Red Hot

Book 3: Red Herring Mystery

by Dana Dratch

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Freelance writer Alex Vlodnachek hasn't had a vacation in ages. So when her sister invites her--and pup Lucy--for a girls' get-away to Miami, it's too tempting to resist. Big sister Annie wants Alex to savor a little fun in the sun at her South Beach condo. Redhead Alex just wants to escape complications at home, enjoy a little R&R and find an industrial-sized bottle of sunscreen. But trouble is hot on her heels--along with a few stray friends and relatives. On the eve of the condo association's hotly contested election, everything in the luxury high-rise is going haywire. But board president and social butterfly Leslie McQueen seems curiously absent amidst the chaos. Along with a good chunk of the association's cash. When several of Annie's friends are left holding the bag, Alex jumps in to help--and discovers the tony condo tower offers no shortage of shady characters, murder, and mayhem. But when her brother, Nick, arrives--with their irrepressible grandmother, Baba, and Alex's pal Trip, in tow--is the gang riding to the rescue? Or plunging Alex into more hot water? Praise for SEEING RED "Crazy surprises, fun characters, and a feisty heroine to save the day. Everything I love in a cozy." -- Lynn Cahoon, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author "Witty dialogue with laugh-out-loud moments, well-drawn characters and multiple mysteries weave their way through this satisfying story." --Shelf Awareness

Release date: June 1, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corporation

Print pages: 304

Sample

Like most of the weirdness in my life, the entire adventure started with an innocent phone call.

Or not so innocent, as the case may be.

“Cissy!” My sister Annie’s voice exulted through the speaker. “I’m so glad I caught you. I need a teensy little favor.”

For anyone who doesn’t know it, my sister is Anastasia Vlodnachek. The Anastasia Vlodnachek. Or, as the world, the gossip columns, and People magazine have dubbed her, “the supermodel Anastasia.”

This girl wants for nothing. Looks, brains, charm, money, sense of humor—she’s got it all. Along with a heart the size of the Lincoln Memorial.

She’s exactly what I want to be if I ever grow up: gorgeous, graceful, and cool. Like our mother without the bitter aftertaste.

So when it comes to sisterly favors, Annie is usually on the granting end. Which is why I smelled a rat.

“What have you heard?” I blurted.

“No idea what you’re talking about. But I’m hoping you can help me with something. A little project.”

I looked over at the cold coffee by my laptop and realized it was the only thing I’d consumed today.

I squinted at the screen. Three thirty-five. How did that even happen?

The trifecta was when I realized I was still wearing the pink T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms I’d slept in. I’d been so intent on making the deadline for my latest freelance story, that’s all I’d done.

My younger brother, Nick, had taken off before daybreak to run deliveries to a couple of clients in Annapolis—with our pup, Lucy, riding shotgun. After that, he’d dropped her off for a doggie playdate down the block and was spending the rest of the day baking at the bed-and-breakfast across the street.

We Vlodnacheks have never been afraid of hard work. Or long hours.

And thanks to plenty of both, plus an innate talent for schmoozing clients, Nick’s fledgling bakery was growing like crazy. Even after one of his competitors tried to scuttle it by bribing a crooked health inspector to shut down his (admittedly unlicensed) kitchen. Which was actually in my house.

Did I mention Nick was living with me temporarily? Long story.

The short version: Cheating partner in his first business (an Arizona emu farm). Followed by a quickie trip to Vegas. Followed by an even quicker engagement, breakup, and broken heart.

But Nick doesn’t stay down for long. His new venture—called Baba’s Bakery, after our Russian grandmother—was doing great. As was his social life. And thanks to our British ex-pat neighbor Ian Sterling, who runs a bed-and-breakfast across the street—and relies on Nick’s treats for teas, desserts, and events—my brother’s business has a temporary new home in a very proper, very legal English kitchen.

At least, until he gets mine up to code. A project that would be starting any day now, judging by the yards of painter’s tape and multiple visits by dueling contractors. The only detail they all agreed on was the time frame. Since Nick was just making a few small changes to add some equipment, we were looking at a week, tops.

But with Nick and Lucy out of the house today, I’d had no real incentive to change out of my pajamas. So apparently I hadn’t.

“What’s the favor?” I asked Annie, opting for the “rip the Band-Aid off” approach.

“I need an escort.”

“I’m the wrong gender, and I look lousy in a tux. But Nick might be available. Angelina Jolie took her brother to the Oscars.”

