman brought her a chair from the reading room and hurried off to find Roger, Dorothy perched on the uncomfortable plastic seat, tightly clutching her purse. What if some person appeared on the scene unexpectedly? Another resident, say, to return a book.

Or the killer.

She got up and edged a bit closer to the bloody gold bookend. If need be, she could... Dorothy shuddered. She didn’t even want to think about that. Besides, it was her job right now to make sure the crime scene remained undisturbed.

Alone in the semidarkened library, with only the hum of the AC and poor Lorella for company, she drew out Trixie’s envelope. Using the edge of the tiny metal nail file from her purse-sized manicure set, she very carefully slit it open. Then, with a guilty glance down at Lorella, she pulled out the note and unfolded it with a shaking hand.

The tangerine sheet, stamped at the top with an enormous silver
T
, was scented with a sinus-permeating, citrus perfume. Dorothy peered at the page closely as she tried to make out the fat, swirly—but thankfully large—handwriting in the dim light:

Miss Lorella
,

Real sorry but I can’t do the job for you anymore.
Just got the opportunity of a lifetime and have to go for it.
May be back but must tend to some rat-killing first.

Take care and watch out for The Snake
,

Trixie Q.

Well. That was quite possibly the oddest note she’d ever read. Rat-killing? And...what on earth did Trixie mean about The Snake?

Dorothy looked back at the still body on the carpet, feeling a rush of sadness. Whoever—or whatever—the ominous-sounding vermin and reptile were, the warning had come too late for Lorella Caldwell.

* * *

Even with her new Prada sunglasses, Summer had to squint against the intense Florida rays as she scanned the golf-clapping crowd at the Hibiscus Pointe Inter-Community Seniors Tennis Tournament. Where was Detective Donovan?

“Yoo-hoo, girls, you’re falling behind!” a voice boomed. “Let’s get these balls picked up, on the double!”

Uh-oh. Summer glanced over her shoulder. In the near court, Hibiscus Pointe’s resident busybody and battle-ax, Gladys Rumway, was directing a trio of older ladies near the water station. All three wore HP polo shirts and carried plastic buckets with the palm-and-fleur-de-lis logo.

The women waved cheerfully, and immediately streamed onto the DecoTurf courts, gathering up fuzzy neon-green tennis balls.

Now Gladys was lumbering straight toward her, armed with a clipboard and a bullhorn. Not that her voice needed to be any louder.

“I see you’re dressed for the tournament, missy,” Gladys said, with a nod to Summer’s all-white outfit. She herself wore an official-looking HP visor and an enormous white muumuu patterned with crossed navy tennis racquets. “Sorry, we don’t have a junior division.”

Too bad, because Summer might have been tempted to smash a serve straight off Gladys’s poodle-curled head. “Is Detective Donovan around here somewhere?” she asked, shading her eyes again. “I have to find him right away. It’s kind of an emergency.”

“Oh yeah?” Gladys pushed her jowly face way too close. “What’s going on?”

Oops. Mistake. The battle-ax had been a ginormous pain on Summer’s and Dorothy’s first case, following them around and getting in the way. “Um, nothing,” Summer tried. “I just need to talk to him, that’s all. No big deal.”

“I’ll handle this.” Gladys lifted her bullhorn. “Attention, all players, spectators, and personnel!” she thundered. “Detective Shane Donovan, please report to the tournament director immediately. Detective Shane Donovan.”

Instantly, all action on the courts came to a halt as players froze in place and tennis balls bounced uselessly in all directions. Summer cringed as she spotted the detective’s grandma on the far doubles court, squealing to a stop in her motorized wheelchair, mid-backhand. Yikes. How could she have missed Peggy Donovan, with that blaring red hair, held back in a bright white headband?

Summer tried to pretend she was invisible. Every single person at the tournament was staring at her and Gladys now, and they all looked mad. Including the tall, broad-shouldered guy in his thirties standing at the edge of the wheelchair doubles court, his arms crossed.

Detective Donovan didn’t even need to remove his Ray-Bans to let her know how ticked off he was at being summoned by a bullhorn. And maybe that his grandma had lost a game point.

Gladys began waving her arms wildly in the detective’s direction, and he strode up the hill toward them. Summer waggled her fingers at him and tried to disappear behind Mrs. Rumway. That was pretty much wasted effort, though. She was still way taller than the battle-ax.

“Is there a problem, Mrs. Rumway?” Summer felt, rather than saw, Detective Donovan glare at both of them, behind his shades. She wasn’t going to look at him. “Miss Smythe-Sloan,” he added.

He still called her by her full last name, just to bug her. If only he weren’t so uptight, she might be totally attracted to him. She’d thought, after she and Dorothy solved his last case for him, that maybe he was going to ask her out. But he hadn’t, weirdly. “Summer,” she muttered, reluctantly glancing his way.

“Right.” A quick smile passed over his tanned face. Wait. Was he just messing with her? So annoying.

“This one has some kind of emergency situation.” Gladys jerked her thumb in Summer’s face. “So what is it, missy?”

None of your business, Summer wanted to say. She couldn’t tell the detective about Mrs. Caldwell in front of Gladys. That would be the kiss of death for keeping things on the down low around Hibiscus Pointe—and all over town.

“I was supposed to get you right away.” Summer resisted the urge to just grab the guy and drag him off with her. “There’s an RV stuck in the parking lot.”

Was that emergency boring enough to ditch Gladys?

Detective Donovan looked confused. “I’m not, uh, sure I’m the best person to—”

“Jennifer sent me,” Summer added.

Well, that sure worked. He immediately turned and practically bolted for the parking lot, as Gladys stared at her in disappointment and disgust. Summer sighed. Obviously, Jennifer had a lot more pull with Detective Donovan than she did.