Snagged Read online

  She shut the room door and hurried down the one flight to the main floor. Outside, people were lingering over drinks at the tables on the sidewalk. One couple was going through models’ composites that were stacked up before them. Like me going through mug shots, Regan thought, or police sketches. Only the people I deal with don’t have one-word names like Autumn or Sapphire. South Beach had become the latest hot spot for fashion shoots. Several young girls with their portfolios in hand passed her walking down the Strip.

  Maura had told her that this place jumps at all hours. She was right. Now, at six forty-five, it was way too early for most South Beach diners to have dinner, but the cafés along Ocean Drive were crowded with people enjoying a cocktail and checking out the scene. Some looked very European with their designer shades, and their cigarettes held at that just-so angle between their fingers.

  As Regan strolled along the narrow sidewalk, a dark-haired guy on Rollerblades, wearing a Day-Glo orange outfit, zoomed by her and jumped over one of the small cafe tables. That lunatic must be getting ready for the Olympics, she thought. He certainly makes walking around here hazardous.

  The Fourth Quarter was just two more doors down. There was no missing it. Whereas the other buildings had been transformed into trendy Art Deco pastel treasures, Richie’s building looked like a large sea shack. But there was something inviting about it. It looked weather-worn and comfortable. Somehow Regan knew that the people she’d meet inside would not be anything like most of the people she had encountered thus far.

  Beach chairs were lined up in a row by the screen door. Regan walked in and was immediately greeted by a diminutive old lady with curly gray hair who was sitting at the front desk with her knitting needles in hand.

  “Hello, dear. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for Richie Blossom.”

  “He’s at a meeting right now.” Knit one, purl two.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Regan queried.

  “He’s here, dear.” The needles clicked in her skillful hands.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you meant he was out.”

  “Oh, no.” The old lady shook her head as if in sympathy.

  By the time I figure out Richie’s location she’ll have finished an afghan, Regan thought. “Well, then, where is the meeting?”

  “Down the hall.”

  “Do you think I could stick my head in and ask him something?”

  “If I sat here all day, I couldn’t think of a reason why not.” The woman held up the brown square in her hands for inspection.

  “Thank you. You say it’s right down the hall?”

  “Oh, yes. In the room we recently dedicated to Dolly Twiggs, the former owner of the Fourth Quarter, who passed away just a year ago. Keep her in your prayers.”

  “Of course.” Regan smiled and walked toward the back of the building and made a right turn in the paneled hallway, immediately coming upon the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room. She heard Richie shushing people and begging for order. Regan slipped in the back and took a seat on a folding chair in the corner.

  Millie Owens stood up and yelled, “Will everybody please shut up?”

  All heads flipped in her direction. “I say let’s give Richie a chance. I wouldn’t mind a check for ten thousand dollars, but what I want most is to stay here. I’ve lived here for years and have enjoyed every minute. Like everybody else, I was afraid of getting old, but moving here and being around friends all the time and having socials, I tell you I felt like I was sixteen again. I’d be heartbroken if we had to split up, with some of us ending up in the dump across town and the others being farmed out to relatives. If we take their offer on the option right now, we might get a few dollars, but in the long run we’ll have lost something worth a lot more . . .”

  The room had grown surprisingly still. You could have heard a pin drop as some of Millie’s companions stared at her while others looked down into their laps.

  Millie’s hands tightened on the chair in front of her. Her face broke into a wry smile. “Besides, people told me I could have been a model years ago, and now I’ve got my chance in that fashion show parading around in Richie’s panty hose.”

  Everyone laughed and the tension in the air seemed to diminish.

  Millie continued, “All of us gals have to get out there on that runway and kick up our heels. The men have to come and support us. And if they end up running us out of here, at least we’ll have gone down fighting.” She sat back down with a defiant look on her face.

  Quietly Richie said, “Thank you, Millie. Now let’s take a vote.”

