Snagged Page 5

  “The cops think she was murdered,” Maura reminded him.

  “What happened to her?” Regan asked quickly.

  “She liked to take early-morning walks on the beach. A group of sunrise swimmers found her face-down in shallow water. There was a bump on her head and some blood, but it could have been from hitting a rock when she went down. Dolly actually died of drowning, so she had to have been breathing when she hit the sand,” Richie reported. “She had a heart attack. Her jewelry was missing.”

  “That’s too bad,” Regan murmured, as all her instincts warned her that it sounded like more than a mugging.

  “We were just lucky,” Richie continued, “that she had signed the deal giving us the year-long option the day before she died. She wasn’t supposed to sign it until the next day, but the nice young man from the real estate office brought it over for her on his way home from work. It gave us a year to raise the money to buy the place. Otherwise we probably would have had to get out right away. So now, if my panty hose takes off on Saturday—”

  “Who was the guy from the real estate office?” Regan asked.

  “I was sitting at the front desk that day when he came by. We all take turns. I think he said his name was Joey.”

  Regan immediately thought of her gum-chomping seatmate, Nadine, whose boyfriend Joey worked in a real estate office. She made a mental note to check it out first thing in the morning.

  “Richie,” Regan said. “Get out your panty hose.” She turned to her mother. “Mom, what do you think of hosting a cocktail party on Saturday afternoon, before a panty-hose fashion show?”

  NICK FARGUS SAT at his desk in the manager’s office of the Watergreen Hotel. He liked to think of himself as the captain of a ship. The one-thousand-room hotel with its many conference rooms, ballrooms, restaurants and arcade of shops all hummed around him. It was always busy but especially in the winter months, when they were booked solid with conventions. One after another. Wanting to escape the dismal cold and slushy streets up yonder, conventioneers came down to Miami anxious to soak up the sun and play a few rounds of golf or tennis, often abandoning the idea of attending unnecessary seminars or meetings.

  And it wasn’t only the weather. Miami had become a real international hot spot, a center for culture. In the past few years it had experienced dynamic growth, and the future looked even better. Designers, musicians, dancers, photographers and models were all setting up shop down here. Celebrities were jetting in for the weekends. Even Madonna had bought an estate. Things were happening. There was a beat that was getting louder, and people from all over the world were hearing it.

  So why did Nick feel so out of it?

  Because of South Beach, or SoBe, as it was also known these days.

  Just a few miles down the road, it felt like a different world from the Watergreen. It was where all the hip and beautiful people stayed, where they strolled, where they partied. Hell, the Watergreen made the best piño colada in Florida, but it wasn’t as much of a draw anymore. Everyone was drinking all that annoying mineral water. The Watergreen had a great piano bar but the models weren’t interested in sitting around and listening to show tunes. They just wanted to go to those clubs where they pack you in and blare the music.

  At forty-two, with sandy hair, mild gray eyes and a slight build, nothing about Nick attracted immediate attention. He made a good living and had socked away some money but he never felt content. Sure, on some days he felt like Donald Trump as he blustered around the hotel solving problems, his phone ringing endlessly. But on nights like last night, when he had gone down to South Beach for a drink and the models he met wouldn’t give him more than three seconds of their time, he felt angry. If I were a club owner, they wouldn’t treat me that way, he thought. He was feeling so bad he went into one of the shops and bought a hot new skin cream that cost a fortune.

  Nick straightened the papers on his desk and took a final sip from his coffee. It was nearly eight o’clock. What should he do tonight?

  Never having married, Nick was always looking for a woman who could advance his social position. Along the way there’d been a few nice girls he had dated, but they all wanted to settle down and have children, and that didn’t cut the mustard with him. “I’m not ready,” he told those types. One had recently replied, “You’re going to have to chase your kids around the house with a walker.”

