Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked. (22 page)

M
argaret Suspack was sitting at her dining room table, paying her bills, a cup of coffee, a crumb bun, and a calculator by her side. She wanted to get paperwork out of the way before her friend Ethel Feeney arrived tomorrow. Eighty-two years old, Margaret, known to her friends and family as Mugs, had a pleasant face, a roundish figure, hazel eyes, and a bouffant hairdo she kept in a soft shade of honey.

After her husband, Harry, died a few years earlier, she’d been outraged by the number of snake oil salesmen who thought they could take advantage of her because she was alone. They couldn’t, and she’d developed an even steelier spine toward anyone who wanted her to part with her money. For any reason at all. And forget anyone who thought she was an easy target for a scam because she was elderly. She was prepared for them. The young man who called recently pretending to be her grandson and saying he was in trouble and needed her to wire money to people who were going to hurt him could never have expected her response. Mugs blew the whistle she kept by her bed in his ear. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself trying to fool old folks,” Mugs had sputtered before hanging up.

Mugs had no children or grandchildren.

Harry would have been proud of her, the way she was taking care of herself after he died, but he wouldn’t have been surprised—Mugs had always been thrifty and resourceful.

We had such fun at this table for so many years, Mugs thought as she studied the wattage count of her electric bill, comparing it to the previous month’s. Harry had worked as a lighting director since the early days of television. Because they were never blessed with children, their friends became like family to them. The chairs around their table were often filled with neighbors joining them for anything from spaghetti topped with Mugs’s delicious sauce to an impromptu potluck supper.

Mugs had worked four days a week as a manicurist. She loved the gossip that emanated from the salon. When she and Harry entertained, she told stories about crazy clients and Harry filled them in on the shenanigans of celebrities on the set.

But over time things slowed down. Harry retired, and the old-fashioned beauty parlor closed, victim to the decreasing number of women looking for a wash-and-set. Salons that offered blow-drys and music that would burst your eardrums were the rage. And as it goes, many of their friends had moved away after they retired. Some had died. Then Harry had taken his final breath a few years ago. “Lights out, Mugs,” he’d said on his deathbed. God love him, Mugs thought. No matter how sick he felt, he always kept his sense of humor.

Mugs never thought she’d leave Los Angeles, but after spending Thanksgiving with her sister in Florida, surrounded by her nieces and nephews and their children, it had been hard for her to come back.

“Mugs, let me make a suggestion,” her sister Charlotte, known as Charley, had said when she dropped her off at the air
port. Their parents had been big on nicknames. “Sell the apartment and move down here with me. I don’t like to think of you being so far away by yourself.”

“I’m not by myself,” Mugs had insisted. “I still have friends.”

“I know. But I wouldn’t mind moving into one of those adult communities and I’d rather do it with you. They’re supposed to be a lot of fun.”

“From what I’ve read, some of those adult communities are a little too much fun,” Mugs said primly. “I don’t want to meet a man. Harry was it for me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. There are a lot of group activities like bingo and Ping-Pong. Mugs, I miss you.”

When Mugs returned to her apartment, she’d felt lonelier than she ever had. A few days later, she’d called her sister. “Charley, I hate to say it but you’re right. It’s time for me to join you in Florida. I have to sell my apartment first and I don’t know how long that will take. It’s tough these days. I’m not leaving here until I have the money in the bank.”

“Mugs, I’m so happy!” Charley had said. “I’ll start looking…”

“I’m not signing up for anything until I’ve sold this place…”

“I know. I know.”

Mugs had contacted a real estate agency that sent out a young agent to size up her apartment. Mugs had been appalled by the little whippersnapper, with the way she insulted Mugs’s home, implying it was a dump just because it didn’t have granite counters or Jacuzzi bathtubs or newfangled appliances. It was neat and clean, no paint was peeling, and the ceiling wasn’t about to cave in. For forty years, it had been good enough for Mugs and her Harry. All four rooms had sliding glass doors that opened onto a terrace. The terrace overlooked a lovely courtyard with
palm trees, flowers, and a swimming pool. Mugs’s guests often commented that it felt like a resort.

“If you want to get more money,” the twenty-something had said, twirling her streaked hair and teetering on six-inch heels, “you should totally update your property before you put it on the market. It’s, like, so worth it. I know a guy who makes amazing cabinets…”

“Listen, young lady,” Mugs had said, her eyes blazing. “At this point of my life, I don’t want to waste whatever precious time I have left picking out ‘amazing’ cabinets I will never use, and then sitting here waiting for workmen who never show up on time. Anything I update will be changed by whoever buys it anyway. Thank you for your time!”