“She also kissed him on the mouth, and people are still talking about it. Besides, it’s not for an event. It’s for a trip. I have to fly to Miami. You remember my South Beach condo?”

Boy, did I! My sister has a string of homes across the globe. But the Miami penthouse is my all-time favorite. Not only does it look—big surprise—like something out of a magazine, but the neighborhood is Party Central.

There were four of us kids—now adults—scattered to the winds.

My uber-successful older brother Peter was a lawyer and a partner in a Manhattan firm—and married to my glamorous sister-in-law, Zara. Annie, thanks to her own modeling agency and some hefty endorsement deals, was a citizen of the world with a collection of pricy homes in even pricier locales. Our youngest brother, Nick, was even more footloose. He’d dropped out of college and, most recently, lived on a ranch in Arizona. But a few months ago, he’d migrated back to our home turf of metro D.C. and was bunking with me temporarily.

Our mother, she of the tart tongue and designer threads, resided in a tony part of the District. And Baba, our dad’s mom, still lived in the same small, immaculate Baltimore apartment where he’d grown up.

Still, when the need arose—or especially a food-centric holiday—somehow we always found enough room under one roof to coexist almost peacefully. For twenty-four hours, at least.

“Well, the homeowners association board’s scheduled some sort of super-secret emergency election,” Annie explained. “I was hoping you might come with.”

“Can’t you vote by mail? Like with stocks?”

“Normally, that’s exactly what I’d do. But there’s something weird about this. The annual election’s supposed to be in December. Because that’s when more of us are actually there. Now they’ve suddenly scheduled a special election in July with practically zero notice. Who does that? This time of year, a lot of the residents are away. And I can’t get a straight answer from anyone on why they need this vote.”

“You think something’s fishy?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“It’s probably nothing,” my sister admitted, sighing. “But if you came along, it would at least be fun. Road trip!”

Annie flew back and forth to Miami all the time. Now the owner of her own mega-successful modeling firm, she did a lot of business there. Hence the condo. And with brains to spare, she was more than capable of sorting the election mystery mishigas on her own. So why the sudden invite?

“What did Nick tell you?” I asked, taking a swig of my now tepid coffee.

“The word ‘workaholic’ may have been mentioned.”

From the outside, it looked like I’d planted roots, too. I’d been a reporter for the Washington Tribune, one of the area’s two daily newspapers, for more than a decade. And two years ago, I’d purchased my snug little home—a tiny bungalow in the Northern Virginia bedroom community of Fordham. Close enough to the Beltway to be convenient. Far enough out that I could almost afford it.

But Nick wasn’t the only one of us still searching for a niche. After ten happy years as a reporter, I’d allowed myself to be lured away to an executive spot with a public relations firm, enticed by the prospect of a salary that I could actually live on.

That had lasted all of three months. One of my two bosses had been a megalomaniac who drank too much, used people, and had his hand in the till. The other one went to prison.

As career moves go, not my best decision.

So now I was freelancing. I loved setting my own hours and choosing my own assignments. But I missed perks like health insurance, a retirement plan, and a steady income.

My best friend, and former editor at the Tribune, Trip Cabot, regularly encouraged me to come back to the newsroom. And there’d been several offers.

But I was enjoying my new-found freedom. And skinny bank balance or not, I wasn’t all that anxious to give it up.

“Hey, it’s not easy maintaining a steady income when you’re freelancing,” I said to Annie.

“Exactly,” she replied. “But ‘freelance’ means you can literally work from anywhere. From what I’m hearing, you’re long overdue for a little fun. And so am I. So trade the home office for a poolside chaise with a view of the beach. Just for a week. Two weeks, tops. You won’t hate it, I promise. Besides, I wasn’t kidding about the election. I really could use your help. Something’s up. And before I vote one way or the other, I’d like to know what’s going on.”

I couldn’t. Not really. Not if I wanted to keep my name in front of editors, keep landing assignments, and keep my bills paid. But I was sorely tempted.

I glanced toward my kitchen—and the virtual rainbow of contrasting tape from Nick’s competing contractors. In the home renovation shows, this was about the time the homeowners were gently bundled off to a hotel—to reappear only for the stunning reveal. When the place had been carefully cleaned and all renovation glitches were firmly in the rearview mirror.

Which, right now, seemed like a really good idea.

“OK, you’ve got yourself a houseguest.”

Six little words. Who knew they’d spark so much trouble?

