~ Maddie ~
“This is even more nerve-wracking than meeting an old boyfriend,” says Hailey Rose, who is sitting in the backseat of my SUV next to our friend Fran McDonald.
I’m driving. Mary Jane Stetson, who we call MJ, is riding shotgun, rounding out our quartet of writers. We’re on our way to Asheville, North Carolina, to pick up our friend Kellen Corsi, who is flying in from New York City.
“Why am I so nervous?” Hailey asks.
I glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse her checking her pretty reflection in a compact mirror, fluffing her light pink curls and reapplying lipstick.
“It’s just Kellen,” I say. “Don’t be nervous. She’s the most nonjudgmental person in the world.”
“At least she used to be,” Fran says. “Who knows how she’s changed now that she’s hit the big time?”
About a decade ago, when I made the decision to move beyond reading cozy mysteries to trying my hand at writing them, I hung a notice in the Hemlock Public Library seeking authors who were interested in forming a mystery-writers support group. Fran, Hailey, MJ, Kellen, another writer named Olivia Knowles, and I turned up.
We hit it off fabulously and dubbed ourselves the Hemlock Homicide Heroines. It was the start of something magical.
“Why do you assume Kellen has changed?” I ask.
“Having your book made into a movie and living in a place like Manhattan can change a person’s sensibilities,” Fran says. “I feel like the country mouse going to pick up my big city friend.”
“Exactly,” Hailey says. “How can a person who has achieved the level of success Kellen has not change? I mean, she’s famous now.”
“Well, no one forced her to come back to Hemlock,” says MJ as she fans herself with a piece of paper. “If Kellen had gotten too far above her raisin’, I suppose she wouldn’t be schlepping it all the way back to North Carolina to walk in a small-town charity fashion show and spend time with a bunch of nobodies like us.”
I bristle at MJ’s referring to us as nobodies, but I swallow my irritation before I speak. “When I talked to her she sounded like the same old Kellen to me. She said she was excited to see us, and it’s generous of her to help the ladies league raise money.”
For the past decade, the Hemlock Ladies’ League, a local volunteer organization that my daughter Jenna and I belong to, has staged its Successful You Fashion Showcase, which supports regional organizations that aid women facing employment and financial challenges. Every year, the show has a different theme—last year it was tropical oasis; another year it was I Love Paris.
In celebration of the tenth annual show, the committee, which I’m chairing this year, chose a murder mystery theme featuring a special celebrity guest star to walk in the show—Hemlock’s very own hometown girl who hit the big time, best-selling mystery author Kellen Corsi.
Kellen’s first thriller not only became an instant number-one best seller, it launched her career and set her on a trajectory for literary superstardom. With one number-one best seller after another, everything she touches seems to turn to gold. Now, her first book is being made into a movie. The production company is shooting in Asheville. That’s one of the reasons she had been able to join us. After the show and our reunion weekend, she’s going to stop by the movie set.
Is it any wonder her success has bruised some egos and stirred up enough professional jealousy to splinter our writers group? Because of that—or maybe in spite of it, I asked the other founding members of the Hemlock Homicide Heroines to walk in the show, too. Every year, local women are invited to participate—some local celebrities and others who want to help raise money. Since my friends write mysteries, I figured they would be the perfect models for this year’s show. It’s a nice opportunity for us to join about a dozen other women from the community and help a good cause. It also provided a great excuse for a HHH reunion.
“Too bad Olivia can’t join us,” MJ says.
The others make appropriate noises. Even though it is more apt to say Olivia Knowles won’t join us rather than can’t, no one dares utter a word. Not with MJ in the car. Olivia and MJ are close. Or at least they were once. Olivia was also an original member of our writers group. She declined to participate in the reunion and fashion show after she learned that Kellen would be there.
“I guess it would be awkward for the two to be in the same room on account of the lawsuit.” There’s an undercurrent of snark in MJ’s voice. A wake of dead silence follows.
I slant a quick glance at MJ. Before returning my gaze to the road, I see beads of perspiration forming on her upper lip.
“Do you want me to turn up the air conditioner?” I ask, even though I’m about to freeze into an icicle. It’s no wonder she’s warm. She’s wearing a black sweater dress on this hot, humid July day. Paired with her pearls, she looks nice, even if the dress, with its long sleeves and high neck, is better suited for winter. I know we all tried a little harder than usual to dress up because in addition to being successful, Kellen is gorgeous.
“Maybe it would help if I adjusted the vent.” She does and leans forward to allow the air to blow directly on her face.
As I steer the SUV into the Asheville airport entrance, nervous electricity crackles in the air even though the four of us have settled into silence.