Mugs then called another real estate agency. A young man arrived within minutes. “You’d think I’d called an ambulance,” Mugs had remarked when he walked through the door. But at least he seemed to have people skills. He told her the market was tough, but they’d do what they could to find the perfect buyer. “Plenty of people would just adore this apartment the way it is,” he’d assured her.

“You’re darn tootin’,” Mugs harrumphed.

“May I call you Margaret?”

“No, you may not.”

Over the next month, a few stragglers came around and poked through her closets. One made an insulting offer that sent Mugs through the roof.

“This might not be Buckingham Palace, but it’s not skid row either,” she’d told the agent.

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Suspack.”

Christmas rolled around and she and Ethel Feeney, her childhood friend, had their annual chat. They’d had such fun together in high school, and had been co-treasurers of their class
senior year. Even though they hadn’t seen each other much over the years, they had stayed in touch. Mugs told Ethel about her hopes to move to Florida before long, and Ethel had filled Mugs in on her granddaughter Abigail’s accident on a movie set.

“That’s too bad,” Mugs said. “Does she want to buy an apartment?”

“She does but she can’t afford it yet.”

Over the holidays, Ethel had become concerned about Abigail. She’d come home to Indiana for a week and seemed stressed the whole time she was with the family. It was understandable because she’d been through some tough times. She suffered a broken arm and a broken relationship. The relationship she didn’t want to discuss at all. In the past, Abigail had always at least pretended to laugh it off when things didn’t work out for her with someone she’d been interested in.

After Abigail went back to Los Angeles, Ethel was trying to think of something special to buy her for her birthday. Then she’d had a dream that something terrible happened to Abigail. When Ethel awoke, she couldn’t remember exactly what it was but was very upset. Always superstitious, a trait she’d passed down to her granddaughter, the next morning she called Mugs. And as they had in high school when they were in charge of the funds in their class treasury, they’d haggled over how much something was worth. In this case, of course, it was Mugs’s apartment.

“It’s a little difficult because I haven’t seen your place in twenty years,” Ethel said. “Not since you had that retirement party for Harry.”

“We had fun, didn’t we?” Mugs said. “Who’d have thought so many people would end up in the pool? Listen, Ethel, spend the money on an airline ticket and come out here for a visit. Stay
with me. That way you can inspect this place from top to bottom. Then you can decide if you want to spring for the perfect birthday gift for your granddaughter.”

Ethel laughed. “Don’t forget, Mugs. I’d pay you in cash. No waiting for loans to be approved. That should count for something.”

“Cash talks,” Mugs said agreeably. “As long as there’s enough of it. No matter what, we’ll have a good time.”

“If we don’t kill each other.”

They both were excited. It had been so long since they’d spent time together. And if everything worked out, the two of them would be thrilled to avoid the broker’s fee.

As Mugs put a stamp on the envelope of her electric bill, the phone rang.

“Hello,” she answered as she glanced out the sliding glass doors. It was late in the day, and the lights around the swimming pool had just come on.

“Mugs, it’s Walter.”

Mugs rolled her eyes. Walter was the Casanova wannabe at the local senior center. He was always trying to get her to go out dancing with him. She had zero interest in such activity.

“Hello, Walter. What’s up?”

“Mugs, they just found Nicky dead in his apartment.”

Mugs sighed. These kinds of calls were getting too frequent. “That’s a shame, Walter. He’s been so sick lately, maybe it’s a blessing. Did he die in his sleep?”

“He didn’t die in his sleep, Mugs. He was murdered.”

T
he pilot’s voice came over the speakers. He began the usual spiel that frequent flyers could recite in their sleep. “Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for landing, please…”

Regan breathed a sigh of relief. She’d read for several hours on the plane, then tried to doze, but it was only on overnight flights that she ever was really able to lose consciousness. Now it was nearly midnight East Coast time and she was tired. The last hour of the flight from New York to Los Angeles was always a drag, but tonight she felt more restless than usual. If Cody Castle was still in Los Angeles, Regan had the feeling that every minute counted. She leaned toward the window and looked down at the lights that seemed to spread out for miles. Normally an exciting view, tonight it was discouraging. Cody Castle could be anywhere.

Little did Regan know that up front in first class someone else was looking out the window, also consumed with thoughts of Cody Castle.

When the plane landed, Regan turned her cell phone back on and checked her messages. There was a message from Jack saying it was 10:30, they just had dinner at the hotel, and he
was going to bed. “I love you. Call me if you need anything, otherwise I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Regan would have loved to talk to him now but she didn’t want to wake him. Suddenly her life in New York felt very far away.

