Snagged (4 page)

“Who took the last chocolate cookie?” Elmer Pickett whined as he wandered in and perused the confectionary offerings on the plastic tray. “That always happens to me.”

“Well, that’s what you get for being late,” Flo admonished. “Just take one of the orange ones and sit down. We’ve got to get started.”

“I don’t like that kind. The dye runs all over my tongue,” Elmer muttered as he took a seat and crossed his legs.

Richie stood at the front of the room, by the bulletin board that held announcements of upcoming folk dances, poetry readings, and a sign-up sheet for the next outing to Sizzler. He smiled nervously. “Things are tough,” he began, “but we’ve all been through bad times before. We have to stick together. We don’t want to lose the Fourth Quarter.”

“I say we should take the offer they’ve made to buy us out,” Elmer yelled out. ’That way we won’t end up with nothing.”

“Where we’ll end up is living in some dump on the wrong side of the railroad tracks,” Richie said vehemently. “I went to check out the place where they want to move us. It’s broken down and it stinks.”

“Well, at least we’ll all go there with a check in our pocket,” Elmer cried, still grouchy from not getting a chocolate cookie. “If we don’t take their deal right now, then we’ll all be tossed out of here with no place to go and no money to get there.”

The group started shaking their heads and muttering as Richie called for them to calm down.

“My run-proof panty hose really works. I’ve got a patent on it. I’m showing it off this weekend at the convention. All the big companies will be there.”

“But Richie, your last big invention bombed,” Millie Owens choked.

“Do you call the Clapper a bomb? The guy who invented that beat me to the marketplace. My device worked practically the same way.”

“Richie, it’s easier to clap hands to shut off the television than it is to sneeze it off.” Millie snorted.

“Not for people with arthritis,” Richie protested.

Flo placed the tray of Gatorade on a side table. “Let’s get to the point.”

Richie agreed. “Now we all put money into the option. Of course none of us want to lose it. That’s why we just have to sit tight until this weekend, when I show the panty hose at the convention.”

“But you told us that the panty hose was wonderful and that all the companies would be lining up to buy it,” Elmer accused. “What happened to that?”

“I sent them letters, but it’s not until they see it that they’ll know. That’s why we’re doing the fashion show. They’ll all want it, I’ll sell it, and we’ll get to stay here. By the end of this weekend I’ll be a millionaire and I’ll buy this place for all of us. It’s our only hope.”

Flo interrupted. “Let’s get a report from our treasurer.”

Nonna Begster stood up with her clipboard in hand and walked to the front of the room. She had an angelic-looking face and graced the group with a beatific smile. Her white cardigan sweater was thrown around her shoulders and buttoned at the neck, leaving its arms dangling at her sides. She cleared her throat and began speaking in a voice that was clear as a bell. “As of three
P.M.
this afternoon, Eastern Daylight Time, our account at Ocean Savings contained eight hundred twenty-two dollars and seventy-seven cents. This is a result of our bake sale, door-to-door pot-holder drive, and paper-recycling effort. Given that we need one point one million dollars to purchase said property, that leaves us in need of one million, ninety-nine thousand, one hundred seventy-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Thank you.”

“Give me a break,” Elmer yelled. “We’ve got to win the lottery to raise that much money. Like I said before, we should just take what they’re offering and not risk losing everything.”

“I can’t stand the idea of leaving this place,” Millie Owens moaned sadly. “My son and daughter-in-law would take me in, but they live in Montana and it gets so friggin’ cold there.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Wilhelmina Jackson said enthusiastically. “My daughter-in-law is a pain in my butt.”

Richie interrupted. “If we could all just agree to wait till the end of the weekend and my fashion show, which a few of you ladies have agreed to model in, then I promise you we won’t have to leave . . .”

R
EGAN CHECKED IN at the front desk of the Ocean View Hotel. Walking in the door she felt as if she were stepping into another era. Overhead fans cooled Art Deco furniture. Black-and-white tile covered the floors. Old black-and-white pictures of bathing beauties from the twenties frolicking on the beach across the street hung behind the desk. She handed over her credit card as the dark-skinned girl smiled and looked up Regan’s name on the computer. What would we do without computers? Regan thought. Wait on long lines while clerks shuffled through index cards, that’s what.

