Snagged (8 page)

“A few in the drawer, including an obituary.”

“May I borrow them? I’d just like to look them over.”

“Of course. I’d be only too happy to find out who did that to Dolly.” Lucille went over to the antique desk, pulled an envelope with the clippings out of a drawer, and handed it over to Regan. “Like the Lord says, the truth shall set us free.”

“I’ll get these back to you right away.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here all weekend. God willing.”

T
HE CALLA-LILY Hosiery Company had taken a suite at the Watergreen Hotel, setting up its world headquarters there for the duration of the panty-hose convention. Since their home base was Miami, the powers that be at Calla-Lily, namely Ruth Craddock, felt it was not necessary to pay for rooms for their employees to stay overnight. This even though these same employees were expected at all functions ranging from early-morning breakfast meetings to late-night powwows on how to improve sales in tropical countries.

But things were not going smoothly this Friday morning. Ruth, known as Ruthless by her long-suffering underlings, was on a rampage trying to locate the missing board members whose presence was necessary for the vote on Saturday. Somewhere amid the swirls of gray smoke, she was screaming into a telephone.

“What do you mean, he’s bushwhacking his way through mountainous terrain on a mule in the wilderness! Track him and his backpack down and get him onto a plane! Let him bring the mule with him if he wants!” Ruth steadied herself and took a deep drag from her cigarette. “I don’t care if he’s pursuing a lifelong dream! If he wanted to find himself, he should have started looking before his eighty-third birthday!” She slammed down the phone.

“Ruth,” her assistant, Ethel, said nervously, “you are due to give a speech in ten minutes.”

“Which speech was that?” Ruth asked impatiently.

“‘Knee-highs as a fashion statement. Fact or fantasy?’”

“Where are my notes?”

“Right here.”

“Have we heard from Irving?”

“Not a word.”

“Ethel, you knew Grandpa,” Ruth said.

“Of course; I was his secretary for many years.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ruth screamed. “You know, Ethel, the trouble is people just don’t care anymore. They don’t care that Grandpa built this business up from stitching together socks at the dining-room table. They don’t care. They just collect their paychecks every week and let Calla-Lily be damned. But if we go out of business, with this run-proof panty hose coming out, they’ll be sorry.”

Ethel shook her head mournfully, tsk-tsking as Ruth extinguished her cigarette and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

“Your grandpa was very proud of you, Ruth, the way you took over the business. He was a very good man. He could get a little pushy at times— ”

“Ethel,” Ruth interrupted as she snapped her purse shut, “I’ll be back in an hour, and hopefully there will be some happy messages for me.”

If not, Ethel thought, I’ll make some up myself.

N
ICK FARGUS WAS not in a very good mood. Last night he had barely sat down at one of the cafés on Ocean Drive when a waiter came by and lost his balance, spilling a bowl of capellini pomodoro onto his new shirt. In English, Nick thought, that means red spaghetti sauce that produces a very stubborn stain. The worst part of it was that Nick was sure that a girl sitting a few tables away had been eyeing him. She looked like she could be one of the models. By the time he had hurried home, changed and raced back, she was gone. Only later did it occur to him that he should have just gone next door and treated himself to another shirt. Those boutiques were open all night.

Sighing, Nick sat down at his desk. It was going to be a very busy weekend with the two conventions. They had already had problems with overbooking. Too many fires to put out, and he had to be on twenty-four-hour duty. Now he wouldn’t get back down to South Beach until next week.

Already that morning he had been awakened from a sound sleep by a panicked phone call from the front desk. Coffins were being wheeled through the lobby to the display room for the funeral convention, upsetting some of the guests. Told to use the service entrance, the offenders argued that they had seen mannequins wearing nothing but panty hose being traipsed through the day before, and no one had seemed to mind.

Nick’s intercom buzzed.

What now? he thought as he picked up his phone.

“Mr. Fargus?”

“Yes, Maria.” Nick rubbed his head.

“One of our guests would like to see you.” Maria sounded excited.

Another problem, he thought. It’s too early for this. “Tell them I’m tied up right now, but I’ll see them later.”

“Mr. Fargus, she’s right here. It’s rather important.”

