Permanently Booked (3 page)

Quit it, she told herself. That wasn’t important right now. There was a freaking dead person in the library.

“Hey, wait!” Summer scrambled to keep up with Detective Donovan. “It’s a murder, okay?” she said as soon as they were far enough away from the battle-ax. “Dorothy and I think so, anyway. The librarian, Mrs. Caldwell. We already called 911.”

Quickly, she told him about finding Lorella and the bloody bookend in the messed-up library, leaving out the Trixie part for now.

For a second, the guy had zero reaction. Or that was what it seemed like, anyway. Then he took off at a run again toward the main building as a bunch of sirens started up from the main road outside the complex. Summer followed, snagging a couple brownies from the welcome table by the gate on her way.

When they got to the library, Dorothy was standing—well, sitting—guard on a chair next to Lorella. Close by, a still-jittery-looking Jennifer was trying to concentrate on her phone, instead of the body on the floor. Summer noticed that, despite her nervousness, the girl had managed to freshen her makeup and let her hair loose in soft waves around her shoulders.

Huh. Well, that was weird. Unless it had something to do with...

“Detective Donovan, we’re so glad you’re here!” Jennifer reholstered her cell and rushed toward him, her face Desert Rose-pink again.

He didn’t smile, exactly, under the circumstances, but he seemed a little friendlier now than he had at the tennis courts. “Glad to be of help, Jennifer. Hello, Mrs. Westin.” His eyes swept the room, immediately zeroing in on the body. “Can you ladies tell me everything you remember about what happened?” He headed straight for the last book stack.

Summer did her own scan of the library, trying not to focus too much on the slender, tweed-skirted body on the carpet. Her sweater was wool, too, which was pretty weird for Florida. The woman could have been any Northern grandma. Totally harmless. And like Summer had asked Dorothy earlier, who’d want to kill a librarian?

No one messed with librarians, unless they were really stupid. But Trixie Quattrochi had to be pretty dumb, if she was hanging out with that skeezy Ray guy. He looked a zillion percent mean.

Maybe Ray—not Trixie—was the person who’d clobbered poor Mrs. Caldwell. Either way, all Summer and Dorothy had to do was track those two down, and prove it. If Trixie had wanted to get rid of Lorella, though, she could have just shot her with that pistol in her duffel. Unless she was worried about the noise, maybe. Could you use a silencer on that thing?

A guy carrying a resuscitation kit bumped into her, jolting Summer back to attention. All around her, the tiny library was rapidly filling with first responders and crime scene investigators. A police photographer began to snap pictures of the body from all angles, as other forensic technicians took measurements and dusted for prints. Somehow, the crowd had totally cut her off from Detective Donovan. He was taking notes on his phone now as he talked to Dorothy and Jennifer.

Cops were never really off duty, he’d told her once. Maybe that was why he liked to spend so much time on that boat of his. It was hard to reach people on the ocean.

Obviously, he didn’t have any questions for her. She might as well be invisible now, like she’d wanted to be at the tennis courts a few minutes ago. Well, fine. But after she and Dorothy caught Mrs. Caldwell’s killer, Detective Donovan would be sorry he forgot to ask her anything.

Had Dorothy given him Trixie’s note? Yes. He was dropping that crazy orange envelope into one of the technician’s brown paper evidence bags. Too bad her sleuthing partner would never have opened the letter. They really needed to know what it said, because Donovan probably wouldn’t tell them.

Both of their fingerprints were all over that envelope. But at least no one would think she was a suspect this time. Before today, she hadn’t even known Lorella existed—or Trixie, either, for that matter.

Sometimes she didn’t pay a lot of attention to things going on at Hibiscus Pointe. But it wasn’t like she was going to actually hang out with any of the old people. Except Dorothy, of course. And her partner’s good friend, Ernie, and Grace, his wife, who was really sweet, and...

“Excuse me,” a young cop said. She looked fresh out of the academy, with her heavy gun belt practically reaching her knees, but tough. “You’re not supposed to be in here. This is a crime scene. Step outside, please.”

“But I’m with them,” Summer said, pointing. “I’m a witness.”

“Does the detective have your name and contact info?” The cop’s name tag said “Caputo.”