  Everyone voted on index cards and they were quickly counted. Twenty-four were in favor of giving Richie a chance to sell the panty hose. Three wanted to surrender the option now. A cheer went up in the room when Richie announced the results.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, let’s have a rehearsal for the fashion show in here at four P.M. Thanks, everyone.” Richie hurried to the back of the room and gave Regan a big hug. “You’re here for all the excitement. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Richie. Maura called and they’re having dinner at the house, but she couldn’t reach you. Can you come with me now?”

  “You bet, honey, you bet.”

  Regan and Richie walked arm in arm back up the paneled hallway. “Regan, do you mind coming up to my apartment for a minute? I want to grab a light jacket.”

  “Sure.”

  They walked up the curving staircase to Richie’s second-floor apartment.

  “Regan, I tell you, this is going to be some weekend for excitement,” Richie said as he put the key in the door.

  “Maura told me about your panty hose,” Regan said as she followed him inside.

  “I tell you, honey, they’re unbelievable. Wait here a second,” he said and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Regan heard him rummaging around and sat down on the overstuffed couch, next to a black-and-white wedding picture of Birdie and Richie.

  A minute later Richie was back, handing Regan several pairs of the magic panty hose. “Here, try them. This is one invention of mine that really works.”

  Regan held the luxuriant fabric in her fingers. “They’re beautiful, Richie.”

  “They’re not just beautiful. They last and last. There’s a panty-hose convention over at the Watergreen Hotel this weekend, and I’m arranging a fashion show so the big shots can get an idea of what I’m offering here. All I need is the chance to show it off and I’ll get the money to save this place. They’ll all be fighting to buy the patent I have on them.”

  “They’re so delicate,” Regan murmured as she admired both the ivory and pale-pink colors.

  “They come in all different colors. Do you think your mother would like a pair?”

  “Sure. She’s always complaining that she can’t find a pair of panty hose that fit decently and won’t run.”

  “Let me grab a few more.”

  Regan pulled on the fabric and was amazed that something that looked so fragile seemed so resilient.

  Richie reappeared with his hands full. “I’ll just carry these.”

  “Here,” Regan said. “Put them in my bag. It’s oversized anyway.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Richie said. He looked over at the corner table and saw that the light on the answering machine was blinking. “I’d better check my messages.” He hurried over and pushed the playback button.

  There were two messages from Maura, one hang-up, and one from the Models Models Modeling Agency. A gruff woman’s voice barked, “Richie, this is Elaine. If you weren’t so adorable, I’d think I was crazy. I’ve got some of the models coming by your place tomorrow for you to see about the fashion show. I told them they won’t get paid unless you sell the panty hose, but they’re willing to take the chance. They’re young, they like you, and what the hell, the show’s on a Saturday anyway.

  It’s six o’clock and I’m going home. Give me a call tomorrow.”

  Richie rewound the tape and chuckled.
“Regan, I bet you didn’t know I’m about to become a star. A photographer needed some extras for a shoot they were doing on the beach and they wanted some of us old guys for authenticity and I got picked.” He laughed as he gathered up his jacket. “He said I was a natural, so I went down to this modeling agency to see if they’d be interested in representing me—and they were. Said they needed a few different types besides the gorgeous young girls. Elaine sent me out on a commercial audition for a local restaurant and I got the job! Now they’re willing to help me out with my fashion show.”

  “I’d better get your autograph now!” Regan laughed.

  Richie shut the door and they started walking downstairs. “The commercial is supposed to start airing any day now. It’s so much fun. I’ve become friendly with the people at the agency and it gives me something else to do, besides my inventions. Since Birdie died, I just like to keep busy . . .”

