Permanently Booked (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dorothy tried to give herself a silent pep talk as she, Summer, and Georgiana pulled up to the WMLO studios at almost exactly five o’clock.

Accompanying GH Hamel to this interview was definitely the right thing to do. As she’d reminded herself several times, she needed to support Georgiana and Carrie. It was her unwritten duty as the chief organizer of the Hibiscus Pointe Book Club.

Besides, other than her son, Georgiana didn’t have a dedicated assistant, as Carrie did, to take care of any issues that might pop up. And having gotten to know GH Hamel, there were sure to be at least a few of those.

Plus, once everyone was occupied, she and Summer would have a chance to compare notes on the case so far for the day. They hadn’t been able to talk freely over those cocktails, with Georgiana there.

The author had insisted on Larry’s Lizard Lounge, a somewhat questionable establishment attached to a motor inn just off the highway. Dorothy suspected Georgiana might have had a drink or two before they’d picked her up at the house.

A breathless young woman in a bright blue WMLO blazer, most likely a college student, greeted them at the door. “Hi there,” she said. “My name is Monesha, and I’m one of the interns here at the station. I’ll be taking care of you, Ms. Hamel—it’s an honor to meet you—so just let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“How about a drink?” Georgiana said.

Oh dear. That would be a very bad idea, Dorothy told herself. The woman was already tipsy. “Perhaps when you’re all settled,” she suggested.

“There’s a bar set up in the greenroom,” Monesha said. “The other author, Carrie—she said she’s a friend of yours—is already there. Her publicist is helping set things up with our assistant producer—you know, sound check, teleprompter, that sort of stuff. For both of you, Ms. Hamel.”

“Fine. I can’t be bothered with minor details,” Georgiana said. “And I always do my own makeup, just so you know.”

The intern led them all into the greenroom.

“Hi!” Carrie said, from the makeup chair, where a stylist was struggling to curl her limp hair. “I’ve been waiting forever for you guys to get here.”

Any changes resulting from the young woman’s spa makeover yesterday were not immediately apparent to Dorothy, but she would never say so, of course. “Don’t you look nice?” she said.

“Thanks,” Carrie said. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“So we’re going to be featuring a very short excerpt from each of your books,” Monesha told her and Georgiana. “But don’t worry, you’ll be reading straight from the teleprompter.”

“I don’t need a teleprompter,” Georgiana called as the intern left. She pointedly ignored Carrie and accepted the gin and tonic Summer had mixed for her at the wet bar in the corner.

About two minutes later, the greenroom door opened and Charles Bell stuck his head inside. Dorothy could see the top of Gladys’s curly gray head just behind him.

Good heavens. What if someone had been in the middle of dressing?

“Just stopping by to say hello,” the professor said. “Turns out I’ve been asked to join the literary conversation with you lovely author ladies.”

“How...
nice
,” Georgiana said. “We will see you onstage, then. Please let yourself out so I can”—she swirled her drink—”collect my thoughts for the interview.”

“Of course,” he said. “Maybe I can catch up with you after the segment, Ms. Hamel. It just so happens I have in my car that highly commercial manuscript I mentioned to you earlier. I’ve already had it edited by a literary expert, and I think—with your recommendation—it will be of great interest to your fine publisher, Maxwell & Perkins.”

“We’ll see.” Georgiana took a large sip of her G&T. “Now get lost.”

My
, Dorothy thought as Charles scurried away, with Gladys right behind him. GH Hamel certainly didn’t mince words.

“Sometimes you just have to get rid of wannabe vermin,” the author said, with a side glance at Carrie.

Gladys poked her head back in. “Hey, Foxy Dot, not to worry,” she said. “I have no lovey-dovey interest in Charles at all. I’m only tailing him for the case—which, by the way, I’m about to crack wide-open.” Then she disappeared, to Dorothy’s great relief.

Georgiana turned to Dorothy. “Who
was
that horrible woman and what was she talking about?”

“Nothing, really.” Dorothy sighed. “Don’t worry, Gladys is quite harmless.”

“Just another wannabe rat,” Summer added, from the back of the room. Dorothy frowned in her friend’s direction, but if truth be told, she heartily agreed.

* * *

Summer and Dorothy slipped into the last seats left for the live interview—right in front of Gladys—just before a guy intern closed the studio doors.