“Well, yeah, he knows who I am,” Summer said, indignant. “I—”

“He’ll be in touch if he needs to talk to you.” Caputo jerked her chin toward the door.

Cold.

Summer waved over the young woman’s head, trying to catch Dorothy’s attention. Total fail, before Caputo took a half step toward her. With a sigh, she backed out of the library and plopped herself on the floor beside the door to wait.

The carpet felt slightly damp. Either the cleaning people had just shampooed it, or it was some kind of invisible mold. Eww.

Down the hall, she could see Bill Beusel, Hibiscus Pointe’s silver-haired head of security, trying to shoo a bunch of gawking residents away. He and his equally useless minion had their hands full, as the seniors pressed against the velvet rope that had been set up to block off the area near the library. And now they were all staring at her.

Luckily, Dorothy and Jennifer stepped out just then. Summer scrambled to her feet. “What did I miss?” she asked Dorothy. “Was Detective Donovan happy when you gave him the note? Did he read it in front of you?”

“I’ll fill you in on everything later, dear,” Dorothy said, with a tiny quirk of her eyebrow. Oh. She didn’t want to talk about Trixie in front of Jennifer, probably.

Dorothy turned to the Resident Services director. “Jennifer, I know this is hardly the time, but I’d like to talk to you later about that book club launch Lorella had planned. It meant so much to her, and perhaps we can carry on her wishes. I’d be happy to help.”

Jeez. What did the stupid book club deal have to do with anything? Maybe Summer’s partner was trying to distract Jennifer from the dead body in the library. Or the note.

“Oh, Mrs. Westin, it’s so nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t impose on you to take on such a big project.” Jennifer looked genuinely distressed. “Especially with Mrs. Caldwell...gone...and everything. I mean, it’s true the book club idea was very close to her heart, and Roger was really anxious to build up our resident activities, but under the circumstances...”

“Hey, what did Roger say about Mrs. Caldwell being murdered?” Summer asked.

Jennifer looked at her navy pumps. “He doesn’t know yet. He’s out on the golf course. Um, inspecting the greens,” she added quickly.

The girl sounded like she was starting to panic again. Summer felt sorry for her.

“Ah. Well, do give me a call about the book club when things settle down,” Dorothy said to Jennifer. “And I’m sure Summer will lend a hand, too. Isn’t that right, dear?”

What? Just what she needed. Another volunteer job—and a superboring one, to boot. No thanks. Besides, they had a murder to solve. “Uh, yeah, sure. Dorothy, we’ve got to get going.” Summer pulled on her friend’s pink sweater sleeve. “We have to catch up with Mrs.
Luger
,” she said, under her breath. Hopefully, Dorothy would take the hint about Trixie. “Like, right away.”

“Please don’t let me keep you, ladies,” Jennifer said. “We’ll talk about the book club later, Mrs. Westin.”

Well, at least someone could take a hint.

“I need to track down Roger.” Jennifer glanced over her shoulder at Bill trying to redirect the growing crowd, and sighed. “Guess it’s too late to keep the news about Lorella quiet. But maybe we could not mention anything to the other residents about the...unusual circumstances? For now, at least.”

Dorothy nodded. “I’m sure Detective Donovan would appreciate that, too. Everyone will find out the sad truth soon enough, I’m afraid.”

“I knew I should have read Trixie’s note,” Summer said, the second she and Dorothy were around the corner. Jennifer had headed in the opposite direction, to try to help Bill get rid of the gaping seniors. “It had to have been a threat.”

“More of a warning, I think.”

“Wait. You mean you actually opened that envelope?” Summer stopped so fast she almost face-planted over the tips of her sneakers.

Dorothy’s face turned the same pink as her sweater. “Well, yes. Under the circumstances, I felt I should.”

“Good job.” Summer threw her partner a grin. “I’m impressed. Hey, is that why you were trying to distract Jennifer with all that book club stuff? So we could get rid of her and you could tell me about the note faster?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘distract,’ exactly.” Dorothy’s face turned a darker pink, more like the fake tropical plant they’d just passed in the hall. “I was quite serious about volunteering.” She filled Summer in on the contents of Trixie’s letter.

