Snagged (6 page)

“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.”

T
HE 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.”

“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?”

N
ICK 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.

R
EGAN 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 tissue 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.”