“Oh dear,” Dorothy said. “Parker must not have made it in time.”

“She’s in the wings,” Summer said, pointing. “See, over there, pouring Georgiana’s drink into a mug. Dash’s mom can really hold her liquor.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Dorothy said. “She should be more careful, don’t you think? Especially speaking in public like this.”

“Maybe she’s nervous,” Summer said. It was hard to imagine a famous author like GH Hamel freaking out, though.

“It’s that Carrie kid.” Gladys leaned over the backs of their seats. “She could make butter crazy.”

Jeez. Summer guessed she and Dorothy wouldn’t be having any private conversations. But they probably couldn’t anyway, because another intern had just announced during the commercial break that the audience had to stay quiet. Except for lots of clapping after the interview, when the little Applause sign above their heads lit up.

It was just like being on a regular TV or movie set. She and Joy used to get to visit them when they were kids. Sometimes Syd had even let her sit in his folding producer chair. There was no food on this set, though. And all the walls were plain so they could use digital stuff like laser designs and weather maps and cheesy graphics to change things up.

Right now the background on the left side of the set said Book Corner. A hundred percent fake, and zero glam.

Another intern ran up and whispered something to the first one. How many interns did they have here at the TV station, anyway? Maybe she should send in a résumé. They probably didn’t get paid, though.

“Okay, everybody,” the first intern said to the audience. “Slight change of plans here. We need to do a quick, special news segment, so please keep the rustling to a minimum and no more talking, please.”

The two news anchors, a square-jawed guy who looked like a blond Frankenstein and a bony woman in a supertight knit dress and tons of makeup, showed up a second later. They sat down behind their cheap news desk on the other side from the one where Georgiana, Carrie, and the professor waited in fake-leather chairs.

Felicia Hernandez seemed a little annoyed that she was stuck on the Book Corner fireside and wasn’t going to deliver the breaking news, whatever it was.

The anchors tested the microphones and shuffled a bunch of papers. A stylist ran up and applied more powder to both of their faces. And then they were live.

“Milano police and wildlife officials are investigating reports of yet another spotting of a twelve-foot Burmese python that allegedly escaped Wednesday from an exotic pet store on Immokalee Boulevard in North Milano,” the woman anchor read from the teleprompter. “The giant snake’s owner, Ray Bob Slater, was unavailable for comment.”

A photo of a huge, gross, evil-looking snake filled the screen behind the news desk. “Oh my gosh,” Summer whispered to Dorothy. “It’s Camo! And if that snake’s down there by the beach, Ray must be, too.”

“Quiet!” Gladys said behind them, superloudly.

The background switched to the young woman reporter, Melanie Knight, who was filling in for Felicia Hernandez. She kept looking behind her as she tried to interview a cop about whether they knew where the snake was now, and a bunch of people in the crowd who all wanted to see it.

“Residents have been warned to keep their pets and small children inside, and avoid swamps, woods, and other areas of vegetation,” Melanie told the cameras.

After viewers were treated to dark, fuzzy cell phone video footage of something long and slithery, the cameras cut back to the studio news anchors. They warned about the growing problem of invasive species in Florida, even right here in a highly populated area like Milano. Some were illegally imported into the country and escaped. Others were released into the swamps by illegal pet owners when they got too big to handle. And as the swampy habitats disappeared, from pollution and development, the creatures headed for the burbs for food.

Now the background showed a pic of some dinosaur-looking thing called a crocodile monitor lizard.

That did it. She was never going outside again.

She was almost relieved when the breaking news report ended, the lights went dim on the anchor desk side, and Felicia Hernandez launched right into the Book Corner segment.

She’d put on glasses so she’d look smarter, Summer noticed. “Hello, everyone, and welcome to Book Corner!” Felicia was all smiles again. “Today we’re honored to have bestselling mystery author GH Hamel here in the studios—along with debut author Carrie Dunbar.”

“Not really debut,” Carrie piped in. “
Debut for Death
was my first book, and that one came out last year. But my new one is
A
Killing Fog
.”

The interruption threw Felicia off her game, and Georgiana actually rolled her eyes as she took a long sip from her mug. “Oh. Of course. My apologies, Carrie,” Felicia said. “And to my left, I’d like to introduce our local literary expert Professor Charles Bell, chair of the English Department right here at Santa Teresa College.”