By the time Nick and Lucy rolled in that evening, I’d showered, changed, and was packing a suitcase. Or, more accurately, a battered duffel bag.

What can I say? The idea of a week of fun and sun had inspired me.

“Can I take this to mean you said yes?” Nick inquired, grinning as he lounged against the bedroom doorframe.

“Annie needs my help,” I said, as I tried to decide between two white T-shirts. Opting for expediency, I shoved them both into the bag. “And far be it from me to say no to a family member in need.”

“Good to know. Because I have a little news. And I need a favor.”

“Hey, the more the merrier. At this point, I don’t care if I have to sleep on an air mattress on the floor. But you know Annie—I’m sure she’s got room for all of us. How soon can you get packed?”

“Not that. I mean the kitchen. Your kitchen. I finally hired a guy, and he can start tomorrow.”

“Nick! That’s great! Congratulations!”

“Not a huge deal. All I had to do was talk with every renovator in town and throw wads of money at the one I wanted. Big honking fistfuls.”

“No lie.” I’d seen the estimates. He wasn’t exaggerating. “So what’s the favor?”

“Well, my guy is gonna have the whole thing done inside a week. But while he’s working, that kitchen’s pretty much a no-fly zone. And it’s kind of Lucy’s main hangout spot.”

Lucy may have started life as a stray in the back alleys of Las Vegas, but she’d quickly acclimated to the comforts of suburban life. And my sunny, yellow kitchen was her favorite room in the house.

Mine too, if I’m honest.

Every morning, Lucy skipped out the back door, down the steps, and into her private backyard to romp in the grass, chase butterflies, and sniff flowers. Her water bowl lived just under the kitchen table. When we ate there—which was just about all the time—she shared the food and the hospitality from her favorite spot on the floor (within reach of whoever might slip her a few extra nibbles). And she loved nestling under the table when Nick was baking—a definite no-no, according to our new mandate from the county health department.

I’d realized early on that Nick’s construction plans were going to upend our lives for a few days. But, for some reason, I’d never considered the impact on Lucy.

I glanced up. The pup was stretched out, sphinx-like, at my brother’s feet, sporting a pair of sunglasses.

“Admit it, she belongs in Miami,” he said.

“Are those for real?”

“Doggles. The latest in canine eye protection. Sun, sand, or surf, the little dog is ready to party, South Beach style.”

“She’s better prepared than I am. Are you sure you can manage without her for a week?”

“Nope,” he said, stroking her velvety russet head, as Lucy flipped over exposing a round, white tummy. “But it’s gonna be too dangerous for her here. Between the dust and the noise and the power tools and the open doors.”

“Your basic doggie danger zone.”

“Times ten. And I can’t take her to Ian’s. I spend all my time in the kitchen, and she’s not allowed in there. Besides, the guy is already loaning me work space.”

I mentally bit my tongue. Ian Sterling was not my favorite person at the moment. I loved that he was helping Nick. But I still didn’t trust him.

Ian was magnetic, I’ll give him that. Tall and athletic, with dark hair, blue eyes that changed color with his mood, and the quiet self-assurance of someone who knew how to handle almost any situation. I admit the man made my heart beat a little faster.

And that was before we shared an electric kiss during a lightning storm.

That was also before I found a listening device in my home phone. And learned that Ian Sterling had planted it. I understood his reasons. But l’d also resolved to keep my distance.

Once burned.

“I thought about boarding her,” Nick continued. “But she’s never been away from home that long, and I think she’d be scared. Or feel like we’d abandoned her. She’s really still a puppy. Dr. Scott says she’s not even fully grown yet.”

“Look, no sweat. Annie loves her. I love her. And you’re right—she’s going to have a blast in Miami.”

Besides, Lucy adored car rides. Road-tripping with her would be a breeze. The pup’s standard auto trip agenda: Spend the first five minutes sniffing the back seat for stray french fries, spend the next five minutes staring out the window, then curl into a ball and sleep for the rest of the trip.

I should be so lucky.

“I’ve already packed a bag with a few of her favorite toys, a spare leash, and some food,” Nick said. “And her vitamins. And I threw in a set of booties.”

“Booties?” I was hoping the word meant something different for dogs. I couldn’t see Lucy prancing around in high-heeled ankle boots. Canine fashionista or not.

“It’s Florida in July,” he said. “You can fry eggs on the sidewalk. And paw pads are sensitive. These things are like heavy socks with traction. If you lose one or she chews it, you can get replacements at PetGo. But they’re not cheap.”

