Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder Read online

  A girl in her early twenties came around the counter. Her name tag identified her as Cara. She had a thick swath of bangs combed across her forehead that dipped into the crease of one eyelid. She wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt, tied at the waist over a pale pink tank with gray pants. Three inches of thin gold bracelets jangled on both wrists as she moved across the wide plank floorboards. “Can I help you?”

  I said, “We’re looking for Angela. Is she here?”

  Cara’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “No. Are you friends of hers?” Now that she was close to us, I could see that she had a piercing near the corner of her mouth and several along her earlobes, all empty of jewelry.

  Ben hesitated, so I said we were.

  “You can tell her she better call in, or she won’t have a job.”

  Ben asked, “So she was scheduled to work today?”

  “Yes. And I’m not covering for her anymore.” Her heavy bangs slipped over her eyelashes, and she tossed her head, flicking them back into place. “And after I closed for her last night, too. Like I’ll be doing that again for her.”

  “So what time did she leave last night?” I asked.

  “About eight-fifteen. We’re not supposed to close up alone, but she got a phone call and said it was like super important, so I told her to go ahead.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her waist. Her short nails were painted a glossy black and contrasted with her white shirt.

  “That was probably me,” I said, glancing at Ben.

  “So have you tried her phone?” Ben asked.

  “No, I texted her,” she said.

  I wondered how many more years I had before Livvy began using that tone, which implied we were stupid for even asking the question. “No personal calls at work,” she explained.

  “Does she usually text you back?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Right away. Her phone is, like, glued to her hand.”

  I exchanged a glance with Ben. “Maybe she’s at home. She could have overslept or maybe she’s sick.”

  Cara’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “You think she’s okay, don’t you? I mean, it is kind of weird that she didn’t call or anything today. That’s not like her.” Her irritation had ebbed away, replaced with concern.

  “She’s probably delayed,” I said, going into soothing-mom-mode. “Or, her phone battery is dead.”

  “No, she would never let that happen,” Cara said as she raked her dark fingernails through her bangs. “She might miss a call.”

  “So she had her phone with her when she left last night?” I asked, wanting to make sure Angela knew we were trying to reach her.

  “She was, like, texting as she walked out the door. Maybe she got her big payoff,” Cara said in a quiet voice, more to herself than to us.

  “Payoff?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah, she was talking about some big find. She said she’d have tons of money soon,” Cara said.

  “Was she listing something online, something exclusive?” I asked, wondering if Angela had found some rare designer outfit or bag, maybe a Birkin or something along those lines.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. She said it wouldn’t be like her allowance from her dad, but really big money. Enough to buy a house on the water or travel anywhere she wanted. She said when it came in, she would book a flight to Paris for the fall shows.”

  Even a Birkin bag wouldn’t pay for a house with a water view. “Was it an investment, something like that?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Cara said. “I didn’t believe her. I thought it was all talk, but now that she’s gone . . . well, maybe it wasn’t made up.”

  We left the store and retraced our steps toward the hotel. “That didn’t seem like a place Angela would work,” I said. “She seems more like a pulsing music and bright colors kind of girl.”

  “That’s what she likes when it comes to clubs,” Ben said. “But she needed the money. Her dad works overseas. He does something in electronics or computers. He sends money to her and her brother every month. She’s not that good at managing it and usually runs through it pretty fast. She’ll get her money from him and buy some designer dress or purse, then a few weeks later, she’s out of money.”

  “So does she go to college?”

  “She took a couple of classes last semester, but said she wasn’t into campus life. I think she mostly hangs out on the beach or works in the store when she needs extra money to make it until the next check from her dad. Then she hits the clubs at night. If she runs through her money, which happens quite a bit, she sells some of her designer duds online to tide her over until the next check arrives from her father.”

  “Designer duds?” I asked. “I would recommend not describing designer clothes as duds, especially around Angela.”

  “Yeah, I got the lecture. I guess you could say I view clothes as something to wear and she thinks of them as . . .”

  “An art form?” I supplied.

  Ben nodded. “That’s one way to put it. We’re not on the same wavelength.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, but didn’t ask anything else. I could see from his face that he wouldn’t have any more to say on the subject, but I had to wonder if Angela’s rather carefree approach to life was why Ben seemed to have distanced himself from her.

  It had taken Ben a few years to find his niche. After high school, he’d worked in sales for a plastics company, then he’d found a job as a tour guide for a company that coordinated trips abroad for high school students. That job ended when the economy shriveled and parents’ disposable incomes dried up. He’d returned home with a host of useful phrases in five foreign languages and a list of the best restaurants in European capitals—so maybe his interest in food wasn’t that unexpected, I thought tangentially. He’d enrolled in college when he returned from his tour guide stint. He’d graduated with honors and a degree in engineering, then secured a slot for pilot training through the Reserve Officer Training Corps. Ben was more focused than he appeared at first glance. It sounded like Angela was more of a party girl than I’d realized.