“Whoa. There’s a snake?” Summer said when her friend had finished. “Jeez, I really, really hate those things.”

“Not an actual snake, I’m sure,” Dorothy said. “The name was capitalized, so Trixie probably meant a person. Of the sneaky persuasion, perhaps.”

“Or the killing kind,” Summer said. “Trixie’s got to be the murderer, I’m telling you. Or else it’s her buddy Ray. Did Detective Donovan put out on an APB for the RV?”

Well, that was fun to say. She sounded very official.

“I did give him the note,” Dorothy said. “He said they’d be on the lookout for the vehicle.”

“On the lookout?” Summer said. “That’s it?” Sounded as if the detective was in no big hurry to question the obvious prime suspect, either. Well, fine. “We’ll just have to bring her and Ray in on our own, then. Hopefully, they got stuck in lunchtime traffic and haven’t gotten that far yet.”

She started walking again, very fast, toward the lobby, then realized she had gotten way ahead of her partner. “Whoops, sorry, Dorothy. I’ll go get my car from the lot and meet you out front.”

“We can’t approach Trixie and Ray by ourselves,” Dorothy said. “They might be dangerous. Trixie has that awful gun, remember?”

“We’ll be really careful,” Summer promised. “They’ll never even see us. All we have to do is catch up with them, and then we can call the cops. Piece of cake.”

Dorothy hesitated. “I don’t know. That’s not a very—”

“We’ve got to hurry,” Summer broke in. “Ol’ Ray and Trixie are probably almost to Georgia by now. Come on, we can grab a bite from the Frankn’Creams drive-through on the way.”

She knew Dorothy couldn’t resist their tutti-frutti shakes. And the hot dogs were pretty decent, too. “It’s good to eat when you’re stressed,” Summer added. “You know, to keep your strength up.”

In practically no time, she and Dorothy were cruising down Imperial Boulevard toward the highway entrance in her orange MINI Cooper convertible, which hadn’t broken down in weeks. Beside her, Dorothy sipped her pink-yellow-and-orange-swirled shake and held on to her floppy blue sunhat with one hand.

It was terrible about Mrs. Caldwell, of course, but it felt good to be working on a case again. Solving crimes was something Summer was actually good at. And so was Dorothy. They were a great team.

“Look out, dear!” Dorothy cried as a red Fiat drew up beside them, way too close. Two sunburned guys wearing identical red muscle shirts and Oakley sunglasses leered over at them, their teeth extra white against all that red.

“Losers,” Summer muttered. “Just ignore them.”

The driver honked his horn before shouting something she couldn’t believe any guy would say in front of Dorothy. Or any woman, for that matter.

She hit the brakes—luckily, no one was behind them—then tapped the gas again and swerved in behind the Fiat. Yep. Out-of-state plates. Morons on a road trip.

“Pay attention to the road, not the hooligans, dear.” Dorothy dabbed at a spot of tutti-frutti that had spilled on her pink sweater.

“Okay.” Sensing a sudden break in traffic to her left, Summer lurched the MINI into the passing lane and sped around the Fiat, leaving the goon twins in the dust. “See? Much better.”

“Mmm.” Dorothy was twisted in her seat. “I’m not sure, but I think I see Trixie’s RV. A few blocks behind us, turning right on Neptune.”

“Hold on to your hat again,” Summer said. “We’re gonna make a U-ie.”

Lorella Caldwell’s killer was in their sights.

Chapter Three

“I can’t believe this,” Summer said. “Now we’ve lost them.”

Dorothy tried not to wince as her friend braked at the last possible moment for still another red light on Neptune Avenue. “It does look that way,” she agreed, with a sigh. The Happy Trailways had completely disappeared into the heavy midafternoon Milano traffic. “Well, they couldn’t have gotten far,” she pointed out. “They were headed toward the beach.”

“We’ll catch up with up them, no problem.” Summer gritted her teeth as a trolley painted with colorful fish pulled in front of them. “I have to be a better driver than that dirtbag. And the mini is way easier to maneuver than a freaking RV.”

Dorothy leaned forward over the dashboard. “There they are!” she said. “On the left, about to turn onto Benton Beach Road.”