The Applause sign lit, and everyone clapped. Carrie looked as if she were about to pop with happiness. Georgiana seemed really moody, Summer thought, not exactly playing the charming author for her fans. And the professor was his usual smug self.

“So, Professor Bell, perhaps you could remark on GH Hamel’s place in modern popular literature,” Felicia began. “She’s an established mystery novelist—a member of the Old Guard, some might say—but what do you see for the future of the genre?”

Carrie sat up superstraight. Beside Summer, Dorothy frowned in the dark. “Georgiana is hardly
old
,” she said. “How ridiculous.”

“Shh!” Gladys said. “I can’t hear the professor.”

Dorothy twisted in her seat. “He’s not even talking, Gladys. Yet.”

Ooo. Summer hardly ever saw Dorothy that annoyed.

“Well, if we look back through the entire history of the novel, and beyond the realm of the mystery genre...” the professor began. Summer tuned out as he began to drone on and on about books she’d never heard of.
Beowulf
?
Jude the Obscure
?

“Wake me up when it’s over,” she muttered to Dorothy, but her friend gave her a little nudge after what seemed like just a few seconds.

“But since we’re considering literature of the future,” the professor was saying—Carrie smiled at the audience—”I should mention, in full disclosure, that I have just completed a novel of my own. It’s a story of high romantic intrigue, with elements of—”

“Thank you, Professor Bell.” Felicia tried to cut him off. “I’m afraid we need to go to a commercial break right now.” She urgently motioned to the guys in the control room booth. “And when we come back, our guest authors will share excerpts from their books.”

All too soon, they were back to Book Corner. Summer was pretty sure Carrie read a different part of her book this time than she had at the signing party.

“That was lovely, don’t you think?” Dorothy said. Everyone clapped as Carrie bounced back to her seat.

“I guess,” Summer said. Carrie had finished reading just as she was starting to get half interested.

Georgiana strolled slowly to the microphone, carrying her mug. Then she waited, until the audience quieted down again.

When she started to speak, in that superlow, dramatic voice of hers, everyone was mesmerized. Even though she’d told the intern she didn’t need the teleprompter, she was definitely reading from it, Summer noticed.

GH Hamel’s story was just as good as Carrie’s. Better, actually, because GH Hamel had already written tons of book. Even though she was obviously on autopilot, the scene she was reading was a lot more exciting. The mystery writer character was confronting the guy who’d killed that old lady with all the money.

Summer sat up and paid more attention. Wow, this story was scary-amazing. But Georgiana was starting to slow down. She looked confused. And then really, really mad.

“This is outrageous!” the author suddenly thundered, whirling toward Felicia. “How
dare
you? What kind of ill-advised, unpardonable joke are you trying to pull here?”

“Oh no.” Dorothy sounded really upset. “I knew she shouldn’t have had those drinks.”

Summer frowned. “I’m not sure that’s it.”

“Ms. Hamel, I don’t know what you mean.” Felicia sounded all fluttery, not like a reporter at all.

“You’ll be hearing from my attorneys.” Georgiana knocked over the microphone, which made a loud, muffled noise as she threw her empty mug at the dark news anchor desk. “Regarding blatant theft of intellectual property.” Then she tossed her scarf over her shoulder and stomped off the set.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The moment the Book Corner host went to another emergency commercial break, Dorothy rushed for the studio door, with Summer right behind her.

Why had Georgiana stormed off the stage like that? Dorothy had heard of temperamental authors, of course, but no one could have expected that kind of diva behavior.

Georgiana was already on her way out of the green room. “Parker here has called me a town car,” she said. “Clear the door, please.”

“Georgiana, wait.” Dorothy didn’t budge. Neither did Summer. “Please tell us what on earth happened out there. Are you feeling ill? Is there anything we can do?”

“Hardly.” The famous author sniffed. “I have my attorneys on speed dial, and they will take care of this matter quite expediently, I’m sure.”

“Ms. Hamel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Parker sounded extraordinarily anxious. “That wasn’t even the section I chose for you, I swear. I don’t know where that other one came from.” She held out an open hardcover copy of
Murder in the Mist
, marked with sticky notes. “This is what I picked out.”