  “Where’s her mom?” I asked.

  “South Beach. Divorced. Sounded like it was messy. Angela said she hadn’t talked to her since her high school graduation.”

  “Wow,” I said, trying to imagine a life without family connections. We might not live close to our families, but we talked on the phone and visited as much as we could.

  “I know,” Ben said.

  We walked a few paces in silence, then I asked, “Do you think we should call her home phone—just to check? Or, is that kind of weird, for us to check up on her? For all we know, she could have gotten an unexpected inheritance and jetted off to the French Riviera.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think that’s where she is.” Ben took out his phone. “She doesn’t have a home phone, just her cell phone. That’s why it’s odd that she’s not answering or texting. She might go a few minutes without calling back, but, like Cara said, she’s always texting. I’ll try her cell phone again.”

  Ben walked a few more paces, then stopped and scanned the sidewalks. A bald man nearly bumped into him, but Ben didn’t even notice the man’s glare as he stepped around him. “Do you hear that?” Ben asked. “That music?”

  I could faintly hear the notes of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s her ringtone.” Ben looked around. I scanned the people in our immediate area, but didn’t see anyone reaching for their cell phone. The song cut off mid-note, and Ben pulled his phone away from his ear. “It went to voice mail.”

  Ellie’s Digital Organizing Tips

  Organizing Computer Files

  The key to organizing computer files is to create a tiered system that works for you. If you save everything to your hard drive, you’ll have an overwhelming number of files to sort through when you want to find a file. Take a little time to think through how you use your computer, then pick an option that works for you.

 
Organize by category—If you work from home, you could start with two separate folders, Work and Home, then use subfiles to categorize within those broad groups. If you use your computer for only home-based files, you can still use the same principle. For instance, create folders for Finances, Kids’ School Work, Photos, Music, Hobby/Craft, and Recipes.

  Organize by individual—Another way to organize your hard drive is with a folder for each family member. This system works well for families who share a computer. Under each name, use folders to group files together. Kids can have a folder for each school subject under their name.

  Chapter Three

  “Call it again,” I said.

  Ben had already hit REDIAL. The notes sounded again and we both moved down the street a few steps, then paused over one of the large flowerpots that lined the edge of the sidewalk. “It’s louder here.” I pushed begonias aside.

  “Here,” Ben said as he ended the call, simultaneously putting his phone in his pocket and picking up a small phone with rich, dark soil almost obscuring its shiny gold case. He activated the screen, and I grabbed his arm to lower it so that I could see. “Thirty-six missed calls? Fifty-two text messages?” I asked in astonishment.

  “I think that’s normal for Angela.”

  “But Cara said she had her phone with her when she left the store. She got all those calls and texts in a few hours?” My mind reeled. I was old, I realized. I couldn’t imagine having that many missed calls, much less texts, in a few hours. I doubted I’d have that many calls when we returned from our vacation.

  Ben punched some buttons and scrolled through the incoming calls. “There’s mine,” I said. “At eight-twenty.”

  “Lots of incoming calls after that. Several from you and me through this morning.” He switched over to the list of sent calls. “Nothing after eight-thirty last night.”

  I studied the street, looking toward my hotel. It wasn’t in sight because the street curved gently back on itself and our hotel was hidden behind several other high-rise hotels. “How far do you think it is to the hotel?”

  “Maybe a quarter mile.”

  “What are the chances that she dropped her phone by accident?”

  “And she didn’t realize it?” Ben asked. “Zero.” He shook his head. “If she’d dropped her phone or lost it, she’d go back and look for it. And if she couldn’t find it, the first thing she’d do is go buy a new one today, even if it was a cheap disposable one.” He punched some more buttons. “I’m calling her brother.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” I leaned against the flowerpot as Ben pulled up the number from Angela’s contact list. After a moment, he said, “Chase, this is Ben. We met in June when I came to pick up your sister.” He explained how Angela hadn’t arrived at the hotel last night, her no-show at work, and how we’d found her phone with no outgoing calls or texts since last night.

  I examined the strap on the fake Leah Marshall purse as he talked. This morning, I’d switched to a Fossil crossbody wallet bag in light tan so I’d been able to take the Leah Marshall purse out of the box and carry it on my shoulder.

  I listened to Ben’s one-sided conversation. “Right, but would she go off without her phone?” he asked. “Without calling in to work or telling you?”

  His jaw tightened. “Was she home last night? Oh, well, don’t you think—”

  He threw his head back, studied the sky, then paced away and back, murmuring, “Right. Okay, well, I don’t agree with you . . . but you’re her brother. Sure. You’re on your way there now? I’ll meet you.”

  Ben turned to me and said, “He doesn’t get it. He says she’s checked out before—picked up and left without a word to anyone, so we should ‘chill.’ He thinks she’ll turn up in a day or two.”

  “She didn’t go home last night?” I asked, fiddling with the zipper on the fake Leah Marshall purse, which was caught at the halfway point.

