Killer Colada: a Danger Cove Cocktail Mystery (20 page)

"Hey, you're fun! Isn't Botox amazing?" I asked, fascinated by her un-wrinkly forehead.

This earned me something eerily close to a snarl. "What do you want? We're very busy."

Properly chastised, I answered. "I just need a few moments with Umberto Fandango. It's about his insurance."

"What about it?"

Good question.
Here comes the BS.

I cleared my throat. "I'm just checking out the business premises for security reasons. Obviously you have some very expensive and high-profile merchandise here, so I need to have a look around the entire area, as well as inspect your alarm system to make sure there's no possible breach of security. Don't worry, it's just routine information for our files." I gave her my most sincere smile, pulling out my camera to make my claim look authentic.

She weighed my words with an icy stare. "Hmm." A pause. Then: "Follow me." And off she clicked toward a corridor at the far end of the reception area.

I made use of my trigger finger, snapping off a few pictures as I followed behind her. We stopped when she paused outside a door at the end and punched in a sequence of numbers on a keypad.

The door clicked. "Wait here," she said. She slipped inside the room, returning a few seconds later. "Mr. Fandango will see you now."

I followed her into the ultra-modern office, which was decked out with a chrome and glass desk, chrome and leather chairs, a chrome lamp, chrome pen tidy, and a silver leather sofa. Wow, when this guy liked something, he really went to town. I quickly sneaked a peek at the pen tidy, crammed full of biros, as a man dressed in a purple smoking jacket stood from behind his desk and pumped my hand. I didn't think smoking jackets existed in real life, I thought it was just a myth, but no—they were alive and well and living in Hertfordshire. And this guy had to be in his fifties; far too young for a smoking jacket, in my opinion.

"I'm Umberto. What can I do for you, honey?" he asked in a weird, Lloyd Grossman mix of an American and English accent. He was on the short side, with thick, dark brown hair that was swept back with a touch of gel, dark brown eyes, and a spray-on tan that bordered on the Tango variety. Although he was clean-shaven, he had a hint of five o'clock shadow, and I suspected he would have to shave more than once a day to keep his beard in check.

I went through my spiel again and gave him a dazzling smile for good luck, all the while casually gripping one of the bug pens in my pocket.

"Knock yourself out. Just make sure you don't get in the models' way, or I'll have one hell of a catfight on my hands. Actually, I've got a few spare minutes, so why don't I show you around?" He flashed me a bleached-tooth grin and led the way out of his office.

In a split second, pen number two was secretly stashed in his pen tidy, and I was following behind him. The Ice Queen bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile, examining me like I was a piece of road kill stuck to her thousand-pound shoes as she sat down at the desk opposite Fandango's.

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out.

As Umberto led me through the offices and the huge storage area upstairs that housed his fashion collection, I took notes and photos galore.

"So, waddaya think?" he asked as we entered the runway area, where the stiletto-heeled he-she was busy screeching at one of the models.

"I think I need to see the bags before I make my mind up," I told him. Maybe he'd give me a freebie while I was here.

"Beg pardon?"

"You know—those gorgeous handbags you make. Can I have a little peek at them? They're so cool. I love the ones with—"

"Sorry, honey, we don't make the bags here, they're all sent in from the States."

"Oh," I muttered with disappointment. Well, it had been worth a try.

"Waddaya think of the security, then?" he asked.

"It looks pretty secure to me."

"Aw, shit!" Fandango looked across the sea of prancing female models toward a dark-haired man in a crisp blue shirt and an expensive-looking suit. He was pretty hot, too. In fact, if I had to rate him out of ten, he'd be a nine and three-quarters. The man wore an air of expectation, and I watched as Fandango's demeanor changed abruptly. "Okay, that's your lot, honey. You need to leave now." As he made his way over to Mr. Hottie, I took the opportunity to drop a pen to the floor, casually kicking it under the runway. Based on the way Fandango had reacted, I assumed the man in the suit was a model.

A Kodak moment of a yummy model and a famous fashion designer seemed too good to miss, so I snapped a few pictures while I studied them through the viewfinder. They seemed to be involved in a heated argument about something. Maybe someone had forgotten to put all-white lilies in Mr. Hottie's dressing room, or the blue M&M's had been left in his chocolate selection by mistake.
Oh well
, I thought,
it's not my problem.
Operation Bug was complete, which was all that mattered to me. I smiled as I headed out of the building.
Way to go, Amber. Bring on the chocolate muffins.
My first assignment had been a success. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.

Could it?

FASHION, LIES, AND MURDER

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