Chapter Twelve

The phone went directly to voice mail. “Monica here with Celeb. Leave me a message.” The voice sounded young, and I had the impression she was around Angela’s age.

Celeb? Monica was with the tabloid magazine? It was a national magazine that appeared at grocery store checkout stands across the country. I’d assumed that Monica was someone local because the flowers had been delivered by a florist in Costa Bella—I remembered seeing the name on the deliveryman’s shirt—but obviously Angela had taken her “find” to the top of the entertainment food chain.

The phone beeped, and I said, “Hi. My name is Ellie. I’d like to talk to you about Angela and her find.” I left my number and hung up.

My phone rang almost immediately. The caller ID showed it was the number I’d just dialed, so I picked up. “Hi. I’m Monica, returning your call about Angela’s . . . find,” she said in a quiet but hurried tone, as if she didn’t want to be overheard and didn’t have long to talk. “Do you have them? The pictures of Suzie?”

I closed my eyes for a second. “Yes.” First snooping on phones and computers, then taking the florist card that didn’t belong to me, and now lying—it was terrible, but I knew if I said no the conversation would be over and I couldn’t have that.

“Let’s meet,” Monica said almost instantly. “I can give you the same deal. Five now, five when it’s published.”

“Hundred?” I asked, frowning—that wasn’t much money for all the trouble the photos had caused.

Monica laughed. “No, five hundred thousand.”

“One million? One million dollars?” I managed to squeak.

“Yes,” Monica said, her tone swift and businesslike, despite her obvious efforts not to be overheard. “You’re local, too, right? You’re in Sandy Beach?”

I was so stunned by the amount of money she’d named that it took me a minute to process what she’d asked. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Good. Can you be at the Park Palms Hotel in thirty minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Go through the hotel onto the beach. I’m in the fifth cabana on your left.”

 

I strode through the cool, dark confines of the Park Palms, thinking that if I’d known I would be spending so much of my time at the exclusive hotel, I would have paid extra to stay here. It would have saved me so much time. I slipped my sunglasses on as I made my way through the wicker furniture on the veranda. I trotted down the steps, following a waiter carrying a tray of drinks with little umbrellas down the winding path toward the beach, counting off the cabanas as I passed them. The waiter turned off at the fourth cabana. I stopped at the next one. The curtains were shut, and I paused, not sure of the protocol. The fabric pulsed with wind as it caught the stiff breeze from the water. There was nowhere to knock and Monica had seemed intent on keeping a low profile on the phone, so I leaned toward the bow holding the curtains closed and said quietly, “Monica?”

Nothing. I called her name again, slightly louder. This time the curtains twitched open an inch and a chocolate brown eye appeared in the slit. “Yes?”

“Monica? I’m Ellie. We talked on the phone.”

The curtains parted farther, revealing a woman with a heart-shaped face and a head of white curls wearing a boxy white caftanlike shirt trimmed at the sleeves and neckline with a Greek key pattern. Fluid black pants swished around her ankles as she stepped back and motioned for me to enter, then take a seat in one of the lounge chairs. The garments engulfed her small frame.

She tied the curtains tightly together as I perched on one of the chairs and looked around. It was a luxurious setup. There were four plush lounge chairs, a flat screen TV, a small refrigerator tucked into a corner below shelves of fluffy white towels, and a tray with fresh fruit, nuts, and bottled water. However, it wasn’t the cabana of a person on vacation.

There was none of the usual paraphernalia that surrounded someone on the beach—no tubes of sunscreen, no boogie boards or goggles, no discarded paperback or magazine. One of the lounge chairs was positioned beside the curtains that ran along the back of the cabana, the side that faced the hotel, not the water. A large canvas tote sat on the wooden floorboards beside the lounge chair, gaping open, revealing a shiny black camera case, a couple of crinkled notebooks, and a computer laptop case. A digital camera with a long lens rested on the lounge cushion.

Monica sat down on the lounge chair, nimbly crossing her legs and picking up her camera. She brought the camera to her eye and peered through the slit in the curtains, the lens aimed at the back of the hotel. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said with the camera to her face. “We sign a contract. You give us exclusive rights and agree that you won’t speak, publish, text, tweet, or even think the name Suzie Quinn until the issue is published. I pay you the first half now; you get the rest when the issue is published.” She pulled her face away from the camera for a second, a look of distaste twisting her full lips. “You stay with me until next week when the issue hits the newsstands.”

I opened my mouth, but she raised a creamy white hand, cutting me off. She pressed her eye to the viewfinder. “I don’t like it either, but my editor insists. This is too big a story to risk a leak. From now on, you’re my new BFF.”