  “I know,” Regan said softly as they reached the sidewalk and felt the salty breeze blow up from the ocean. They walked quietly for a moment, then stepped off the curb to cross the street. Richie turned to her as they continued walking. From behind him Regan could see a dark car speeding up the side street, “RICHIE, WATCH OUT!” she screamed as she pulled him back to the sidewalk and they both tumbled to the ground. The car’s front wheel screeched against the curb as it hurtled past them and disappeared around the corner and down Ocean Drive. For a moment they both lay dazed on the sidewalk. That guy deliberately tried to hit us, Regan thought, as she pulled herself to a sitting position. People were rushing over to assist them to their feet.

  “Richie, are you all right?” Regan asked.

  “Yeah, sure, thanks to you, Regan,” he said fervently.

  A pretty young girl who looked like a model was picking something up in the street. “Is this your bag?” she asked.

  “What’s left of it,” Regan said as she studied the squashed white tote with the tire mark down the center. She bent down and gathered up the panty hose that had fallen out and had been run over.

  “You two sure were lucky,” a middle-aged man in the crowd called out.

  “Did anybody get a good look at the car or the driver?” Regan asked.

  People in the crowd shook their heads. “It all happened so fast,” a waiter from the café nearby said. “It’s too bad there wasn’t more traffic. He’d have been slowed up, but he got away before anyone realized what happened.”

  “It was a he?” Regan asked quickly.

  “Yes, a dark-haired guy in a blue sedan.”

  The crowd started to break up as the shock of what almost happened began to wear off.

  “If anyone remembers anything about the car or the driver that might be helpful, please let me know,” Regan called out. “My name is Regan Reilly and I’m staying at the Ocean View. That did not seem like an accident.”

  She turned to Richie and held out the stained ivory panty hose. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem, Regan,” Richie replied and started to brush off the fabric. Amazingly the dirt disappeared. “See!” he said. “It’s like the commercial with the gorilla who jumps all over the suitcase. You can’t hurt it!”

  “Too bad you can’t say the same for us,” Regan said as she rubbed her knee. The encounter with the sidewalk had torn her white jeans, leaving them slightly bloodied. “Let’s get out of here. They’re going to be wondering what happened to us.”

  “We can tell them we were testing my panty hose,” Richie said brightly.

  “That sounds like a good explanation for my parents,” Regan said as she steered him across the street to the taxi stand, checking both directions before they moved an inch.

  THE CAR THAT had almost hit Richie and Regan made a quick right turn off Ocean Drive. The driver raced the two blocks to Washington Avenue as he pounded his fist against the steering wheel. Heading north, a few blocks later he spotted a parking space and quickly pulled over. Within seconds Judd Green had peeled off his windbreaker, stuffing it into a gym bag on the floor of the stolen car.

  He looked around quickly, made certain he was not being observed, then leaned down and yanked off the dark wig that was covering his blond hair, placing it in the bag with the windbreaker. Sliding over to the passenger side, he got out, picked up his bag, pulled off his gloves, and joined the thin stream of pedestrians, just another lean, tanned, good-looking male in his early thirties. A closer examination would have revealed the cold emptiness of his brown eyes, the raw strength of his shoulder and arm muscles.

  He walked as quickly as he dared without attracting notice for a mile, until he reached the Watergreen Hotel. Sidling in the front door, Green took the stairs to his tenth-floor room, where he hid the gym bag in the closet, ran his head under the faucet and quickly changed into khakis and a sport shirt. He combed back his wet hair, sprayed on cologne, gathered up his wallet, and headed out to the elevator bank.

  Two middle-aged couples were greeting each other, saying how quickly the year had gone since the last convention. They all wore badges indicating they were in town for the gathering of morticians. He smiled at them and pretended to be absorbed in his own thoughts as he listened to them yak about their plans for the weekend. I wish I could have served you up some business, fellas, he thought grimly, but I blew it. For now.

  Downstairs in the lobby he ordered a beer at the bar and made it a point to flirt with the tawny blonde a few stools away who had placed her towel near his on the beach that morning. He chatted with the bartender, who told him he’d been at the Watergreen for thirty years and proceeded to ramble on about how many hurricanes he had sat out in this very lobby.