Initially, when I invited Olivia to walk in the show she was excited. However, a few days later, after I announced to the group that Kellen had agreed to fly in from New York, Olivia called me back and said she was too far in the weeds with her current book. She simply couldn’t take the time off for the fashion show or the four-day reunion we had planned around the show. She said she absolutely could not be late with this book or her editor would hunt her down and kill her.
Once a mystery writer always a mystery writer.
Or better yet, once a drama queen, always a drama queen.
Even before her beef with Kellen, Olivia always seemed to have it in for someone whom she believed had slighted her. She was usually late for our meetings and when she did finally breeze in, she commanded the floor with her dramatic justifications and outraged story of the week about the most recent person who had wronged her. It was tiresome. And, of course, it was never her fault. Other times, she would go on diatribes skewering the latest editor who dared turn down the story she’d submitted. I’ll never forget the time Olivia was particularly incensed over a rejection and she was so nasty to Hailey she made her cry by saying things like, “If the editor thinks my writing is bad, there’s no way you’re going to sell.”
The cherry on top was when Olivia accused Kellen of plagiarism, claiming Kellen had not only used character names she had claimed as her own, but had also stolen the idea for her book, The Sting of Death, from her.
“Where are we supposed to meet her?” Fran’s voice cuts through the silence.
“She said she’d wait outside of baggage claim,” I say.
“Are you sure we still can’t persuade Olivia to join us?” Hailey asks. “I know she and Kellen have had their issues, but—”
MJ snorts and murmurs under her breath, “That’s an understatement.”
“Maybe after Olivia had a chance to reconsider the invitation, she changed her mind,” Hailey says. “Maybe she just needs a little coaxing. You know, she might need to hear that we really want her here. I don’t mind calling her.”
I glance in my rearview mirror and see how earnest Hailey’s wide blue eyes look. I also glimpse Fran rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
“You can try,” Fran says. “But don’t count on her changing her mind. Plus, I was really looking forward to a peaceful weekend.”
Fran and Hailey are as different as their hair colors. Hailey’s bouncy pink curls reflect her innocence and quirky view on the world, while Fran’s stark, sleek salt-and-pepper bob is just as no-nonsense as her call-it-as-she-sees-it view on life.
“We’ll never know unless we try,” says Hailey, who was still in high school when we started the group.
Fran shrugs. “Knock yourself out, kid.”
Everyone thought Olivia would be the first of us to sell. No one believed that more than Olivia herself. She had been writing for a couple of years and had several finished novels under her belt before joining the Hemlock Homicide Heroines.
Olivia came so close to getting published several times, but somehow it never happened.
When Kellen sold her partially completed first novel to the publisher Olivia wanted to work with, she said it felt as if Kellen had cut to the head of the long line where Olivia had been waiting for years.
Kellen makes it seem as though she floats effortlessly through life. Not only is she talented, but she’s a maddeningly prolific writer. The stories and the words seem to come easier to her than to us mere mortals, which is why it didn’t make sense when Olivia filed the civil suit against Kellen accusing her of plagiarism.
Kellen had done the work. She’d written the book. But Olivia claimed Kellen had stolen it from her, adding the proof would come when Kellen failed at all subsequent projects since she didn’t have access to Olivia’s ideas anymore. Olivia is wrong on at least one account; each book Kellen publishes seems to be more successful than the last even without access to Olivia’s so-called brain trust.
“There she is.” MJ points to the tall, slim blonde in a red blouse, white jeans, and espadrille wedges standing curbside next to her suitcase.
She’s typing something on her smartphone. She looks more like a model than the queen of macabre murder mysteries. But that’s our Kellen, a walking contradiction.
The sight of her makes me smile. She looks calm and cool and effortlessly stylish, as if she’d nipped into a salon between deplaning and stepping out into the summer heat. But there was no time for a glam session. I’m sure this is exactly what Kellen looked like after her journey from New York City, where she has lived with her literary agent husband, Tom Corsi, for the past seven years.
“I’ll get in back and let her sit in front.” MJ swipes at her moist brow, stuffs her makeshift fan into her purse and begins undoing her seat belt before I have a chance to stop the vehicle.
I’m glad MJ is playing nice. Out of the six of us, MJ and Olivia have remained the closest. In the beginning, MJ was quick to jump to Olivia’s defense and side with her, even though she swore she would never take sides. People are funny. Rooting for the underdog, but still wanting a piece of the person who’s found the fame and fortune.
When I stop the car, Kellen straightens and flashes her perfect smile at us. She looks the same as always, only more polished. Then again, she always was a little more put together than the average woman. It’s the thing that makes people love and hate her.