I stared at her for a second, frowning. If she was an old lady, I’d give up chocolate and purses. I licked my lips as I thought, here goes. “I don’t have the photos.”

“What?” She pulled away from the camera, and I got a clear look at her face. Despite a layer of heavy powder, I could see smooth skin, no lines around the eyes or creases at her lips. If she was more than twenty-seven, I’d be surprised. She said, “Now, look, you can’t—”

“I have seen them. Angela gave them to me, but someone took them.”

She frowned at me for a moment, then shifted around, propped the camera up on a bent knee and balanced it there with her right hand while she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her voluminous pants with her left hand. She dialed a number and checked her viewfinder while it rang.

“If you’re calling Angela, she won’t answer. I’m sorry to tell you, but she’s dead.”

She swiveled fully toward me, her camera dropping into her lap. “You’re lying,” she said, her tone accusing. “You’re trying to cut her out, get all the money for yourself.”

“No. I wish I were. She died earlier today. Drowned in the pool at her apartment complex.”

Monica gave me a long look, then put her camera down on the cushion and opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keypad. After a pause, she clicked on a link, then her eyelids flickered as she scanned the text. “Oh my God,” she breathed, then looked up at me. “How did you know? Were you a friend?”

“I was there.”

“But this doesn’t say anything . . . it’s just a report that a woman drowned. What happened?”

“The police think it was an accidental overdose.” Monica grabbed a pen and a notebook. “Hey,” I said, “I don’t want to be quoted on any of this. I don’t want to be in the news.”

Monica looked doubtful. “Everybody wants to be famous.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Then why say you have the photos?”

“Because I need your help.” I couldn’t think of a clever lie to trick Monica into helping me, so I went with the truth—a slightly edited version of the truth. There was no way I was telling her about Ben if I could help it. She worked for a tabloid, after all. “I think Angela was killed for the photos. She sent them to me by mistake.” I hesitated for a second, then decided I wouldn’t go into that part of the story now.

“It’s a long story. Anyway, she asked me to bring them to her apartment today, but when I got there, the apartment had been broken into, and her body was found in the pool. The police think her death was an overdose, but everyone who knew her says she’d never do drugs. I didn’t even know I had the photos, but I found them after she died. When I saw them, I realized how valuable they were. I think she was killed for them. Then someone stole them from my hotel room. Whoever killed Angela knows I had the photos and wants them. I’m afraid if I don’t find the photos, I’ll end up like Angela. I’ve got to find them. Your phone number from the flower arrangement is the only lead I’ve got.”

“That’s a rather vague story. Lots of unidentified people.”

“No kidding. That’s why I’m in this situation. Will you help me?”

Monica blew out a sigh. “Don’t have much choice, do I? I just told my editor I had the most explosive front page scoop since Brad and Angelina got together, and now I’ve got absolutely zero.” Her eyes narrowed as she said, “I’ll help you, but when we find them, I want them. No fee, either.”

“You and everyone else,” I murmured. “Fine,” I said louder, relieved to have her cooperation. My main goal had to be to get the photos. Once I had them, there would be nothing to stop me from giving a copy to Monica. I wanted Ben safe, but the people who were doing this to him were dangerous and if giving a copy of the photos to Monica was what it took to expose them, I’d do it. I had a feeling that when everything was over and Monica knew the whole story she’d jump at the chance to provide all the details. It would be quite a scoop.

Monica noticed a movement through the gap in the curtains. “Crap.” She yanked her camera up, hitting the shutter before it was even steady in her hand. She must have turned off the sound of the shutter clicking because the familiar noise was absent, but her finger pulsed steadily on the shutter button as she adjusted the lens with her other hand. “Three days in this stupid cabana and the first time they step out on the balcony, I’m not ready.”

“You’ve been here for three days?”

“I’m on Suzie Watch,” she said, continuing to photograph. “Wherever Suzie goes, I go.” Abruptly, she pulled the camera away. Squinting, she watched the balcony for a few moments while she removed the memory card from her camera, slipped another one from her pocket, and loaded it into the camera, never looking away from the gap in the curtains. She plugged the first memory card into a slot on her laptop, then divided her attention between the balcony and her laptop. “At least the light was good,” she said to herself.

“So you were at the Y today when Suzie visited?”

“Sure. Nothing very interesting there. We all got the same pictures. The name of the game is to get that one picture that no one else has.”

“Like Angela’s pictures.”