The other message was from Abigail. “I’m sitting in the car at a waiting area at the airport,” she said. “As soon as you get your bag, give me a call. It’ll only take me two minutes to get there and we can get right out. If I park the car in the lot, it’s such a hassle.”

Sounds good to me, Regan thought as she started to gather her possessions. The guy stuck in the middle seat turned to her and smiled. “Again, I’m really sorry for what happened.”

Regan laughed. “Don’t worry about it.”

After settling in their seats before takeoff, he’d pulled out his breath spray, opened wide, and squirted. Half of it spritzed the right side of Regan’s face. At least he’s a guy with good hygiene, Regan had thought as she dabbed her cheek with a tissue.

When it was finally her turn to leave the plane, Regan rolled her bag up the aisle, said farewell to the flight attendants, and stepped onto the walkway with a feeling of freedom. And it was so nice that the air wasn’t freezing. Starting to feel alive again, she passed through the gate area, inwardly sympathizing with the less-than-thrilled-looking passengers who were waiting to board the plane she had just gotten off. As she continued through the terminal, and headed toward the baggage area, she considered stopping at the ladies room but then decided against it. Too much trouble, she thought. But if she had, it might have saved her a lot of trouble. The actress she’d seen at JFK was busy primping in front of the mirror, spraying cologne, fluffing her hair, and reapplying makeup.

An elderly woman was waving her wet hands back and forth under a blower. “You look beautiful enough,” she commented. “You must be meeting someone special.”

“I am. He’s very special. My new boyfriend will be waiting for me downstairs. I’m so excited…”

“Must be nice,” the woman clucked.

Dean drove Cody to the curb outside the baggage claim area. “I feel like the hired help,” he grunted. “I’m not going to be able to stay here. By the time Stella comes down, you have your big reunion, then collect her bags, they’ll have chased me away. Either that or I’ll have grown old. Call me when you’re ready. In the meantime, I’ll just keep circling the airport like an idiot.”

“Thanks,” Cody said. “Remember, Dean. Stella means a lot to both of us. With her in our movie—”

“I’ll remember that when you two are holding hands and smooching in the back of my car. Now hurry up, keep your cap on, and pray that no one decides to take a picture of the grand reunion.”

Cody got out of the car and walked through the automated doors to join the other people waiting to greet the arriving passengers. Most of them were drivers from car services. He tried to blend in. It was helpful that many of them were also wearing caps. I should have made a sign to hold up, he thought with amusement. On it he could have written Bunny, the name of Stella’s character in their movie.

As he waited, he thought that this actually was kind of romantic. If only he didn’t have to worry about being recognized by someone who knew Abigail.

A group of passengers started to come through. Most of them
didn’t look happy. Traveling is stressful, Cody thought. Someday I want to have a private plane. If this movie is successful, I’ll be on my way.

An attractive dark-haired woman was coming through the door. Something about her was familiar. Suddenly his knees almost buckled. She was another of Abigail’s acquaintances. That private investigator who had lived across the hall. Oh my God! He turned away and with long strides, went out the door to the curb, crossed the roadway to the parking structure, and headed for a dark corner. What was her name? Abigail used to talk about her. Her name was Reilly. Regan Reilly. With trembling hands he pulled out his cell phone and called Dean.

“I’m on my way,” Dean said as he answered the phone.

“No! Not yet! Abigail’s former neighbor just got off a plane. Her name is Regan Reilly. She’s a private investigator who moved to New York. Abigail was always going on about how smart she is, and said if we ever needed a private investigator, Regan was the one to call. Do you think Abigail could have asked her to come? The money I owe Abigail is due tomorrow. They’ll track me down like a dog. And now Stella’s around. She can’t find out about Abigail or the IOU or—”

“Where is our star?” Dean interrupted.

“I was waiting for her when I saw Reilly. I got out of the terminal as fast as I could without attracting attention. You’ve got to be the one to greet Stella. Reilly never met you.”

“You idiot. What if Abigail is picking her up? She’d recognize me. Although based on the night you met her, one of the longest nights of my life, she probably couldn’t pick me out of a lineup.”

“Then we’ll have to keep Stella waiting until the coast is clear. We’ll tell her we had car trouble.”

“Oh great. We’ll be late picking up the lead actress of our first movie. She’ll love that. This has been some day. We lose an investor who gets cold feet at the last minute—”

“That old guy was really annoying,” Cody snapped. “What a waste of our time. We sit there and have lunch with him, eat his lousy soup, then he bails on us. I still feel sick from all that sauerkraut.”

“We’ll never see him again,” Dean said dismissively. “It looks like the one we have to worry about now is this Regan Reilly.”