  Nick got up from his desk and turned out the lights of his office. One of the perks of his job was to have his own large apartment on the top floor of the hotel. Very impressive. If I could only get one of those models to see it, he thought, then they’d look at me with different eyes. So far, no such luck.

  I’m not that hungry, he thought. And I don’t feel like watching television. Maybe I’ll put on that new flowery shirt I bought for $175 at one of those fancy boutiques and give South Beach another try tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll finally get lucky.

  REGAN SAT IN the lobby of the Ocean View enjoying her morning coffee and a bowl of fruit. Breakfast was an informal buffet where you helped yourself to coffee and juice and chose from a variety of cereals, bread and fruit. Bacon and eggs had to be specially ordered from the kitchen, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in this crowd to admit they ate such cholesterol-laden no-no’s.

  Glancing through the Miami paper, Regan read about the usual assortment of crimes that you’d find in almost any big city’s newspaper. Robberies, murders, drug deals gone bad, arson. A new favorite in Miami was to bump the car in front of you at a stoplight. When the driver gets out to check for damage, someone else comes out of nowhere, reaches in the window and grabs purses, briefcases, whatever he can get his hands on. In really bad neighborhoods you were encouraged to hand over your wallet by the barrel of a gun. Regan folded the paper. Thank God there wasn’t an article about a successful hit-and-run on Ocean Drive last night.

  On the way home Richie had told her the name of the real estate agency that was handling the option on the Fourth Quarter. It was called the Golden Sun. Regan had looked up its address and was happy to discover that it was only a few blocks away. She planned on making a little visit there this morning.

  I should have taken Nadine’s number, Regan thought. But hopefully she’d find Nadine’s Joey at the Golden Sun and get some information out of him. Dolly Twiggs’s suspicious death and the near accident last night, both around the times of real estate transactions, were a little coincidental for her taste. Transactions having to do with valuable waterfront property in a booming area.

  The big clock on the wall read ten-fifteen.

  At ten-thirty Regan walked up the steps to the Golden Sun. It was actually a small white house off Washington Avenue. Inside Regan found a pleasant-looking guy with a baby face sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.

  “Hot enough for you?” he joked.

  “Yes, actually it is getting a little warm out there, isn’t it?” Regan agreed.

  “Unusual for November. But I say it beats the cold. That’s why we’re always so busy. People realizing that they want to throw away their snow shovels and enjoy nice weather year round. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Actually, I was looking for someone named Joey.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Oh, are you Nadine’s boyfriend?” Regan asked.

  “The only one, I hope. How did you know? No, don’t tell me. You’re the one who sat next to her on the plane yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” Regan laughed. “By the way, thanks for the ride into town.”

  “No problem. Nadine’s got me trained. She told me all about you, that you’re here for a wedding and that you’re a detective.” His eyes sparkled.

  The phone rang and Joey held up his finger. “Just a sec, Regan.”

  Boy, Regan thought, he even knows my name. She turned to glance out the window and saw Nadine teetering up the block in stiletto heels and chewing on a piece of gum. As Joey finished up his conversation, Regan watched Nadine spit her gum into a tissu
e and shove it into the side pocket of her purse.

  “Here comes Nadine,” Regan announced.

  “Oh, good, she was coming down to join me for my coffee break. She’ll be real glad to see you.”

  “Hi, Regan,” Nadine said breathlessly as she came through the door. “I was going to stop by your hotel after coffee.” She went over and gave Joey a kiss.

  “Nadine, I smell spearmint.”

  “Breath candy, Joey, breath candy.” Nadine turned and winked at Regan. “I always carry it around but am afraid to offer it to people because they always think it’s because they need it I’m offering. Sometimes that’s the case, but mostly it’s just to be polite.” She pulled them out of her purse. “Want one, Regan?”

  Regan blinked. “Sure.”

  “Are you coming with us for coffee?” Nadine asked.

  “I was just about to ask her, dollface,” Joey said quickly. “How about it, Regan? We never got around to talking about why you stopped by in the first place. Or how you even found out where I work.”