“Right. Those photos are unique—no one has seen anything like that out of Suzie—but the real kicker is the scandal. Perfect sport icon Suzie doing drugs? Huge readership boost. And don’t forget the worldwide appeal that the Nick Ryan angle adds. It’s a tabloid perfect storm. So tell me about the photos. Angela said they show Suzie doing drugs.”

“That’s what I saw.”

“What was the quality? Sharp or grainy?”

“They looked fine to me, but I’m an amateur. I definitely recognized Suzie,” I said. I wanted to get the conversation off of the photos and onto Angela, so I asked, “How did Angela contact you?”

“Phone call. Same as you.”

“How did she get your number?” I could see the laptop screen and watched the blur of the pictures uploading from the camera memory card. She typed a short e-mail and hit SEND, then repositioned herself with the camera at the ready.

“Wouldn’t be hard. My contact info is listed at the end of every story I do for Celeb, and the website has a contact page. Celeb encourages tips. You’d be surprised how many photos and videos come in from amateurs now. Freaking cell phone cameras. Everybody’s a photographer.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“She described the photos and asked me how much Celeb would pay. I called my editor, got a figure, and called her back.”

“When was this?”

“The day before yesterday. I called her back and told her what we were willing to pay, but she said she had to think about it. That’s why I sent the flowers, a little reminder.”

“Awfully extravagant flower arrangement.”

“That was the idea. A reminder of the other extravagances she could indulge in if she took my offer.”

“You said you’re on Suzie Watch. Are there any other tabloids here?”

“Nick and Suzie are here, and rumors are flying that they’re planning a secret beach wedding. Are you kidding? Everyone is here. All the tabloids, all the entertainment news outlets, and the British press—oh my God, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if they knew about the photos.” Monica’s phone rang. She answered, but kept checking on the view through the gap in the curtains.

I bit my lip. Cara had said Ruby and Angela argued about a bidding war. Had Angela contacted several paparazzi to get the highest possible price? Maybe it was a member of the paparazzi who took the memory card from my room. But how would they know I had it? How would they know it was in the purse? I jumped up and paced over to the side of the cabana, too antsy to sit still.

Monica’s voice oozed seductively as she said, “Tony, you are a dear. What would I do without you? No, I’m glad you called. I’m losing light, anyway. It’s perfect timing.” There was a pause, then Monica said, “Well, I’ll try to get back tonight to show you just how appreciative I am.” Her voice was soft and breathy. “Bye,” she whispered as she looked at me and rolled her eyes. She clicked her phone off. “So impressionable, kids these days,” she said in her normal voice. “He’s going to be disappointed when he finds out my appreciation comes in cash, not kisses.” Monica shut her laptop and began to pack her belongings. “Suzie and Nick have reservations at El Mar. Eight-fifteen. Then,” she stopped to consult a page she pulled from her tote, “Suzie is the honorary guest at the city’s fireworks display at Green Groves. After that, Tony says they’re off to Club Fifty-two.”

“Monica, what if Angela contacted other members of the paparazzi—”

“Press,” Monica corrected.

“Okay, another member of the press. And, instead of sending flowers to persuade her to give them the photos, they staked out her apartment?”

Monica zipped her camera into its case and settled it on her shoulder. “I suppose that could have happened,” she said, clearly not happy with the thought.

“But no one would have seen her because she didn’t come home last night,” I said, thinking aloud.

“How do you know that?”

“Er—just some info I picked up during the day. Anyway, what if this papa—I mean press person watching Angela’s house decided to take a look inside? That could explain the breakin.”

“Okay, if they’re breaking and entering, they’re paparazzi,” Monica said. “It could happen,” she admitted. “Those photos would be quite a motivation.”

I paced away a few steps, still working out my thoughts. “Then, because the photos weren’t in the apartment, the person stuck around, hoping Angela would return. They saw all the commotion—the police, Angela’s death, my attempt to give the police the purse.”

“Purse? I’m lost,” Monica said.

“That’s how Angela sent me the photos. They were in a purse she sent me by mistake. But the police didn’t want to take the purse. I was standing outside at the apartment complex when the detective gave it back to me. Someone could have overheard the conversation and assumed the purse contained the pictures because . . .” I stopped and peered at the cabana ceiling. “Yes, I’m sure I mentioned Angela’s phone call to me when I tried to give the purse back to the detective.”

Monica put her hand on her chest. “You almost gave the photos to the police?”

“I didn’t know I had them at that point.”

“Still!”

“Anyway, he didn’t want them, but if someone was watching and listening, they would be able to figure out that there was something about that purse—that Angela thought it was valuable in some way. She’d called me that morning, sounding scared, and wanted me to return the purse to her apartment. Since the police didn’t want the purse, I brought it back to the hotel with me.”