“Got ‘em,” Summer said. “Good spot, Dorothy.”

“Give me your phone, dear, and I’ll call Detective Donovan.” Although her sleuthing partner had been trying very hard to talk her into buying her own cell phone, Dorothy still hadn’t done so. She wasn’t entirely sure they were necessary, really. Except for emergencies, of course.

There seemed to be a lot of them lately. And this certainly qualified as one.

“Wait, let’s get closer first,” Summer said, weaving the MINI through the other cars crawling toward the beach. “You know, to make sure it’s them.”

Dorothy thought that was a very poor idea. Right now there was nothing separating them from Trixie and Ray but a nasty, choking cloud of diesel. Trixie, they knew, was armed—and both of them could be dangerous.

“Look, they’re pulling into the Benton Beach entrance,” Summer said. “We’ve got ’em now. Do you have any quarters for the parking meter?”

“We don’t need to park, dear,” Dorothy said. “Let’s just drive around the lot a bit, and wait until we see them get out. It’s a lot safer that way.”

“Maybe they’re staying here for the night.” Summer pulled up to the guardhouse, gazing warily at the yellow-and-red gate arm poised just above the MINI.

“I don’t think so.” Dorothy pointed to the sun-beaten sign on the side of the tiny gate house. It clearly prohibited camping, both on the beach and in the parking lot.

Summer shrugged. “A lot of people do it anyway.”

Oddly, the gate house was unmanned. Was it too late in the day to collect a parking fee? The town of Milano usually required payment for just about everything, round the clock.

She frowned but withheld comment as Summer pulled the MINI into the parking space directly next to the Happy Trailways—just as the driver door opened, narrowly missing her own.

Dorothy braced herself for Ray’s scowl—or worse—but it was a stocky, middle-aged man wearing a banana-yellow shirt, a canvas sunhat, and frayed denim cutoffs who emerged from the camper.

Well, that was most definitely not Trixie’s friend. Dorothy let out a tiny sigh of relief. It would have been nice if they had found their two suspects, of course—but maybe not this close up.

Summer hit the daisy-decaled sun visor above her head in frustration. “Rats.”

Dorothy leaned out the passenger window. “Excuse me, sir?”

He turned, wiping his face with his arm and flinging the sweat onto the asphalt. “Yeah?” he said, clearly disinterested. Then he spotted Summer, and approached the car. “What can I help you with, ladies?” he asked, placing one distinctly hairy hand on the hood.

Dorothy tried, unsuccessfully, to summon more than a shred of sympathy for the man as he yelped and jumped away from the scalding metal.

“My granddaughter and I were admiring your lovely RV,” she said. “Did you buy it here in town? We’re thinking of taking a little trip ourselves.”

“We want one exactly like it,” Summer added. “You know, with ‘Happy Trailways’ on the side. That’s so cute.”

The man’s gold wedding ring flashed in the sun as he clutched his other, slightly charred paw. “You wanna tour of the inside? My name’s Louis, by the way.”

Dorothy detected a quiet gag from the passenger seat beside her. “No, thanks,” Summer said. “We’re good.”

“It’s a rental.” A freckled woman in a khaki Australian-style hat glared at her husband as she came around the rear of the van, trailed by two children loaded down with brightly colored beach chairs, plastic toys, and swimming floats. A younger set of carrot-topped progeny was just emerging from behind the RV, lugging an enormous red cooler between them and bickering loudly.

“That’s even better,” Dorothy said. “Which agency did you use?”

“We just picked it up today. Cinderella Luxury Coaches, off 85,” the woman said. “North Milano, I think. But don’t waste your money, this thing is a piece of junk. It’s already broken down twice.”

“So sorry to hear that,” Dorothy said. Closer up, the RV did seem worse for the wear, with one semiflat tire and a large dent below the dirty windows. On this side, the worn—or intentionally edited—letters in Happy Trailways read Hoppy Tails.

“Some dear friends of mine just rented a vehicle and they may have used Cinderella Coaches, also,” Dorothy told the woman. “I do hope they won’t have any trouble. They’re going all the way to Montana.”