“Okay, send her in.” Nick knew that he could trust Maria’s judgment. He was lucky to have a secretary like her. She only bothered him with big things, taking care of minor problems herself.

An instant later the door opened and Maria walked in and beamingly introduced Nora Regan Reilly. “. . . And, Mrs. Reilly, this is Nick Fargus.”

Nick shook Nora’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Nora Regan Reilly. Say, your name sounds familiar.”

Maria shot a reproachful glance at him. “Mrs. Reilly writes suspense novels.” She turned to Nora. “I love your books. I have all of them.”

“Thank you.”

Nick jumped in. “Oh, of course. That’s why your name sounded familiar. You see, I don’t read much. Well, because I don’t get a chance. But I really like books. I’m sure I’d like your books.” Nick realized he was digging himself into a hole. “But come to think of it, my mother’s a big fan of yours. She loves to read. Reading is important.”

“That’s what my publisher says,” Nora said with a smile.

“Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Maria asked Nora.

“No, thank you. This should just take a minute.”

“Please sit down,” Nick urged as Maria exited the room shaking her head.

“You have a lovely hotel,” Nora began.

“Oh, thank you. We aim to please. Is everything okay with your room?”

“Oh, yes,” Nora answered. “My husband and I are down here for the funeral convention.”

“Really?” Nick tried to sound excited. “With his line of work, he must be able to give you a lot of plots for your books.”

“He’s got some good stories,” Nora agreed.

“You know,” Nick continued with enthusiasm, “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to wake up in the funeral parlor, you know, before they started working on you.” Nick laughed. “Would your family get their deposit back?”

Nora looked at him. “Well, I don’t know. Everybody who’s come through my husband’s place has been dead on arrival.”

“Right, right, right,” Nick chuckled. “Maybe they’d just hit you with a pickup charge. Like I said, that had just occurred to me once or twice. I don’t know why. Something to think about, I guess . . .” My God, he thought, I’m babbling, and it’s only nine-fifteen in the morning.

“Well, what I’d like to talk about . . .” Nora began.

“Shoot,” Nick laughed. “Of course I don’t want you to really shoot me, it’s just an expression I use . . .”

“I wouldn’t dream of shooting you,” Nora assured him, “except maybe in a book.”

“That’d be great! Name one of your characters Nick and make him a handsome devil and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

“You’ve got a deal. Now what I wanted to ask you is about the availability of rooms for a cocktail party tomorrow afternoon.”

Nick whistled and tried to look stern. He liked to do that when something big was happening. It made him feel important.

“I know it’s late notice, but something has come up and it’s rather important . . .”

Nick assumed the role of captain of the ship as he pulled out his room chart and spread it out on the desk. “You know we have a lot going on this weekend and all my conference rooms and party rooms are booked, booked, booked. I don’t know what to say . . .”

“That is a shame,” Nora sighed. “And to think that Richie has all the models lined up . . .”

Nick’s ears perked up faster than a dog’s at the first sound of a howling coyote. He almost leaned his head against his shoulder and whimpered. He tried to sound calm as he asked, “What is the occasion for your party?”

“A friend of ours has a special panty hose he wants to show off. As a matter of fact, I’m wearing a pair right now . . .”

“They’re lovely.”

“Thank you. Oh—his niece is having her wedding reception here on Sunday. Maura Durkin.”

“Of course. That’s going to be a big one. They’ve ordered everything from soup to nuts. Now getting back to your party . . .”

“Oh, yes. Well, this friend, Richie Blossom, has this panty hose and he’s asked several of the models from South Beach to be in an informal fashion show. We wanted to have a cocktail party for the panty-hose executives and the models beforehand, but I guess we’ll have to figure something else out.”

“Hmmmm.” Nick didn’t want to seem too anxious, but he could barely contain himself. “I hate to let you down, seeing as the family is having the wedding here. Now I’ve never done this before, but I’d really like to help you out. I live in a big penthouse suite upstairs, which is just perfect for parties. I’d be happy to let you use it. Of course I’ll be on hand to help out.”

“That sounds like the best place of all to have a party!” Nora enthused.