Georgiana threw up her hands. “You ignorant girl.”

Parker looked stricken.

“That’s enough, Georgiana,” Dorothy intervened quickly. “There is no need for any unkindness right now
.
Parker was doing you a favor, and I’m sure she had no intention of providing the wrong material.”

The author turned toward Dorothy. “Obviously, none of you understand. The scene I read from the teleprompter was the climax of my next book. Not
Murder in the Mist
. The one that
no one
has read yet. That would be impossible, because it can only be found in my writing notebook.”

“You mean, the one that’s missing?” Summer asked.

Dorothy wished her sleuthing partner hadn’t brought that up. She braced herself for Georgiana’s reaction.

To her surprise, the author’s broad shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

“Georgiana, please let Summer and me take you back to Hibiscus Pointe,” Dorothy said. “It would be so much better for you to be with friends right now. Parker can cancel the town car and make up some kind of explanation for your unexpected departure”—Carrie’s publicist nodded—”and we’ll have you home in no time.”

The author agreed more readily than Dorothy had expected, and she and Summer bundled her into the MINI before she could change her mind.

“I simply cannot believe this,” Georgiana said, from the tiny backseat. She definitely appeared to be in shock. “Who could have stolen my notebook? And picked out the spoiler scene for me to read in public, before the book was even published? I hadn’t even typed it onto my computer yet
.
My story is ruined.”

“No, it isn’t,” Summer said. “I really liked it. And you’re such a great writer, I bet you can come up with an even more exciting scene on top of that one. You know—a double twist.”

Georgiana fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps.”

Dorothy was shocked by the turn of events—but then, maybe she shouldn’t be. What had happened to Georgiana had something to do with Lorella’s death, she was sure of it. There were just too many shared connections between the two authors for the teleprompter incident and the missing notebook to be pure coincidence. Their personal and academic backgrounds, their publisher, their parallel success, even Hibiscus Pointe...

A missing notebook, no matter what its contents, hardly compared with murder. But locating it might very well lead them to the other author’s killer.

Could that same person be targeting Georgiana for something much more sinister than a crucial plot reveal from her next, not yet published, best seller?

And, Dorothy wondered, did today’s fiasco at the TV station let Georgina off the hook for Lorella’s death?

No. Not necessarily, anyway. She was a mystery author, after all. She could very well have engineered a plot twist of her own for the case, to divert suspicion. Georgiana had to know that Dorothy and Summer were considering her possible involvement.

But who could have gotten their hands on that notebook? Charles Bell. Parker. Carrie. Anyone who had attended the Algonquin dinner, in fact, if that was indeed where it had disappeared.

From what Summer had told her on the way to pick Georgiana up this afternoon, the author had seemed quite certain about that.

Even Felicia Hernandez could have snatched the notebook from Georgiana’s bag Saturday night, before she was called away on the sudden assignment.

But the news story—a fire, if she remembered correctly, was legit. Ernie had mentioned seeing the live report on TV. And Felicia didn’t seem to have any motive to harm Georgiana’s career—or murder Lorella Caldwell.

It was the reporter’s job to scout out news. Would a scoop on Georgiana’s unpublished book or Lorella’s secret identity as Angelina St. Rose warrant theft and murder?

Possible. But highly unlikely.

Two suspects in Lorella’s murder did seem to be in the clear for stealing Georgiana’s notebook, however: Trixie and Ray. Certainly neither of them had shown up to the Algonquin dinner.

From the backseat, Georgiana blew her nose loudly on a handkerchief with a little skull and crossbones on the corner. In today’s interview, she had been painted as a fading literary star.

Was the great author shedding tears over that precious notebook, or her relegation to the so-called mystery-writing Old Guard?

And why wasn’t anyone shedding tears for her pseudonymous colleague, Lorella Caldwell?

* * *

Summer dropped off a still-fuming and sniffling Georgiana at Dash’s, then walked Dorothy to her door at Hibiscus Gardens.

“If you don’t mind, dear, I’m going to retire early tonight,” Dorothy said. “I have a few leftovers, and may even just crawl into bed right now, with a book.”

“Okay,” Summer said. Fine with her. She needed a break, too, to clear her head and blow off some steam. It had been a crazy day.