“Montana?” Louis’s wife glanced over her shoulder as he took off after the children, who were now pushing and shoving each other near the water fountain. “A woman in line at the rental counter said she was headed there. Told everyone she was in a big hurry, but she just kept on talking. Held all of us up.”

“Was she wearing huge diamond earrings shaped like Texas?” Summer asked.

“Don’t know what they were supposed to be,” the woman said. “But they were big and sparkly, all right.”

“Yes, that might have been my friend,” Dorothy murmured. “More of an acquaintance, really.”

“Pauline, get a move on!” Louis called from the wooden walkway that led to the beach. “The kids got away from me!”

“Sorry,” Pauline said, with a sigh. “Gotta go. Good luck on your trip.” She adjusted the wooden bead to tighten the chin strap of her hat and hurried away over the sandy parking lot.

“Those children certainly are rambunctious,” Dorothy said. “I hope their parents are able to catch up with them before they reach the water.”

“I swear, I am never having kids.” Summer pushed the ignition button.

Maddie used to say that, Dorothy told herself. Sadly, there was no way to know now whether her daughter might have changed her mind. “Surely you don’t mean that, dear.”

“Yes, I do,” Summer said stubbornly, but she didn’t sound quite as emphatic this time. “So, where are we headed? Guess we can forget catching up with Trixie and Ray now.”

“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “Why don’t we pay a visit to Cinderella Coaches? Maybe the rental agent there can tell us something about those two. Every little detail counts.”

She tried not to grip the car seat as Summer backed out of the parking space in one fell swoop.

With luck, Trixie and Ray’s motor coach had turned into a pumpkin somewhere along the road.

* * *

Summer tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. The highway was a total mess. Traffic. More traffic. Annnnd...yep,
more
traffic.

Spring break must have started early. Now there’d be a bunch of underage kids jamming the clubs every night, and all the decent restaurants would be packed with tourists.

Whoa. Did she really just think that? She used to love spring break in Cabo, and that wasn’t so long ago. Or...maybe it was.

Jeez. She was getting old.

She glanced at Dorothy beside her in the passenger seat. Her friend had to be broiling in this heat. They should have grabbed a lemonade or something from the Benton Beach snack bar.

“Hey, can you see who that is?” she asked as her cell rang. “Might be Donovan. But if it’s anyone else, don’t answer, okay?”

“Hello?” Dorothy said, into the phone. “Oh yes, how are you? She’s right here. But she’s driving, I’m afraid.”

Summer sighed. “Put it on speaker, please.”

“Hold on just a moment, Dash.” Dorothy fumbled with the screen, then looked triumphant as the deep voice of Summer’s best friend crackled into the MINI.

“Hey, Cali Girl, where are you?”

“Not home. What’s up?” She loved Dash, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit bummed that he wasn’t Detective Donovan. Not that she’d expected the caller to be him, or anything. But the guy had to question her soon about finding Mrs. Caldwell, right? It was his job, for crying out loud.

Maybe he could interview her over coffee. Or drinks. Even better.

“Well, I would have asked you this sooner, but Mother just called,” Dash said. “She’s shown up a few days early, gods help us, and she’s already on her way from the airport. Do you and Dorothy want to come over tonight for dinner? Mother is expecting a party.”

“Thanks, but I may not be able to make it,” Summer told him. “Dorothy and I are on a new case. I’ll fill you in later, but—”

“You mean the librarian lady who just got murdered?” Dash said. “The Pointe is in quite an uproar right now. Cops and TV crews everywhere. I’ve been trying to peel Juliette-Margot away from the windows.”

“Poor Jennifer,” Dorothy murmured. “She must have her hands full.”

“So what do you say, ladies?” Dash asked. “Please, please save my life and come to the dinner party tonight. You’ll love Mother. And Dorothy, bring Ernie, too. The more, the merrier.”

“Thank you, Dash, but are you sure we wouldn’t be imposing?” Dorothy said.

“Hardly.” He chuckled. “Mother’s already put in her menu requests. So, cocktails at six-thirty?”

“Count us in,” Summer said. “See you then.”

“Wait, Dash, what would you like us to bring?” Dorothy asked.

“Just yourselves.
Ciao
for now.” He clicked off.