“Oh, it is, it is! I’ve had some great parties myself up there. You’ll love it. You know, you could have the fashion show up there too. We could build a little runway running the length of my living room, against the windows, looking out at the sea. It will enhance and glamorize your product, I’m sure of it.”

Nora seized the opportunity to take advantage of his zeal. “I was wondering . . . do you have a list of the panty-hose executives and which rooms they’re staying in? I want to send them personal invitations.”

“Right here. Aren’t you going to send the models invitations?”

“I don’t think we have to,” Nora said, “since they’ll be in the fashion show.”

“Of course,” Nick agreed heartily. With trembling hands he pulled out the computer printout of the panty-hose people with their names, titles and room numbers.

“This is wonderful,” Nora said.

“Now what we can do,” Nick pronounced, “is set up a bar in the dining room . . .”

In the next few minutes they agreed on an open bar and hors d’oeuvres with waiters serving.

“I’ll give you a head count tomorrow morning,” Nora concluded. “Thanks for all your help.”

As soon as she was out the door, Nick picked up the phone to housekeeping. “Make sure my flowered print shirt is back from the valet by tomorrow morning.” As he replaced the phone in its cradle, Nick’s face settled into a frown. He knew he had a big decision to make.

R
EGAN AND RICHIE walked over to the Models Models Modeling Agency, located just a few blocks from the Fourth Quarter.

“Everything is so close to everything else around here,” Regan commented.

“South Beach only takes up one square mile. That’s why it’s great for us old-timers. We can walk everywhere and we don’t have to worry about the upkeep of a car,” Richie replied.

As they climbed the stairs to the third-floor office, Regan’s mind kept jumping in three different directions. I must call Maura, she thought. She said she was going to be out doing some errands this morning, but I bet she’s home by now. I should see if she needs help with anything. I’d like to read over these articles about Dolly Twiggs, even though it doesn’t look like there’s much there. But I don’t want to leave Richie alone. Something told her trouble was brewing, and until the sale of the Fourth Quarter was settled, Regan had the uneasy feeling that he was not safe.

Inside the agency, two models sat on a bench and both greeted Richie by name. Elaine Bass sat behind a large metal desk. Pictures of models posing, running and frolicking covered every wall of the small office. Elaine’s assistant, a young man named Scott, was stationed at a counter in the corner where he was sorting through pictures and answering phone calls. Bright sunlight streamed through the open windows.

As introductions were made, Regan took in Elaine’s gruff yet appealing manner. She had a no-nonsense air about her that was necessary for her business. You couldn’t be ultrasensitive when you had to turn away countless hopefuls—hopefuls who just didn’t have the look that happened to be in style.

“Richie, you’re doing great, honey,” Elaine said. “We’re really pleased about this commercial. And the client loves you.” She turned to Regan. “We had every guy over sixty in Miami trying out for this part. Your friend here beat them all hands down.”

“A couple of the guys at the Fourth Quarter tried out too,” Richie said. “I was afraid to tell them I’d gotten the part.”

“That’s show biz, baby,” Elaine said matter-of-factly. “Scott, get out Richie’s check. Now, Richie, both Willow and Annabelle here are coming over to your place today for the rehearsal.”

The girls smiled at Richie.

Elaine continued. “They can only stay for an hour. No overtime. Now that’s a laugh, they’re not even getting paid.” She turned to Regan. “I don’t know how he talked me into this.” She did not wait for a response. “My models usually get paid from the minute they set foot on a shoot.”

“Richie’s got that way about him,” Regan laughed.

“Yeah, right. Well, if he hadn’t given me a pair of these panty hose,”—Elaine pulled out her leg from behind the desk—“I wouldn’t have known how great they are. Listen, we’re ordering up some sandwiches. You two want to join us for lunch? There’s a photographer coming up in about an hour and I want him to take a look at you, Richie. I think you’d be right for a project he’s got going.”

Regan looked at her watch. It was just about noon. “Richie, I’d like to go back to my hotel to make a few phone calls. How about if I come back and get you at about one-thirty?”

“You don’t have to come back and get me, Regan,” Richie protested. “Don’t you want to go to the beach?”

“She knows it’s not a good idea to sit in the hot sun at this time of day,” Elaine interjected. “I tell all my girls that. That doesn’t mean they always listen.”