But first, a quick nap. She and Dorothy were missing something, Summer told herself as she flopped out on Grandma Sloan’s ugly couch, feeling like Skipperdee on his plastic island.

They had a whole bunch of pieces right in front of them, and none of them fit. If this were a
Citizen’s Arrest
episode, they’d be in the last ten minutes already. That was usually when she had the crime solved herself and headed to the freezer for ice cream.

Three hours later, Summer woke up, ready to go. It was almost eleven, but she didn’t feel like going downtown.

Not to a bar or club, anyway. It was the perfect time to go for a swim—and maybe even a little surfing.

She’d go to a really quiet beach. Nowhere near where all those news crews and crowds were. That snake sighting was probably a bogus report someone put up on Twitter as a joke, anyway.

She threw on a bathing suit and grabbed a striped Hibiscus Pointe pool towel—she’d have to return it sometime—from the floor of her bathroom. Then she headed to the lobby, making a quick stop at the storage closet around the corner from the elevator.

That was where she kept her surfboard. It wasn’t like any Hibiscus Pointe residents were going to use it or anything.

The clock in the MINI, which was usually wrong, said eleven-twenty when she parked at the little sandy spot off the parking lot that security patrols usually missed. Milano beaches were officially closed an hour after sunset—they posted the exact time, down to the minute—but no one really cared about that, except the cops.

Plenty of people showed up at the beach at night: couples making out, homeless people looking for left-behind food and a comfy place to sleep, even guys with flashlights using those crazy metal detectors to find treasure—watches, rings, spare change.

Tonight, though, the place was deserted. She had the whole beach to herself.

Summer stepped off the boardwalk and kicked off her flip-flops, feeling the welcoming, still-warm sand between her toes. There was a full moon and the lampposts along the pier also gave extra light, so she shut off her cell flashlight app and carefully left the phone at the base of the boardwalk steps.

The waves weren’t killer, but that was okay. Night surfing could be a little dangerous and you really had to know what you were doing. She was always supercareful. She’d even worn an all-black bathing suit so any sharks lurking out there—they liked to feed at night—wouldn’t think she was food.

Paddling out smoothly, Summer took a few gentle waves. She felt better already. After a while, she just floated around on her board, staring at the moon. It was so peaceful she almost could have fallen asleep again.

Finally, she decided to pack it in. Trudging out of the water with her board, she headed to rinse off her feet at the sprinkler near the end of the boardwalk. The night sky was starting to cloud now and it was getting kind of misty. The disgusting smell through the mangroves and banyans in the swamp surrounding the boardwalk was really kicking up now, too. Yuck. The wooden boards, rotting in parts, creaked as she quickly walked along.

“Ouch!” She’d stepped out of one of her flip-flops and onto a nail or something. Wincing, she turned on her cell flashlight again. Yep, she was bleeding. Not too much, but enough to gross her out.

Yikes. Another light, a bigger one, was moving out there in the swamp. Straight toward her.

Who—or what—was that? Summer shut off her light and stifled a gasp as the moon suddenly emerged from behind the clouds. An RV—mostly hidden by vegetation—was parked out in the swamp on a broken section of old boardwalk, which was half-sunken into the gunk. She could just make out the words “Happy Trailways.”

Trixie and Ray! Summer had to call Detective Donovan, immediatamente.

She was so excited and nervous she dropped her cell phone. It fell through the railing of the boardwalk, straight into the freaking swamp.

Summer muttered under her breath, even though no one could hear her. Well...maybe Ray and Trixie. Without her phone, she was dead meat. Plus, the moon had disappeared again and she was too far from the lampposts to see much.

Her phone was gone. Unless it got caught on a root or something. Maybe, if she leaned over the railing, she could try to scoop it up with her surfboard...

Summer laid herself flat on her stomach and reached out the board. It was way too short. But when the moon popped out again, she found herself staring into a large, gleaming eye.

Hoooly spumoni...She couldn’t make out the whole thing in the darkness—but judging by the size of the head, she didn’t need to.

Camo. And she was definitely out of here, suspects or no suspects.

Summer charged down the long, twisting boardwalk in her bare feet toward the deserted parking lot. She kept a good grasp on her long board in case she needed to fend off a ginormous reptile.

Which one would be worse, Camo or Ray? Or flying bullets from Trixie’s buddy General Luger?