Chapter Ten

Since Suzie Quinn began dating Nick Ryan, she had become a staple of the tabloid press. I hurried across the lobby and took a seat in the business center in front of a computer. A few minutes later, I was logged onto the celebrity news website, In The Know, which was usually shortened to just ITK. “Secret Beach Wedding Plans,” read one headline with an accompanying picture of Suzie and Nick walking on the beach. “Has Hollywood’s bad boy finally found true love with America’s swimming sweetheart?” asked the first line of the story. “A friend close to the couple confirms they are both head over heels in love and a wedding isn’t far off.” Farther down the page, another story shouted, “Ring Shopping?” with a picture of Nick striding by a jewelry store.

I bit my lip. What would the tabloids—Internet and print—do if they had pictures of “America’s swimming sweetheart” doing drugs? The famous person who had it all, but crashes and burns, was a mainstay of the celebrity media. Coverage of Britney and Paris were proof of that. Add the fact that Suzie was seeing a genuine movie star . . . well, that made it a bigger story. I skimmed through the rest of the website, but couldn’t find anything specific, except that Suzie had stayed in the luxurious Park Palms Hotel on a previous visit to her hometown.

I shifted to the local paper, which had a short two-paragraph story in the entertainment section, confirming that Suzie had arrived in Sandy Beach and would headline the community fireworks event. The last sentence was exactly what I was looking for: “Today, the gold medal Olympian will talk with children at the Sea Grass YMCA where she learned to swim.”

After a quick Google search for an address, I was out the door.

The Sea Grass Y was tucked into an older neighborhood with a worn and tired air, a few blocks inland from the gulf. Narrow driveways led to single car garages attached to modest one-story frame homes painted beige, powder blue, and a chalky yellow color. Mature stands of pines and palms ringed the houses, and mailboxes decorated with reflective circles teetered on unsteady supports near the roads. The sleek hotels and plush beach resorts seemed miles away.

I slowed down and coasted by the cinder block and stucco building that housed the YMCA. The parking lot was full, and cars had parked on both sides of the street. People lined the chain-link fence that enclosed the building. A police officer stationed in the street motioned for me to move on, so I accelerated by the satellite trucks with news logos. I parked several blocks away and walked back. I passed a news reporter standing in front of the crowd, reporting on how Suzie’s popular water safety campaign delighted both parents and kids. “Here’s a hero who kids—especially girls—can look up to,” the reporter gushed. I stopped at the fence beside a mom with a toddler on her hip and her iPhone in her hand.

“Is she in there now?” I asked, thinking about what Cara had said about Ruby and Angela’s argument. Had Ruby wanted to offer the pictures to Suzie, hoping that Suzie would be so anxious to keep them out of the tabloids that she would have paid more than the tabloids would? Apparently, Angela hadn’t liked the idea. Had Ruby contacted Suzie on her own? Was that why Ruby was pushed off the balcony? But it was a man who pushed Ruby. I thought back to the man on the balcony. He wasn’t the Hawaiian-shirted Magnum kid, I was sure of that. The silhouette of the man hadn’t shown unruly hair and his build was different, bulkier.

The woman nodded. “I saw her go in about thirty minutes ago.” She showed me a picture on her phone of a black Suburban. “That’s her. You can just see her head.”

“Er—right,” I said because the woman seemed to expect a response. All I could see was the back of a woman who was mostly hidden by the SUV.

“I got here an hour early, but it was already full inside,” the woman said, her voice swelling with satisfaction. “Of course, I can totally understand it. We’re all so pleased, her being from Sandy Beach and all. She’s done us proud.”

“You’re very interested in Suzie?” I asked.

“Oh my, yes. She’s just the sweetest thing. I do hope that Nick Ryan doesn’t break her heart. He’s never been what you’d call a steady one.” Her toddler popped her thumb out of her mouth and leaned to the fence.

The mom shifted the little girl to her other hip as I asked, “Did you know Suzie when she lived here?” She talked about Suzie as if she was an old family friend.

“No.” She breathed a sigh of regret. Then she brightened. “I do live six blocks from the house where she grew up, though. I’ve been following her ever since I saw her interviewed at the Olympics. She’s a down-to-earth Florida girl, even with all her fame and money.”