Her room on the second floor was described as having an ocean view—that is if you got out of bed and walked over to the small window in the corner of the room and peered out through the Venetian blinds. They should have handed over a periscope with the room key, Regan thought as the bellman placed her luggage on the steel foldout contraption with two army-green threaded belts that somehow held it all together. It screamed for a rest, looking as if it had been salvaged from a Girl Scout camp.

“Thank you,” Regan said as she pressed a tip into the bellman’s hand.

“You’re welcome, miss. Thank you. Enjoy your stay.” He shut the door behind him.

Regan looked around the room. It was soothing. A white cotton bedspread, blond pine furniture, an overhead fan above the bed, more pictures of Miami in the old days decorating the walls, all contributed to its charm. A small refrigerator with an ice bucket on top stood in the corner. Regan sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Thank God,” she muttered as she lay back on the bed and stared up at the fan. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the faint whir of the blades as they continued on their ever-revolving course. Voices from passersby on the sidewalk one floor down registered in Regan’s brain.

Suddenly the phone rang, an urgent double ring, quickly followed by another, as if to admonish the callee to hurry up and answer. Regan sat up.

“Hello.”

“Regan, you’re there!” It was Maura.

“I just got in a few minutes ago. How are you doing?”

“Well, I’m fine. We’re just getting all the last-minute things together. I just talked to your parents over at the Watergreen. My mother decided to have an impromptu supper here tonight for a few people who are already in town. Luke and Nora said they’d come over, so why don’t you come too?”

“Well, sure, I was just going to give them a call to see about dinner.”

“Great. Was your trip all right?”

“Oh, it was fine.”

“How does the bridesmaid dress fit?”

“Like a glove.”

“Oh, that’s good, because you know I really tried to pick a dress that you could wear again.”

There was a momentary pause. Regan laughed and so did Maura. “You don’t have to worry about that, Maura. I’m thrilled to be in your wedding, you know that.”

“But really,” Maura began, “if you just cut it down, you could wear it to a cocktail party . . .”

Given by who, Regan thought, the Salvation Army? “Maura!” she said. “Stop worrying. It’s your day.”

“All right, all right. By the way, do you think you could stop and see if my Uncle Richie is over at the Fourth Quarter? It’s just a couple doors down from you. I called his apartment there and got his machine. Sometimes they just sit outside or gather in the community room. We’d love to have him come by tonight. He’s been so preoccupied with this panty hose of his that we’ve hardly seen him, and he probably hasn’t been eating right . . .”

“Oh, sure. Then we’ll take a cab over to your parents’ house.”

“Thanks, Morticia.”

“No problem, Wednesday.” Regan smiled, remembering their other favorite show, “The Addams Family.”

“See you anytime after seven.”

“Great.” Regan hung up the phone and jumped up. Her jog would have to wait. Time for a quick shower and to pick out the least-wrinkled clothes from her bags. I’m also going to open up one of the bottles of water sitting on the dresser and check if there’s any ice in the fridge, she thought. But not before I give Luke and Nora a call.

L
UKE AND NORA sat in deck chairs on the balcony of their hotel room, which overlooked the turquoise-blue Atlantic Ocean. They had arrived a few hours before and, following their usual routine, unpacked immediately. Because they did so much traveling, they liked to feel settled in as quickly as possible. Somehow it made hotel rooms feel more homey when you had your own things around.

Nora Regan Reilly, a popular suspense writer, had just completed a book that she claimed had been the most torturous one yet for her to write. Her husband, Luke, and only child, Regan, had reminded her that this was what she said every time she was in the middle of writing a book, and her response was always the same. “It was never this bad.” In any case she had happily turned it over to her editor and was very glad to get on the plane with Luke and head to Miami for the funeral convention and Maura’s wedding. While Luke attended seminars dealing with the latest embalming techniques, Nora planned to laze by the pool and even squeeze in a massage or two at the hotel health spa. She felt like a hunchback from sitting at her computer for endless hours for the last three months as she revised and rewrote her latest yarn.

