Permanently Booked (6 page)

Parker was the only one digging into the salad, but by the time she picked away the egg, bleu cheese, bacon, croutons, anchovies, black olives, and tomatoes, there wasn’t much left, except a ton of lettuce.

Carrie, Summer noticed, was too busy hanging on Georgiana’s every word to eat much, either.

“So, tell me, girls, what have you heard about the unfortunate incident in the main building today?” Georgiana leaned forward. “My son has forbidden us to talk any more about writing.”

“I really don’t think we should discuss that
other
subject over dinner, either, Mother.” Dash glanced at Juliette-Margot, who was making an elaborate fort out of her green beans almondine.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Carrie said. “We just heard about the whole thing this afternoon when we got here. And it was especially sad because Lorella Caldwell was such a big fan of mine.”

“You don’t say.” Georgiana gave Dash a nod and tapped her wineglass for another refill.

No one, not even Carrie’s PR person, took the opportunity to ask Carrie anything about her killer fog book, Summer noticed. Well, she sure wasn’t going to bring it up.

“It’s too bad I never got to meet Lorella in person,” Carrie added. “I got in touch with her a few weeks ago and she offered to introduce me to some important people at Santa Teresa.”

Dorothy offered Juliette-Margot a pat of butter for her green bean fort. “Didn’t you mention you were an alumna there yourself, Carrie?”

Nice, Summer thought. Dorothy was onto Carrie and her fibs, too.

“There are so many literary influentials in Milano,” Carrie went on, as if she hadn’t heard the question. “That’s one of the reasons I decided to launch my author tour here.”

Beside Summer, Parker gave an angry little snort over her mountain of rabbit food. Dorothy was rubbing her temples and Dash looked as if he had a really bad headache, too. But Georgiana was leaning toward Carrie again, like a cat sizing up a cockroach—probably gathering material for some clueless character in her next novel.

“I just love to get out and meet people in person,” Carrie blabbed on. “I don’t really like to toot my own horn or deal with small stuff, though. That’s why I hired Parker.”

Her assistant gave a particularly hard stab at her lettuce. She had to have a tough job, Summer told herself.

“Well, I devote my energies to writing. At the end of the day, that’s what’s most important to my readers.” Georgiana sat back in her chair, and reached for the e-cigarette holder next to her dessert fork. Dash shook his head. Luckily, Julian had already escaped from the party to finish some pressing work in his study, or he probably would have blown a gasket.

Dorothy put down her crystal water glass. “Speaking of readers,” she said, “Summer and I are carrying on Lorella’s plans to revive the Hibiscus Pointe Book Club. Our first meeting is this coming Friday, in fact.”

“How very thoughtful,” Georgiana said. “Would you like me to make an appearance, to help kick things off? I happen to have some short speeches prepared, for these sorts of things.”

Summer could have called that one. And an even more thrilling offer from Carrie in—wait for it—three, two—

“I could make a presentation, also,” Carrie jumped in. “I’m sure Mrs. Caldwell would have wanted me to.”

Right. Summer didn’t know about poor Lorella, who was probably silently screaming from wherever she was, but this pushy Carrie person was driving her crazy.

“How very kind of you both to offer,” Dorothy said. “Our membership will be quite small to start, though, so it may not be worth your valuable time. We could do a larger, joint reception down the road, perhaps. With the first meeting set in two days, I don’t think we’d have enough time to publicize...”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem, Ms. Westin.” Parker turned to Summer. “You could put some flyers up around the complex tomorrow, right? I would, but it’d be better if you did it, since you’re a resident. Some people don’t like outsiders posting notices.”

No point in informing Parker that a lot of people around Hibiscus Pointe didn’t consider her a resident. Summer glanced at Dorothy. She wasn’t sure her friend wanted to host this author reception deal, either, but they were trapped. “Uh, sure.”

“Jennifer did give me some flyers this afternoon,” Dorothy said. “And there’s the article Lorella wrote for the Hibiscus Pointe newsletter tomorrow. That’s all we have for promotion, I’m afraid.”

“We can update the flyers,” Parker said. “And maybe you can get them into resident mailboxes, as well,” she added to Summer. “I’ll handle the online end.”