The woman turned to talk to someone else, and I checked my phone. No new voice mail, but I did have several e-mail messages. Thank goodness I’d had my e-mail sent to my phone. Even with my laptop gone, I could still read my mail. Most of the e-mails were either junk or things that could wait until I wasn’t in the middle of an emergency, but one caught my eye. It was an e-mail notification that I’d received a Facebook friend request.

My thumb hovered over the name, Evan Benworth, a mash-up of Ben’s name, Ben Evanworth. I pulled up the message then brought up Facebook. “Evan Benworth” didn’t have a profile picture, just an anonymous outline, and he had zero friends. I quickly hit CONFIRM and the page loaded; it was empty except for one status update. Everything fine here at Camp Sunshine, except food not so good—avoiding it. Deserted here. Knot tying course was a breeze. Having a look around the grounds.

I shook my head, amazed at my brother. The sick feeling in my gut eased a bit. He was okay. I checked the time of the status update. At least, as of nine minutes ago, he was okay. How in the world did he do this? I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to set up a fake Facebook account, but where did he get the computer to do it? He’d managed it somehow.

It wasn’t hard to translate his message. He was okay. “Camp Sunshine” was the hotel. He apparently wasn’t eating what they gave him, which seemed like a smart move. He’d used the word “deserted.” Did that mean they had left him there alone, and he was looking around the hotel suite? Did the reference to knot tying mean that he’d been tied up, but was able to free himself? I chewed on my lip. I wished he’d get out of there.

I brought up the box to comment on the status update and typed, Are you feeling homesick? I felt I should stay with the spirit of the original message. Surely Ben was being careful and could cover his tracks. He could delete the browsing history or he might even delete the fake Facebook account he’d created, but I wanted to be careful. I continued the comment, Miss you here. Ready for you to come home.

A few seconds later, a comment from Evan Benworth appeared below mine. I’d love to, but must win the scavenger hunt and won’t leave until I do.

“Oh, Ben,” I murmured. He was just like me—stubborn to the point of unreasonableness.

His message continued, This cabin is a contender for the Dirty Sock Award.

A little laugh escaped, surprising me. At Camp Sunshine, the Dirty Sock Award was an actual dirty sock given to the messiest cabin. The cabin leader had to wear it pinned to his shirt for the whole day. It was a sort of stinky scarlet letter motivation for campers to keep their cabins neat. Don’t worry about me, Ben added in a new comment. Plans already made for midnight escape, if needed. I waited, but no more messages came in.

I felt a prick of worry again. He thought he had everything under control, and I hoped he did, but I wasn’t about to go back to my hotel and wait for him to show up. At least I knew he was okay and I was doing something to help him out.

There was a flurry of movement in the parking lot. “Here she comes!” The woman beside me hitched her toddler higher on her hip and raised her phone.

Several people exited the building, all circling around a central figure. I couldn’t really see her until the cluster reached the line along the fence. A brunette in a lime green halter top, tight jeans, heels, and dark sunglasses that obscured the upper half of her face separated from the group and came toward a section of the fence a few feet from me. Camera shutters whirred, and people shouted her name. She might not be swimming competitively now, but she still had a swimmer’s physique with strong shoulders and arms. Her taunt muscles flexed as she reached out a tanned arm to shake hands and sign autographs. She swirled her name on several pieces of paper, then stepped back and waved, pivoting so that everyone gathered could get a shot of her, then she moved to the black Suburban. I wouldn’t be able to talk to her here.

I abandoned the fence, sprinting back to the van. The roads were going to be packed once all those people made it back to their cars. I had the van in gear almost before I was buckled in. I gave it some gas, and it climbed off the grassy verge lined with mailboxes and onto the road. I didn’t turn around. Instead, I drove straight ahead, away from the throng of people moving slowly across the road. A few blocks and I was out of the neighborhood. When I stopped at a light on a busy intersection, I quickly tapped the screen of the GPS, entering the name of the hotel where Suzie had stayed before and followed the directions back to the Park Palms Hotel, hoping I’d guessed right on her destination. I watched the minutes tick off on the dashboard clock as I waited in the slow traffic on the beach road.