“What about you? How are you going to make do without a kitchen for a week?”

“Between fast food, takeout, and delivery pizza, I’ll be fine. Besides, I can always fire up the grill. Or use Ian’s stove if I get desperate. Which I won’t. The last thing I want to do after a long day in a hot kitchen is cook.”

I felt the same way every night. And I didn’t even work in a kitchen.

“Then it’s official,” I said, bending to pat Lucy’s downy flank, as she leaned in and licked my knees. “The Vlodnachek girls are going to Miami!”

“Uh, I think you’re going in the wrong direction,” I said to the guy who was driving our ride-share. Or, more accurately, to the back of his head.

“No, ma’am, this is the right way to the address they gave me. Shortest route, too. Ain’t gonna carry you to the Washington Monument and back. Honest. And that’s not just because you’re a local.”

When he pulled into the entrance to a small private airport, I knew something wasn’t right.

“We’re supposed to be meeting my sister at a rental car counter at Reagan National,” I said, noticing that stress had sent my voice up half an octave. “She’s flying in and getting a car to drive us to Miami.”

No use explaining that we couldn’t use my car unless my supermodel sister wanted to be ferried around town in an ancient station wagon with a couple of nasty expletives carved into the paint, courtesy of a psycho-killer I helped catch. And once worked for.

Long story.

“Lady, this is the address they gave me. Really.”

“But it’s the wrong airport. She’s gonna be at the Hertz counter. And we’re, well, wherever this is.”

I looked past the driver out the windshield to see a sleek private jet behind an even sleeker blonde. And she was waving at us.

Annie!

The driver pulled up parallel to the jet as I rolled down the back window. Lucy, napping on the seat beside me, raised a drowsy head.

“Change of plans,” my sister said. “We’re hitching a ride.”

“You do realize that when most people say ‘hitching a ride,’ they mean standing on the side of a highway with their thumbs out?”

“And that’s exactly how we’ll tell the story to Mom,” Annie said, grinning, as she opened the back door. Lucy hopped over me and out onto the tarmac.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing the pup’s leash. “I want you to meet Esteban. This is his jet.”

I climbed out of the car and turned to reach for my duffel and Lucy’s two neat bags. Because, while she still may be a puppy according to my brother, the little dog doesn’t travel light.

“Don’t worry about that,” the driver called, opening the other back door. “I got these. All part of the service.”

“Thank you,” I said, digging through my purse for cash.

“That’s taken care of too,” he said softly. “Even the tip. And your friend’s a good tipper,” he added, nodding at Annie, who was chatting animatedly with a tall, good-looking guy, as Lucy sniffed his shoes.

“She’s my sister,” I said, both proud and dumbfounded.

“Wow, you sure don’t look alike.” If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that, I could buy Esteban’s jet.

“Really?” I said. “Most people can’t tell us apart.”

Turns out flying in a private jet is pretty much like flying commercial. Except instead of charging five dollars for a soda, a nice lady handed me a glass of champagne. For free. In a real glass.

And rather than my usual straightjacket-sized seat that smelled vaguely of air freshener and old socks, I had an entire cushy mini-sofa. No screaming babies, chair-kicking tweens or seatmates exercising their right to bare hairy toe knuckles.

So basically nothing like commercial.

Once we were in the air, Esteban busied himself on his laptop. If he’d had a phone on his shoulder, he would have looked right at home in any newsroom.

“New boyfriend?” I mouthed silently to Annie.

She shook her bouncy blond mane.

“So tell me about this condo thing,” I said, as she settled in next to me on the sofa. “What’s going on?”

“Super weird. We haven’t had a homeowners’ association for very long. Before that, the builder and their management company took care of everything. And they were wonderful. But then the residents started making a fuss about costs getting out of hand and how they wanted more control and that we needed a homeowners’ association. The next thing you know, we had one. And Leslie McQueen—she’s a star in the local real estate community—became the interim president. Between you and me, I think she was the one behind the push for an association in the first place. She really wanted the president’s job. Plus, I think the residents figured that since she works in real estate, she’d have the know-how.”

It was a familiar story. And HOAs could be a minefield, at least in some areas. You paid a set fee every month for the assurance that someone would step in if a neighbor painted their house bubblegum pink, let the grass get too high, or opened a neighborhood bar in their garage.

For my money, I figured the . . .