“So someone could have followed you back to the hotel and taken it from your room,” Monica said.

I nodded slowly. “By then, I’d found the photos. I wish there was some way to find out if Angela contacted anyone else in the media.”

Monica tilted her head and looked at me thoughtfully. “How well did you know her?”

“She wasn’t a close friend,” I said, and Monica’s lips turned down in disappointment. “I knew her mostly through online things—e-mail, Facebook, that sort of thing,” I added.

Monica cheered up. “That’s just what we need. Quick, give me her social media accounts,” she said as she dialed a number. “And her cell phone number.”

“What? Why?”

Monica made a circular, hurry-up motion at me with her hand as she said into the phone, “Freddie, honey! Of course I haven’t forgotten you. No, I’d love to drop by next time I’m in Atlanta. I haven’t been home in ages. Listen, I need a favor.”

By this time, I’d found Angela’s e-mail and phone number. I read them off to Monica. She tilted the phone away from her chin and raised her eyebrows as she asked, “Social media?”

“Facebook under her name, probably Twitter, too. I don’t know what else she had.”

“You get that?” Monica asked Freddie. “Right. In Sandy Beach, Florida.” She smiled. “I know, darling. I’m practically on your doorstep, but I’m stuck here until Suzie and Nick make a move. Think of some way to lure them up to Atlanta, and I’ll be there.”

She kept flirting, but I tuned her out. I’d set my account to send me alerts when I received Facebook messages, and I had a new one from “Evan Benworth.” I turned away from Monica and quickly brought the message up. All fine here. Confined to my cabin, but should have a chance to explore soon.

I quickly sent a message to him. Be careful.

“What are you doing?” Monica asked as she attempted to look over my shoulder.

“Keeping in touch with a friend.”

She gave me a long look, then said, “Those photos are mine. I’ll help you find them, but don’t think you can double-cross me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” she said, briskly. “Freddie will call us back when he finds something.”

“And Freddie is?”

“Excellent at digging up what people have been doing online.”

“You trust him?” I asked, wary of what I was getting myself involved in.

“Known him for years. Used to push me off the swings when we were in grade school. Don’t worry. He’s discreet—and smitten with me—so he won’t do anything that will put us in danger.”

“How long will it take?”

“Couple of hours.”

I bit the inside of my lip. I didn’t have a couple of hours. It was after six-thirty. The media angle was all I had. “Monica,” I said as a thought struck me, “when you’re photographing Suzie, you probably catch other media people in your photos, right?”

“Sure. Especially somewhere like a restaurant or the hotel, where everyone knows she’ll be.”

“And you know most of the media people who follow Suzie around?”

“Yes,” Monica said.

“I need to look at your photos of Suzie.”

She narrowed her eyes as she watched me for a moment. “You think you might recognize someone who you saw hanging around Angela’s apartment today—in my photos? That the person might be media?”

“It’s the only possibility I can think of right now.”

“Worth a shot,” she said. “We’ll have to do it on the fly, because I need to get to that restaurant, and my photos don’t leave my sight. You’ll have to go with me.”

“Fine,” I said, glad she agreed so quickly. “What about photos of Suzie and Nick leaving the hotel?”

She made a face. “No. Security is too good around here—that’s why they stay here. The hotel shuttles them through different entrances and exits. The details are very hush-hush. Not even my contact can get them for me. I never know where they’ll be, so it’s not worth my time to stick around here. Better to be in place where they’re going. Now, I need somewhere to change. I don’t think I can get by the attendant in the hotel’s restaurant again. Guess it will have to be the Burger King on the main drag.”

“You’re not staying in the hotel?” I asked, pointing with my phone in the direction of the Park Palms.

“Are you kidding? Way too expensive. My boss sprung for the cabana because I can’t sit on the beach and take photos of the hotel without drawing attention, but a room here? No way. I’m at a Holiday Inn Express out on the Interstate.”

“You can change in my hotel room,” I said, thinking it would be better to keep her close. “I’m just down the street.”

 

Digital Organizing Tips

 

Social Media Organizing

 

Social media websites like Facebook and Twitter are great ways to catch up and keep up with friends and family, but it can be difficult to stay current with all those interactions. If you’re spending too much time on your social media accounts, here are a few tips to reduce your time online without cutting your social media connections.

 

Use the grouping or list features to make sure you highlight updates from the people you want to keep up with.

 

Use social media managers like Hootsuite or Tweetdeck to consolidate social media interactions. You can track interactions, post to multiple social media accounts simultaneously, and schedule future posts.