Nora looked over at her husband, who was reading over his notes for the welcome speech he would give tomorrow to his colleagues. Nora smiled as she watched him move his lips, raise his eyebrows, and gesture with his right hand, all without making a sound. “You’d have made a good mime, darling.”

“Huh?” Luke looked up from his notes.

“I said, you’d have made a good mime.” Nora chuckled and took a sip of her mai-tai.

“Sometimes I feel like a mime. Like when I try to talk our daughter out of taking a dangerous case.” Luke shrugged his shoulders, half smiled, and shuffled through his notes. They were both relieved that Regan had just finished a case where she’d been tailing a rapist. The family of one of his victims had been appalled when he was released from prison early on good behavior. They were terrified he would seek revenge on their daughter for testifying in court, so they hired Regan to keep a watch on him. He was moving back to their area. Regan had set herself up as a potential victim in an empty parking lot and nabbed the guy when he tried to force her into her car. He was now back behind bars and wouldn’t see the light of day for a long time.

Luke and Nora were proud of her, but still wished she had taken that LSAT course she had signed up for in college and gone on to law school. But one look at the workbook and a few practice tests made Regan realize that she didn’t think like a lawyer. She had started training as an investigator when she graduated from college, which over the years had meant a lot of sleepless nights for her parents. They were both looking forward to seeing her and were happy for the chance to have a mini-vacation in Miami this weekend.

The phone rang in their room and Nora put down her drink. “This might be Herself.” Nora stepped inside their luxurious hotel room and sat down on the pink pastel couch as she reached for the phone.

Luke cocked his head as he heard his wife of thirty-five years greet their daughter. He turned and saw Nora running her fingers through her short blond hair as she laughed into the phone. Regan, with her dark hair, took after her father, although Luke’s had turned to a dignified silver. At six feet five, Luke towered over the five-foot-three Nora. Their offspring combined both sets of genes in the height department, coming in at five feet seven.

Luke stared out in the distance at a ship on the horizon, and then down at the shoreline at a young couple walking the beach with their three small children. He and Nora would have liked to have had a big family but it had never happened for them. That’s why it’s so nice, Luke thought, to be down here to celebrate Maura’s wedding with the Durkins, people who felt like extended family. Maura and Regan had always been close, and now Maura was marrying a nice guy. Now if only Regan could find someone like that . . . Luke shrugged himself out of his reverie. My God, he thought, I’m starting to think like my beloved wife! Give her a break. If I ever get my hands on that guy who didn’t tell her he was engaged, only to let her find out about it by reading it in the Sunday
Times
, I’ll kill him. And to think I bought him dinner the week before. He was even marrying someone else named Regan. I guess it makes it easier if you talk in your sleep. But Luke was glad it wasn’t his Regan because the guy was such a loser. Regan, of course, had laughed it off, saying she’d been some detective, but in his day . . .

“Hey, Marcel Marceau,” Nora said for the second time.

Luke looked up at her. “Very funny.”

Nora took his hand and pulled him out of his chair. “We’ve got to get ready. We’re meeting Regan at the Durkins’s in less than an hour.”

R
EGAN SHOWERED QUICKLY and immediately felt much better. A cool-water rinse at the end was refreshing and served to give her a second wind. Stepping out of the old-fashioned tub, she wrapped herself in a towel and attempted to wipe the steam off the mirror, only to watch it immediately reappear. I guess I’ll get dressed first instead of fighting this losing battle, she thought.

Her garment bag was hanging in the closet, where there was also a safe and, surprisingly enough, a variety of hangers, the kind you’d find in an old closet at home. At least they don’t lock them onto the rack the way they do in some hotels, as if anyone paying a couple hundred bucks a night for a room isn’t entitled to make off with a few wooden hangers, she thought.

She pulled out a pair of white jeans, a striped blouse and her red leather flats, then looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand, which read six-thirty. Regan went over and picked it up. Boy, this really is a relaxed hotel, she thought. In most places this thing would be nailed down with industrial-strength screws. They must have good insurance.