Finally, I pulled into the hotel grounds and navigated the curving drive. I came to the portico where a crowd was converging on a black Suburban. I slowed to take in the scene. The back door opened and cameras flashed. The pack surged toward Suzie, her lime green top and dark glasses making her easy to spot as she climbed out. She pushed through the crowd, head down, arms tucked to her sides, following a burly guy in a suit as he cut through the throng. Once she stepped inside the hotel, the group disbursed.

I eased off the brake, bypassed the valet, and took the ramp to the hotel parking garage, since the swanky drive to the hotel didn’t have a turnaround and led straight to the parking garage. I headed there, thinking gloomily that there was no way in the world I would be able to talk to Suzie unless I knew someone in her entourage who could get me in to see her. I circled through the lowest level of the parking garage, intending to pay the minimum charge and go back to my hotel, but the gate attendant came out of his little booth with his hand up and stopped me a few feet back from the bar. He plopped an orange cone in front of my bumper. “Just be a moment, ma’am,” he shouted as I rolled down my window.

He said something into his cell phone as he returned to the booth. A few seconds later, a black Suburban nosed up to the bar from the wrong direction. The guard raised the bar and the Suburban whipped by the booth, cut around me, and stopped a few feet away at a corner of the garage. The back door opened, and a figure in lime green hopped out. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, and I could see this was Suzie Quinn. The other woman and Suburban must have been a decoy. She and several other people disappeared through a door marked SERVICE.

“Ma’am, you can go now.” I jumped. I hadn’t realized the guard was by my window. He’d removed the cone and was motioning me forward. I paid him, and he said, “You don’t see that every day, do you?” As I took my change, he leaned toward me and said in an undertone, “Too bad you weren’t quick enough to snap a picture or two. Might have gotten them in a magazine. I can’t do that,” he said, straightening. “I’d get fired, but guests . . . guests can do what they like.”

“No more pictures for me,” I murmured as I pulled away. “That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”

I exited the parking garage and merged with the slow moving traffic on the beach road. I’d accomplished nothing. The hours were slipping by and I wasn’t any closer to finding the memory card. A brown sign indicated the antebellum home and grounds of Green Groves were half a mile away. The grand home built in Southern Colonial style and set in the famous gardens had been on my list of sights to see. Those plans of carefree days with sunscreen, surf, and sightseeing seemed to be a universe away. My world had narrowed to helping Ben, but I’d been running around, flitting off in different directions without any clear plan.

That was my problem, I realized suddenly. I hadn’t thought anything through. I’d run off as soon as a thought crossed my mind, letting my worry and fear for Ben drive my actions. I needed to regroup, assess what I’d done, and make a logical plan. I needed to take my emotions out of the situation (as much as I could, at least) and apply my organizational skills.

I drew a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. First, I needed to see if there were any messages for me at my hotel. Ben might have managed to leave one for me or—worst thought—Mr. Sandpaper Voice might have called back. It only took a few minutes to get to the hotel. I hurried to my room. The light on the phone was dark.

I checked my watch and blew out a sigh that sent my bangs flying. Five o’clock. I’d wasted hours and had practically nothing to show for it. I plopped down on the couch and rubbed my temples, ignoring the mess of the hotel room. Only one thing mattered right now. I picked up the hotel-provided notepad and pen and began to make notes.

Angela had been murdered. Only the police thought that Angela’s death was an overdose. Ben, Chase, and Cara had all said Angela would never use drugs and even Detective Jenson had said he didn’t think she’d slipped, eliminating the possibility of accidental death. If he were interviewing Angela’s friends and family, he’d get the same information. He’d have to reassess. But it didn’t matter what the police thought, I reminded myself. I had to move forward with the information I had, which indicated that Angela’s death had to be linked to the photos.

I supposed there was a small possibility that she’d been killed for some other reason—an unbalanced exboyfriend or something along those lines—except that Ruby was in the hospital and quite possibly could have been killed as well, which argued strongly that the photos were at the center of all that had been going on.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Chase wasn’t involved in trying to get the photos. He wouldn’t need to snatch Angela, and he didn’t even take the purse when he left his office abruptly. No, it had to be someone else, someone like Mr. Sandpaper Voice.