What a pain. But maybe if they made a bigger deal out of this meeting, and more people showed up, she and Dorothy could solve this case faster. And then she could quit the whole book club thing. She’d have to find a way to do it without hurting Dorothy’s feelings, though.

“I’m so excited to make a joint appearance with the great GH Hamel,” Carrie said as Julian reappeared at the party with a tray of little pots filled with chocolate mousse. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Likewise.” Georgiana looked as if she’d just chugged a whiskey sour. “As I always say, the more the merrier.”

Chapter Six

“Sorry, Jennifer, but that’s your job. I’ve got other fires to put out, okay? You need to clean this whole thing up, or the board will be screaming.”

Summer flattened herself against the wall outside the Resident Services director’s office, straining to hear the conversation above the sounds of hammers and drills. And she really hoped the Please Pardon Our Appearance—We’re Renovating! sign behind her head didn’t mean wet paint. She’d just bought this T-shirt online from Kitson.

The guy with the whiny voice had to be Roger. Summer hadn’t actually heard the complex manager say a single word since she moved here. The only place most residents ever even saw Roger the Dodger was either on Hibiscus Pointe’s private links or in his super-airbrushed photo in the
What’s Your Pointe?
newsletter. There was a Manager’s Corner section every week, where he supposedly answered people’s questions and responded to suggestions.

Of course Jennifer wrote the whole thing.

“Things have gotten way out of hand with resident accounts,” Roger went on. “This particular delinquency was a primo example, and now what are we supposed to do? Do you think you can get things cleaned up by the time I get back on Monday?”

Resident accounts? Uh-oh. Summer sent a quick text to Joy to see if she’d spring for rent again this month. Her sister would be pretty ticked off, but she couldn’t take a regular—well, paying—job right now, with the new case and all.

“I’ll take care of it, Roger,” Jennifer promised, but her voice sounded a little wobbly. “I’m sure we’ll get a check eventually. She just didn’t seem like such a bad person. I had no idea...”

Of course not. Because she, Summer, was a really good person. But it was nice of Jennifer to have her back.

She checked her phone. No answer from Joy yet. Summer edged away from the wall and hurried down the hall.

Now wasn’t the best time to talk to Jennifer. Even if it meant she couldn’t use the free Hibiscus Pointe office copier for that new flyer Parker had given her this morning. And she wouldn’t get to find out if anything happened between Jennifer and Detective Donovan.

Oh well. It wasn’t like she cared that much, anyway. Like Roger, she had more important stuff to do right now.

Like find Lorella Caldwell’s killer—before the Milano PD.

* * *

The Silver Pancake was much more crowded than Dorothy had anticipated, especially for late morning on a weekday. But so many people at Hibiscus Pointe had recommended the cranberry crepes that she had her heart set on them.

This was a working brunch, since she and Summer planned to discuss book club logistics. With the Hibiscus Pointe Library still cordoned off for the investigation, they’d chosen a new locale: the Events Room at Hibiscus Towers. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too large a space for their visiting authors.

The hostess called yet another party, an elderly couple with two walkers and one uniformed aide between them. Summer, wearing a stylish, droopy T-shirt and rather low-rise yoga pants—had she worn those to bed?—came over to sit next to Dorothy on the waiting bench. “Brought you a paper,” she said.

“Thank you, dear.” Dorothy began to skim the pages, holding it away from her no-iron white blouse. The
Milano Morning Sun
never carried much news. The free local daily was mostly filled with advertisements, estate sale announcements, and real estate opportunities. But her eye stopped at the crowded Deaths section.

There it was: Lorella Caldwell’s obituary. The short write-up included a small, grainy black-and-white photo, which had to be three decades old.

Summer was looking over her shoulder now. “She looked almost the same when she was younger as she did when...we found her.”

Dorothy squinted at the page. Maybe the printing quality of the
Milano Morning Sun
was to blame for the blurriness of Lorella’s photo. “Well, let’s see. She was from Massachusetts, a former professor at and graduate of Wellsmount College. Goodness.”

“Never heard of it.” Summer inspected her pedicure. “Oh, wait. Wasn’t that the school Dash’s mom went to? And Carrie, sort of? They were talking about it last night.”

