“Now for the perfect wig,” she said, wiping away a tear. “What color hair are you in the mood for?” She moved toward a stack of hat boxes and removed the lids. “I think chin-length brunette would be perfect. Although with what you’ve packed into the chest area, I don’t think anyone on your covert mission will be looking anywhere else.”
Liz put on the wig and looked in the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself.
Aunt Amelia came at her with a large compact of makeup and a powder brush. “All you need is a little sparkle on your décolletage. Draw a little more attention. Too bad you can’t borrow my white patent-leather go-go boots, but I think that might be a bit much. Nancy Sinatra gave them to me after I did a skit with her on The Ed Sullivan Show. I was in the background dancing the frug. But those wedge sandals will do nicely.”
“The frug?” Liz asked.
“A very groovy dance, like the chicken dance,” Aunt Amelia said.
Liz laughed and took another peek at herself in the mirror. “Let’s go to the lobby and see if I can fool anyone.”
Aunt Amelia said, “You go on ahead. It will look less conspicuous if I’m not tagging along.”
Liz left the hotel via her father’s office and went around to the front of the Indialantic. Betty and Captain Netherton were tossing a Frisbee to each other, laughing every time Killer leapt up and intercepted it. He was no “monkey in the middle.” Liz smiled as she passed them. Betty winked as Captain Netherton frantically waved in her direction. Liz heard him ask, “Who’s that? A new guest? She married?”
Would the captain ever learn not to let his libido lead the way?
Liz entered the revolving door, but she pushed too hard and almost broke her neck as she stumbled into the lobby, teetering on her five-inch wedges. Greta Kimball sat in a wheelchair clicking and clacking away with a pair of knitting needles, the heel of a thick wool sock taking shape. Venus, the hairless cat, slept by her feet in her leopard cat bed. This was the fifth pair of socks Greta had made for her daughter, Iris. Like Betty and her granny squares, Greta liked to make multiples of her needlework projects.
Greta looked up and said, “Good morning.” There was no sign she recognized Liz.
After Liz’s father had gotten Iris off on a technicality for stealing the earring and cat collar, Iris had signed up for a tour of duty, training navy divers in Alaska. Instead of a romantic liaison, the champagne bottle and two glasses Liz had seen in Iris’s room had really been from a celebration between Iris and Nick Goren, after Iris had helped him get his diving certification. The times when Iris had been missing around the hotel, she’d actually been moonlighting as a diving instructor, trying to save money for her mother’s operation. Aunt Amelia had taken it upon herself to spring Greta from the Sundowner Retirement Home. Greta and the orphaned Venus immediately bonded, and Aunt Amelia allowed Greta to keep Venus with her in the Swaying Palms Suite. After Greta’s operation, which Fenton would finance until she received the settlement he’d procured from her insurance company, Greta promised to take over her daughter’s job as housekeeper and would live at the hotel rent-free. Liz had grown fond of Greta and had no problem helping out until after she was healed.
Pierre was on the other side of the lobby on a bamboo chaise reading Peril at End House, one of her favorite Christies because it took place in Cornwall, England, Liz’s great-grandmother’s birthplace. Cornwall had also been the setting for Liz’s novel, Let the Wind Roar. Aunt Amelia had taken Pierre to a wonderful doctor, who’d checked all of their criteria. Dr. Helmer was both an MD and a homeopathic healer. There was no definitive diagnosis as of yet, but Liz prayed daily for a positive outcome.
Pierre looked up at Liz and took off his toque. “Hi, Lizzy. Here’s your next book.”
Drats, he recognized her.
Obviously, Barnacle Bob hadn’t. He did one of his sailor’s whistles and said, “Va-va-voom, Take it off. Take it all off.”
Liz didn’t know the midcentury jingle, but she got the gist of the bird’s comment.
She took After the Funeral from Pierre’s hand and put it in her handbag. Ryan was due to pick her up any minute.
Pierre said, “Does your father know how you’re dressed, young lady?”
She laughed. “Yes, he does. It was his idea.”
Pierre raised a furry eyebrow, and his left hand twirled the end of his mustache. “Okay. Father knows best.”
Hopefully, Liz thought. She heard the sound of a horn and saw Ryan’s Jeep pull up under the canopy. She kissed Pierre and blew a kiss to Barnacle Bob. The parrot ruffled his feathers in delight. As she went out the revolving door, she heard a litany of catcalls—a gaggle of construction workers couldn’t have done better.
Ryan got out of the Jeep. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He walked to the passenger door and opened it. “After you. That is, if it’s really you?” He brushed the brown bangs out of her eyes. “Yep. Same gorgeous cornflower-blue eyes.”
Liz smiled, thanked him, and got inside.
As they pulled away, Ryan said, “You nervous?”
“A little. How about you? What if someone catches you?”
“I’m a trained assassin, didn’t I tell you?”
Liz looked at his fit physique. He did look lethal.
“You distract,” he said. “I’ll infiltrate.”
“Next time, you distract and I infiltrate. This is the twenty-first century.”
“Yes, boss.”
As they crossed the bridge over the Indian River Lagoon. Liz glanced out the window at the postcard-perfect day: Sailboats and cruisers passed beneath them, and fishermen lined the north side of the bridge, casting for a dinner of redfish or sea trout. Liz thought about Travis. They had tried to collaborate on a few writing projects, but both of their egos had gotten in the way and their projects were