“Well, it will certainly be lovely to meet the great GH Hamel,” Dorothy said. “But goodness, we can’t show up empty-handed. We should at least get some flowers on the way home.”

“Okay,” Summer said. “I’m sure we’ll pass a few grocery stores. Hey, look, there’s a sign for Cinderella Coaches,” she added as they finally reached the off-ramp for North Milano. “See the one with the revolving glass slipper?”

Oops. Hopefully, Dorothy wouldn’t notice those other signs next to it. Miss Kitty’s Gentlemen’s Club and Greenwood Discount Cremation Services. Summer didn’t know which one was worse.

But Dorothy was frowning at something else. Her attention seemed focused on the strip mall just off the exit, where another silver slipper—glittering like a disco ball—revolved on top of a tall pole in the middle of the parking lot. “What on earth is going on here?” she said.

“Looks as if Cinderella Coaches is going out of business,” Summer said. “Or else there’s a sudden big demand for Happy Trailways motor homes.”

At least five RVs and a few sad-looking SUVs were in the process of being hitched up to wreckers. A white stretch limo was already being towed from the lot exit. Some poor bride was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

Summer pulled into the entrance near a nondescript brick building. The sign in the window said “Cinderella Coaches and Luxury Vehicles”—with OUT OF BUSINESS stamped over it. “Well, that was fast,” she said. “Wonder if Trixie and Ray will get to keep their RV.”

“I doubt it,” Dorothy said. “How very odd, that people were renting from this place just a few hours ago.”

“Must have been an unexpected closing.” Summer leaned over the steering wheel to peer at the posted notice on the door. “Yep. IRS.”

Dorothy sighed. “I guess we won’t be questioning the rental agents, then. We might as well go ahead and buy those flowers for tonight.”

“Okay,” Summer said. “Next stop, Publix.”

Unfortunately, the entrance to 85 was closed for construction, so she had to navigate another round of traffic on the parallel truck route. At this rate, they’d be lucky to make Dash’s for dinner at all.

“Wait a minute,” Dorothy said, twisting in her seat. “Was that Jupiter Boulevard back there?”

“No idea,” Summer said. Everything in this part of town looked the same to her. Strip malls, outlet stores, fancy car dealerships, elaborately landscaped entrances to gated communities and golf and tennis clubs.

Downtown was another story, of course. Close to the beaches, the trendier parts of Milano boasted trendy boutiques, uber-hip restaurants and clubs, and famous art galleries. Not that she cared much about the galleries. They were a dime a dozen around here. But sometimes they hired model types—usually male—to hand out white wine and hors d’oeuvres.

“I seem to remember Lorella mentioning she lived off of Jupiter Boulevard before she moved to Hibiscus Pointe,” Dorothy said. “Somewhere behind the Jupiter Crossings Mall, which we just passed. Maybe we can talk to some of her other former neighbors.”

“Okay.” Summer took the next left turn. “Put my phone on speaker again, so we can find out her old address.”

After several rounds of the neighborhood under the equally-clueless direction of the cell phone’s virtual assistant, they pulled up to the curb outside of 831 Jupiter Court. The pointy, two-story tan and brown house with the criss-crossed windowpanes looked totally out of place on the crowded block of little pink houses with Spanish-tile roofs.

“That is one ugly place,” Summer said. “Like the witch’s cottage from Hansel and Gretel.”

“It’s called a Tudor home, after the royal Tudor family in medieval times,” Dorothy told her. “The style was most popular around the beginning of the twentieth century, though. You’ve never seen one?”

Sometimes Dorothy sounded a lot like a librarian herself. “Maybe,” Summer said. “But this one looks kind of haunted, if you ask me.”

“Nonsense.” Dorothy was already getting out of the car. “Let’s see if there’s anyone home.”

For the zillionth time that day, no one answered the door. And once again, Summer felt relieved, just like she had at the library. Look how
that
had turned out.

“Let’s go try the neighbors,” she said, glancing around at the other houses. All the ones besides Lorella’s had teeny, tiny pools. Did people actually swim in those? They were more like hot tubs, without the jets.

Stepping off the crumbling stone porch, she almost ran smack into a short, dark-haired guy carrying a large pair of hedge trimmers. He’d appeared out of nowhere.