“Yes, indeed,” Dorothy said. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Wellsmount is a very small, prestigious college in New England. It was once an institution for female students only, but they went coeducational in the late eighties, I believe.”

Summer shrugged. “Before I was born.”

“Oh. Of course.” Where on earth had the years gone? It seemed like just yesterday that Maddie had graduated from Ball State. Before she and Harlan knew it, their daughter had gone on to graduate school for meteorology, taken up photography, and then earned her pilot’s license. A restless ball of energy, their Maddie.

If she hadn’t gotten involved with flying, and chasing those dangerous storms across the country, maybe she would still be alive. But there had been no talking her adventurous daughter out of it—not that Dorothy had tried, really. That wouldn’t have been fair to Maddie. But if she’d ever realized...

Summer leaned closer over Dorothy’s shoulder. “It definitely doesn’t sound like Lorella had any family. No brother.”

Dorothy sighed, thankful that Summer had pulled her from her thoughts. “Yes, it’s very sad. And Jennifer was right. No memorial, either. And no listed cause of death. Just ‘unexpectedly.’”

“I wonder why she went to work again, after she retired,” Summer said. “I would never do that.”

“She may have needed the money,” Dorothy said. “Or perhaps she decided to stay involved with education, in a less pressured position. It’s also possible she wanted to meet new people.”

“Lorella wasn’t very social,” Summer said. “Oh, wait, you mean, she wanted to get a boyfriend? Like that stalker Charles Bell?”

“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “Older people need community. My Harlan was quite bored, for a while, after he retired. That’s one of the reasons we moved to Hibiscus Pointe.”

“Don’t you ever get bored?” Summer asked.

“No.” Dorothy refolded the
Morning Sun
and smoothed the pages. “Well, not often. Bored people are boring themselves, and wasting precious time. I have my friends, and my books, and”—she smiled at her detective partner—”our cases to solve.”

“Oh. Right.” Summer smiled back.

“Lorella was a very private person, I suppose, but she seemed very committed to sharing her passion for literature with the world,” Dorothy said. “Her students at Wellsmount, for instance, the college here in Milano, and even us residents at Hibiscus Pointe.”

“So, okay, what about Georgiana and Lorella both going to Wellsmount?” Summer craned her neck, looking for the hostess. “Dash’s mom is probably about Lorella’s age, right? Maybe they were there at the same time.”

Dorothy sat up straighter on the bench. “You’re entirely right, dear. Why didn’t we think of that at dinner?”

“Because Carrie wouldn’t shut up.” Summer consulted her phone. “Okay, it says here that GH (Georgiana) Hamel is sixty-five years old. I bet she’s way older. Hey, my dad did a couple of movies based on her books. Huh. Maybe they know each other.”

“How interesting. You’ll have to ask.” Dorothy reopened the paper and glanced back at the obituary. “Lorella’s age is listed as sixty-nine. With Wellsmount’s small student body and their mutual interest in literature, there’s a very good chance she and Lorella were acquainted also.”

“It’s weird Georgiana didn’t say anything, then,” Summer said.

Dorothy frowned. “Yes, it certainly is.”

The hostess finally called their names and they followed the petite, dark-haired young woman in the Silver Pancake T-shirt to a booth at the far end of the noisy restaurant. Apparently, everyone else in town had heard about the cranberry crepes.

Dorothy’s anticipation took a dive as she and Summer slid into their booth—directly behind Gladys Rumway and three other Hibiscus Pointers. Oh dear. Hopefully, none of the group would notice them.

“Dorothy!” Gladys boomed, startling the young busboy who was bringing a tray of water glasses. Summer reached out and steadied it just in time.

“Thanks,” the boy said, in overly obvious admiration.

“No prob.” Summer threw him a grin. “I’ve been there.”

Despite her impressive powers of observation, Gladys didn’t seem to notice the near miss. “We were just talking about you,” she told Dorothy. “Heard it’s going to be quite a book club meeting tomorrow. I used to be president of our club up North—reelected every year, by the way. I’d offer to show you how it’s done, but I’m busy working the Caldwell investigation for the Milano PD, as you know.”

What a lot of hooey. And Gladys wasn’t the grand mistress of discretion. Dorothy glanced around at their fellow diners, but they all seemed busy with their own conversations and plates of delicious-looking crepes.