  “She’s a detective, Sherlock.” Nadine pinched his cheek.

  Regan laughed. “I’d love to join you, as long as I’m not intruding.”

  “No way,” Nadine insisted.

  Good, Regan thought. I really want to talk to this guy, and what better way than over coffee?

  In the coffee shop down the street Regan sat across the booth from Nadine and Joey. They were served immediately, and as Regan stirred her third cup of the day, she commented that she and Joey know someone in common.

  “Who?” Joey asked.

  “Richie Blossom. He lives at the Fourth Quarter.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s a nice fellow.”

  Regan took a sip and placed her cup back on its saucer. “He said that you saved the people who live there from losing the place last year.”

  Joey shrugged his shoulders. “The owner lived there but couldn’t keep up with paying all the repairs. But she didn’t want her friends to be kicked out. So she decided to option the place to them and give them a year to come up with the money. We drew up the agreement and she was supposed to come over here the next day to sign it. I decided to just take it with me when I left work and stop there on the way home. I guess you heard she died the next morning.”

  “Yes, I did,” Regan said.

  Nadine had become very quiet, her eyes darting back and forth as they talked.

  “Dolly Twiggs was a decent woman,” Joey said matter-of-factly. “She could have gotten a lot more money for that place than she was going to sell it to them for. But she said one point one million dollars was all she would ever need and these people were like family to her. If those papers hadn’t been signed, then chances are that place would have been scooped up immediately. I’m sure you know what’s happening with real estate around here, especially beachfront property.”

  “I’ve heard,” Regan said. “Did you spend much time with her when you went over there that day?”

  Joey leaned back in the booth and played with his spoon. “I went up to her apartment. Her sister was there. They both collected seashells. They were all over the place. I sat on one and it broke. They said not to worry because they always took a six A.M. walk together every morning and that was the best time to find more.”

  “Her sister?” Regan asked. “I didn’t know she had a sister.”

  “She was in town for a visit. They both were going to take off on a three-month cruise. A lot of cruise ships leave out of the Port of Miami.”

  “I thought Dolly was by herself when she died.”

  “She was. Her sister wasn’t feeling well that morning and decided to sleep in. Needless to say, she was devastated.”

  Regan shifted in her seat. ’ ’Where is her sister now?”

  “She ended up going on that cruise by herself and then went home to Dallas. Said she felt too sad being around here, although I understand she’s coming into town this weekend for a memorial service.”

  “So when the place is sold, the money will go to her?” Regan asked.

  “She’s not looking to get rid of the people there, but she can’t afford to keep up the place either. The taxes around here have gone crazy. From what everybody says, the residents of the Fourth Quarter can’t come up with the money, so it’s going to end up going to somebody else.”

  “Your office is handling it?”

  “We handled the option and we also have people who are willing to put up a lot of money for it as soon as it’s free. We even have somebody who’s willing to pay them a bonus if they give it up before the weekend. But if Twiggs’s sister has somebody else who wants to buy it, she doesn’t necessarily have to go through us. So we could make a killing, or we could lose everything. But let me tell you something,” Joey said as he looked directly into Regan’s eyes. “I was happy I brought over that option when I did. My boss wasn’t too thrilled because we probably could have made a sale right away so they could settle the estate. I want to make a lot of money just as much as everybody else does. But all I could think about was what if it was my own grandmother in the same situation? I wouldn’t want her to lose her home.”

  Nadine kissed him on the cheek. “See why I love this guy?”

  “I sure do,” Regan said as Joey checked his watch.

  “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “I’m going to the beach,” Nadine pronounced. “Want to come, Regan?”

  “I’ve got a few things to do, Nadine, but give me your number and maybe we can get together later.” Regan was very anxious to head back to the Fourth Quarter and find out about Dolly Twiggs’s sister.