He must have intercepted Angela last night when she was on her way to deliver the purse. Did he know about the photos on the memory card in the fake purse? Is that what he thought he was getting when he snatched Angela? She had to have been taken forcibly. I couldn’t believe that she would willingly leave her phone behind. She wouldn’t have missed our meeting, either. She didn’t show up because she couldn’t. He must have either thought she had the photos with her or that he could get her to tell him where they were.

Mr. Sandpaper Voice had said Angela didn’t cooperate with him, at first. She must have held out, but by late this morning she’d called me, nervous and distraught, and insisted that I take the fake purse to her apartment right away. Had Mr. Sandpaper Voice killed her after she made the phone call? I felt ill, just thinking of it. I rubbed my eyes, then forced myself to go back to my notes.

The killer must have dumped Angela’s body in the apartment complex pool, but things didn’t go according to plan after that. I hadn’t left the purse on the porch as instructed. I’d kept it with me, walking inside her apartment, then I’d rushed to the parking lot when the woman discovered Angela’s body. The killer had miscalculated. He should have made sure he had the purse before he killed Angela. And he probably hadn’t expected her body to be discovered so quickly.

But how did Mr. Sandpaper Voice know I had the purse? I felt a chill run through me as I realized he must have seen me with the purse and followed me back to the hotel. I let out a shaky breath. No wonder he was so angry when Ben brought the purse without the memory card. He’d already tried to get it once and failed.

Which brought me to the main point. Who had taken the memory card from my hotel room? As awful as Angela’s death was, I couldn’t focus on that. Ben was my priority. As soon as he was safe, I’d take all the information I had about Angela and her death to the police, but not until I knew Ben was okay. To go near the police before then could endanger him even more.

Who could have known about the photos and taken them from my hotel room? I jotted down a few more names, Honey, Cara, and Ruby, simply because they knew Angela and were involved in the situation. Ruby couldn’t have taken the memory card because she was in the hospital when it was stolen. Cara seemed genuinely scared and confused about the whole situation, and Honey seemed to know Angela only in a passing acquaintance sort of way—they said hello at the mailbox and chatted, but she didn’t seem to be a close friend who Angela would confide in. I tapped my pen against her name.

Would she know about the memory card and the purse? It didn’t seem like a subject that would come up during a casual chat at the mailbox. And how would she know Angela’s e-mail information to send me the request to meet in the lobby?

I stood and paced around the tight confines of the room, running through everything that had happened—Chase’s quick exit, Cara’s jittery ignorance, the whir of camera shutters aimed at Suzie, the mom holding up her iPhone to take a picture of Suzie.

I stopped pacing. Angela’s phone. That’s what I’d wanted to ask Cara about. I quickly dialed her number and sighed with relief when she answered.

After we exchanged hellos, I asked, “You said something about Ruby’s phone being dead, so Angela was the only one taking pictures. Did she use a camera or her phone?”

“She always used her phone.”

I closed my eyes. Angela’s phone. The one Ben and I had in our hands this morning, the one we’d given back to Chase. “Would the pictures still be on her phone, do you think?”

“No, she always uploaded them to her computer right away so she could post them on Facebook.”

But she hadn’t posted these photos. They might still be on her phone or in her broken computer. I thanked Cara for the info, then hung up and headed back to the van.

Digital Organizing Tips

Organizing Pictures

Photo files can be some of the most disorganized files on a computer. Generally, photos are downloaded into folders according to the date the photo was taken, which is a method of organizing, but it’s not very effective. Few people remember the exact month or day a particular photo was taken.

To get your photos organized, use the same principles of folder organization. Create broad categories, then, instead of using only the date, name folders with the subject of the photograph. Include dates or years for clarification. For instance, “Joe’s Birthday Party 2011” or “Joe’s 16th Birthday Party” are specific names and will let you know exactly what is in the folder.

Renaming individual photos can be time consuming but will help you find your photos quickly.

Delete duplicates as well as out-of-focus or unflattering photos.

If your computer isn’t backed up online, burn your photos to a disk, then label and store in a cool, dry area.