Summer twisted in her seat, resting one long, tanned arm along the top of the booth behind Gladys. “Hey, Mrs. Rumway,” she said. “Great job in swim class the other day. Next time maybe we can try using the kickboard. Juliette-Margot made it all the way across the pool.”

Gladys’s friends tittered before she silenced them with a haughty glare.

Oh dear. Surely Summer hadn’t meant to insult Gladys. She’d probably just been trying to change the subject. But she had effectively silenced the woman, at least—for a moment or two.

“No need for you to worry, Dorothy,” Gladys said, pointedly ignoring Summer. “I’m gonna have this whole Caldwell thing case-closed in no time, so you can keep focusing on the book club.”

“Thank you, Gladys. I do appreciate that.” Dorothy took a sip of ice water so she wouldn’t have to bite her tongue.

Summer picked up one of the greasy menus the hostess had left, using it as a screen as she leaned across the table. “Don’t listen to her,” she said to Dorothy. “We’re way ahead of that amateur.”

“I’m not worried about who solves the case first.” Dorothy took another sip of ice water. “The important thing is bringing Lorella’s killer to justice, one way or the other.”

Just after the waitress took her and Summer’s orders, Gladys and her companions began to gather their handbags and sweaters. “You girls go on ahead,” Gladys told the other women. “Jeannie, why don’t you pay my tab, and I’ll pick up yours next time? I just have to talk to Dorothy for a minute.”

Dorothy braced herself as Gladys leaned casually—and rather heavily—against the post behind her booth, draping Dorothy in excess fabric from the sleeve of her floral blouse. “Didn’t want the girls to hear this, because it’s just between us detectives,” she said. “Keep this confidential, okay?”

“What is it, Gladys?” Dorothy said wearily.

The woman triumphantly twirled the plastic wrapping off a toothpick she must have taken from the hostess booth on her way in. “Just got the scoop from my cousin Merle, first thing this morning,” she said. “He volunteers down at the PD, remember?”

“Yes, I believe I do,” Dorothy said. Gladys always mentioned it at every opportunity. Admittedly, Merle sometimes offered valuable pieces of information—when he didn’t get his facts wrong.

Gladys paused for dramatic effect. “Spit it out, Mrs. Rumway,” Summer said.

Dorothy drew back.

“You know the bookend that the murderer used to clobber Lorella?” Gladys nearly popped an ornamental button as she drew herself up. “There wasn’t a single fingerprint on it.”

“How interesting,” Dorothy said. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Gladys.”

“You’re welcome.” Gladys modestly patted her poodle-style hairdo. “Just makes solving this case more of a challenge, but I’m up to it.”

Their waitress reappeared at the booth, looking slightly out of breath. “I’m really sorry, ladies, but we’re all out of cranberry crepes. The table behind you got the last ones. I’ve brought your menus back, in case you’d like to order something else.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Gladys said. “Ta-ta for now—see you back at the Pointe.” She leaned back in over the booth. “And I have to tell you, those cranberry crepes were beyond fabulous.”

“She really didn’t have to rub that in,” Summer said, after Gladys and the waitress had left. “Jeez.”

Dorothy picked up her menu again. “Well, it may not have been Gladys’s intention, but she did give us what might be a very helpful clue.”

“You mean, about the fingerprints?” Summer still looked glum.

Dorothy nodded. “Yes. The bookend that killed Lorella had a highly polished surface. None of the bloodstains in the carpet looked smudged and the library didn’t have curtains. With that amount of blood, even if the killer was carrying a handkerchief or something else to clean the murder weapon, there’s a good—”

“The person wore gloves,” Summer broke in. “So the murderer must have planned to kill Lorella ahead of time. They didn’t have a sudden, big fight or anything.”

“Exactly.” Dorothy returned her attention to the other breakfast entrées. Radish, sausage and cauliflower omelets? Nauseating.

Summer tossed her menu aside. “I don’t feel like breakfast anymore. And we really need to find that professor guy. Want to go grab something from Westminster Dog House?”

“Excellent idea,” Dorothy said. With Lorella’s killer still at large, there was no time to waste—and no way to tell who might be his or her next victim.