  IRVING FRANKLIN LOVED his mini laboratory in the basement of his home. Not only did it allow him to continue his experiments away from work but it also provided an escape for him from the annoyances of family life. Not that he didn’t love his family, but with his mother-in-law living under the same roof, his nerves were much more easily frayed.

  It was Friday morning and he had just come down the steps to check on the panty hose that he had left steeping overnight in a Crockpot full of harsh chemicals. He pulled off the lid and with a large set of tongs extricated a lump of hose from the bubbling container. In awe he watched them dry off almost immediately and look as good as new.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “These can’t be for real. There’s got to be something wrong with them.”

  With that the basement door was flung open and his mother-in-law yelled down, “Let’s go, Irving. Did you forget you’re supposed to drop me off at the doctor on your way to work?”

  Irving shuddered. He felt as if his day had been ruined.

  “IRVING! Did you hear me?”

  “Get in the car!” he yelled back as he dropped the hose in a plastic bag and set off for what was usually a pleasant commute to work.

  INSIDE DOLLY TWIGGS’S apartment, her sister Lucille Coyle turned on the gas jet underneath the kettle. She jumped back as the flame leapt upward, igniting with a miniature boom. Oh, my, I forgot about that, she thought. She adjusted the pilot and looked around. Everything felt a little dusty. Neglected-looking. Well, it has been just a year since Dolly breathed her last, Lucille thought.

  A wave of sadness passed through Lucille, almost freezing her in place. Tears stung her eyes. I’ve got to get busy, she thought. It’s the only thing that makes you feel better at a time like this.

  She ran water over a shriveled orange sponge and smiled as it puffed up before her. Humming to herself one of her favorite hymns from church, she wiped the counters in the cozy kitchen. Poor Dolly, she thought as she straightened the decorative jars labeled FLOUR, SUGAR, COFFEE, TEA. I always tried to get her to put these on the other counter and have the toaster over here. It would have made so much more sense. And the glasses should have been right over the sink, where you can reach them if . . .

  The doorbell rang. Lucille muttered, “Wonder who that could be,” put down the newly vitalized sponge, and futzed with her hair as she walked across the liv
ing room to the front door. She pulled it open and gushed when she saw who was standing in front of her.

  “Richie, how are you? You look wonderful. Please come in. And who do you have here?”

  “Hello, Lucille,” Richie said quickly, kissing her on the forehead. “I’m so glad you made it here for the memorial service. This is my friend Regan Reilly. She’s in Miami for my niece’s wedding.”

  “How nice. Would you two like a cup of tea? I’m just making a pot. I also picked up some lovely jelly doughnuts on the way in from the airport.”

  “That sounds great,” Regan said, smiling at the thought of all the people who thought you had to eat alfalfa sprouts and yogurt to live a long life. Lucille had to be in her eighties and she obviously relished junk food. It just goes to show that being uptight about eating all the right foods is worse for your health than munching a jelly doughnut and enjoying every minute of it.

  Lucille fluttered into the kitchen as Richie and Regan made themselves comfortable. Regan looked around at the seashell decor and smiled. “When I was little and we went to the beach, I’d collect a whole bunch of shells and bring them home. Maura and I used to sit in the backyard and hold them up to our ears to see if we could hear the sounds of the ocean.”

  “The surf crashing . . .” Richie agreed.

  “Well, actually I think we picked up a little interference from the Jersey Turnpike. But then we’d paint them with watercolors and douse them with some godawful glitter and give them away as presents. Talk about destroying the natural beauty of this planet. We were an ecologist’s worst nightmare.”

  “They were cute,” Richie insisted. “You sent one to me and Birdie for our anniversary. I still have it.”

  Lucille reappeared, carefully carrying a tray of jiggling teacups, a matching flowered teapot, a creamer and sugar bowl, and a plate of doughnuts. She ceremoniously placed it on the coffee table with the lace doilies. “Here we go.” She poured two cups and handed them to Regan and Richie.