  “In my time here,” the short dark-haired man with a slight Spanish accent said cheerfully as he wiped off the bar, “I have seen some unbelievable things go on. My wife says I should write a book, but I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “I bet,” he said.

  “Yeah, like this weekend, we’ve got two conventions. Funeral people and panty-hose people. Now if they’re going to have a few fitting sessions with the girls in their panty hose, I say great. Which room? Can I deliver the drinks? But I can do without seeing people check out how good coffins fit. I guess we all have to go sometime . . .”

  “Right, buddy.” He laid his money on the bar and got up to leave. I’ve been here long enough to establish my presence, he thought. He headed around the corner, into the area where the pay phones were lined up. Sliding into a booth, he shut the door and braced himself for the call he had to make.

  The phone rang three times before it was picked up.

  “It didn’t work,” Green said flatly. “He was walking with some girl. She pushed him out of the way.” He gripped the receiver and listened.

  “No, I don’t know who she was. But don’t worry. It’s not going to happen again. Next time I’ll get both of them.”

  THE TAXI PULLED up in front of the Durkin home. A beautiful stucco ranch house, it reminded Regan of the kind of homes you find in southern California.

  Richie insisted on paying for the cab, saying never in his life would he let a lady pay his way.

  “Forget your inventions; you should start a charm school for men,” Regan said as she got out of the car. “And I’ll give you a few names for your mailing list.”

  They rang the bell and stood waiting as they heard voices on the inside. Mr. Durkin, an auburn-haired man of medium height with the map of Ireland on his face, answered the door and extended his arms. “Regan, Richie, come in. We’ve been waiting for you,” he boomed in a voice never used at the Durkin Funeral Home.

  He hugged both of them. They were barely in the door when Richie began telling him about their adventure. “You’ll never believe what happened. We were almost killed. If it weren’t for Regan’s quick thinking . . .”

  Nora and Luke, followed by members of the Durkin clan, hurried from the living room into the foyer when they heard the commotion.

  “Hey, everybody,” Regan said brightly and went over to
kiss her parents.

  “Regan, what happened to your pants?” Nora asked.

  Regan looked down at her knee, which was bloodier-looking than before.

  “She almost got killed trying to save my life,” Richie said with enthusiasm. “ You should be so proud of her.”

  “Oh, God, Luke, I thought this was going to be a vacation,” Nora moaned. “Regan, are you okay?”

  “Oh, Mom, it was no big deal. We were waiting to cross the street and a car came by going a little fast, that’s all. I pulled Richie out of the way and we both fell down.”

  “What’s going on?” Maura called out as she entered the room from the kitchen. “Oh, good, Regan and Richie are finally here.”

  “Regan just saved me from being killed,” Richie insisted on repeating, much to Regan’s chagrin.

  “What?” Maura exclaimed.

  “We were outside and a car came speeding by and Regan pushed me out of the way.” Richie sounded as though he was just getting warmed up.

  Ed Durkin suddenly urged everyone to move into the living room. “Have a drink, for God’s sake, tonight is a celebration.”

  As everyone wandered back into the large living room, Regan and Maura hugged.

  “Let me get you a drink,” Maura urged. “Still drinking white wine?”

  “Of course,” Regan replied and sat down on the couch next to her parents.

  “You know, dear, you could stay in our room tonight. Maybe that would be a good idea,” Nora suggested.

  “Mom, chances are I’m not going to get killed escorting Richie back.”

  Richie plopped down in the chair across from them as Maura returned with Regan’s drink. He began his fourth recitation of the near tragedy.

  “My God, Richie, isn’t it just about a year ago that Dolly Twiggs was murdered?” Maura asked.

  “Murdered?” Regan echoed.

  “We don’t think she was murdered,” Richie said, “but yes, it was just about a year ago she died. We’re having a memorial service in the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room on Monday.”