  “Chase was out of town, so he doesn’t know if she was there or not, but apparently that’s nothing to worry about.”

  I picked up on the edge of disdain in his words. “You don’t like him?”

  Ben shook his head. “I only met him once, but he’s . . . slick.”

  Interesting description. I processed that information silently, then said, “Well, like you said, he is her brother and if he thinks everything is fine, then . . .”

  “I know,” Ben said shortly.

  “I wonder where her car is.” I shaded my eyes to look up and down the street, which was filled on each side with cars parked in parallel slots.

  “That’s a good question. I’ll check at the apartment. I know that sometimes she left her car there and walked to work. It’s not that far, and parking is a hassle on the beach road. Chase is on his way to the apartment he and Angela share. I told him I’d meet him there and give him Angela’s phone.”

  “If her car isn’t at the apartment, it could be anywhere,” I said, gesturing to the beach road. “There’re several public lots all along the beach.” I glanced at my watch. “While you do that, I’ll pick up the kids from Summer. By the time I get there, it will be almost noon.”

  We walked back to the hotel. Before I climbed in the van, I called, “See you in a little while.”

  He waved, pulled out of the parking lot in his sporty blue Mazda, and turned into the traffic slowly creeping to the east, the direction we’d walked that morning. I turned the opposite way and inched along. It was late Saturday morning in a Florida beach town on the week of July Fourth. We weren’t going anywhere fast. After a few blocks, I took a road that cut north, away from the beach, and the congestion eased. My phone rang and I glanced at the screen—blocked number—before I answered the call with the speaker.

  “Ellie? Is that you?”

  I didn’t recognize the female voice, but I got calls at all times of the day and night for my organizing business. Being a professional organizer was a bit like being a realtor. I wasn’t ever really on vacation, even when I was out of town, and with the economic downturn, I couldn’t afford to miss any potential clients. “Speaking,” I said.

  “Ellie. Thank God you answered.” A sound came over the line, a raspy gulp like the kids make when they are trying not to cry. My “mom sense” went on high alert, even though I knew it wasn’t one of my kids on the phone.

  “Angela?” I asked.

  “I need you to take the purse, the fake Leah Marshall—this is really important—take it to my apartment,” she said. Her breathing was rough and there was a tension in her words, an urgency that had me sitting up straighter.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  There was a slight hesitation, then she said quickly, “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Just take the purse, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m on my way to pick up my kids. I can drop it by later—”

  “No!” she cut me off. “You’ve got to do it now.” Her breathing was ragged and her words vibrated with . . . fear, I realized. My heartbeat sped up. I pulled off the road into a Publix and stopped at the far end of the parking lot with the van slewed diagonally over the lines.

  “Do you understand?” she asked, her voice tense. “You can’t wait a minute. Take it now.”

  “Okay. I can do that. What’s your address?” I asked, opening the van’s console where I keep a pen and notepad.

  “Thank you,” she said as she blew out a breath. “12989 Sea Water Lane, Apartment twenty-nine B.”

  I jotted down the address. “I was worried about you when you didn’t show up last night and I didn’t hear from you this morning. Ben, too.”

  “I’m sorry. I—,” she broke off. “I’m sorry. Tell Ben, I’m sorry . . . about everything,” she said, her last words caught up in a sob.

  “Angela,” I said, using the same soothing voice that I spoke in when the kids were hurt or distraught, “where are you? I’m sure everything will be okay. Are you at home?”

  “No. That’s not important. What’s important is you take t
he purse to my apartment and then leave. Do you understand?” Her voice trembled with intensity. “Don’t stay. Just leave it on the porch and get out of there.”

  “Okay.” I tapped the address into the GPS, which was still mounted on the windshield from the drive down yesterday. I put the van in DRIVE. “I’m turning around right now.”

  A dial tone sounded. I glanced at the purse, which I’d tossed on the passenger seat when I first got in the van. Why the panic, the fear? It was only a purse—and a fake one at that. It was worth probably about ten or twenty dollars total. I hit REDIAL on my phone, but got a message saying the call couldn’t be completed.

  The GPS routed me inland along the highway and then south, back toward the gulf. I made a quick call to Summer to let her know I’d be a little late, then called Ben. He didn’t pick up. I was glad the route kept me off the busy beach road, and I made good time, pulling into the Sea Side Garden apartment complex a little after noon.

  Located a few blocks inland from the busy beach road, the complex was misnamed, because there wasn’t a drop of seawater in sight, only a shopping complex and a few gated neighborhoods with patio homes. Several high-rise hotels towered over the patio homes, cutting off any view of the gulf. The complex was well kept, with spotless cream two-story stucco buildings topped with terra-cotta roofs. The “garden” part of the name was accurate. The grounds were lushly landscaped with fringy pindo palms shading the walks, which were lined with the low-growing, sturdier sago palms. Purple bougainvillea mixed with ivy trailed over the stucco walls, draping down to low-growing shrubs and flowering ground covers.