MJ lumbers out of the car first and throws her arms around Kellen as if there never was an issue with Olivia. I make my way around the front of the car as the others in the back open the door and climb out, making the appropriate sounds of delight at the reunion.
“Here, give me your bags,” MJ says. “I’ll put them in the back.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Kellen says.
MJ waves her away. “Come on, give them up. I’ll take care of everything while you finish saying hello to the others.”
“Thank you, MJ,” Kellen says as MJ whisks her bags away.
“Be careful and don’t crush the boxes in the back,” I call. “Those are the dresses you all are going to wear for the fashion show.”
“I’m well aware,” she answers in a singsong voice as she disappears around the back of the car. “You already told us that.”
Fran rolls her eyes, but I just chuckle. I’m trying to think of a witty response because I’m determined for this to be a good weekend without hurt feelings or fragile egos getting in the way. My train of thought is preempted by a string of choice words coming from the direction of the liftgate.
“MJ?” I call as I make my way to her followed by the others.
“I’m fine. I just dumped my purse. Sorry for the potty mouth.”
We get there just in time to see her grabbing the contents of her handbag, which is strewn all over the back bumper and the top of Kellen’s suitcase, which MJ had already lifted into the wayback of the car.
“No worries,” she says as she stashes the last of the items—a package of tissue, a compact, a tube of lipstick, a couple of crumpled receipts. “I’m such a klutz. You can’t take me anywhere. I guess some things never change.”
This is vintage MJ. One thing I’ve always admired about her is, despite her tendency to annoy people by mothering them to death, she always manages to show a human side by doing something like this. When we would meet, sometimes she would be so busy mother-henning everyone that she would fail to see the open manhole right in front of her. I hate it that she’s embarrassed, but in a way, it brings back good times.
It’s a half-hour trip from the airport back to Hemlock. The whole time the car is filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter. It takes me back a decade to when we first met and our meetings were filled with the sound of possibility and passion for writing.
I love listening to everyone tell Kellen what they’ve been up to over the years. It’s no surprise that Hailey has successfully embraced indie publishing and is making boatloads of money.
“I’m so proud of you, Hail,” Kellen gushes. “You seem so happy.”
“I am. I’m making enough from my writing to support myself. I get to be my own boss. I set my own hours and have plenty of time to pursue other things I’m interested in. The best part is I write what I want and it sells.”
“That’s the holy grail of writing,” Kellen says, turning around in her seat to look at the others. “Why did you quit writing, Fran? You’re so talented. The world needs your voice.”
Fran shrugs. “You know—Well, no, you probably don’t know since you’re so prolific. One day I woke up and I was out of words. I just didn’t have anything left to say.”
“No!” Kellen says. “You probably just need to take a break. I can’t live in a world without a continuous stream of new books in your Carmody Callahan series. You were doing so well.”
Fran chuckles low in her throat. “Not that well since Kingston Press dropped me. And it’s been almost two years since my last Carmody Callahan. So, I think you’ll be okay.”
For a split second, an uncomfortable silence falls over the car.
It’s broken by the sound of MJ’s nervous laugh. “Well, Fran, at least you did better than Maddie and me. Neither of us has published anything. Of course, it’s not for want of trying on Maddie’s part. I, on the other hand, have yet to finish a book. You can’t publish what isn’t there. Lord knows short stories don’t sell. Well, that is unless you know someone in the business who’s willing to help you out.”
She says it like not trying is a point of pride and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret like, well, I had a hard time after my husband went missing and it takes a lot of energy to run the bridal shop, which is how I support myself. But I tell myself MJ doesn’t mean anything by her barbs. Or at least I don’t have to let her thoughtless words sting me. When the HHHs were meeting, MJ always talked about writing a novel. Short stories were her forte and she was good at it, but she claimed she wanted to write something longer. The problem was she could never seem to finish a book. Everyone tried to help her, but basically it boiled down to writing being a solitary endeavor. We couldn’t do it for her.
As much as we want it for her, she needs to want it that badly for herself.
Thinking back on that reminds me of everyone’s place in the writers’ group. For the most part, I think I’m the peacekeeper. Olivia fancied herself the queen bee. Kellen was all business, always showing up prepared. Fran was the jaded old soul with a slightly caustic edge. Hailey, the millennial, was the baby of the group. Smart as a whip, she kept us young and in touch. MJ seemed completely devoted to Olivia. She spent so much time fretting and fussing over Olivia, it seemed to use up her best energy—as if she was being productive even though she wasn’t writing. The sad part is MJ is a good writer. I honestly believe she’s afraid of success. Or maybe she’s one of those people who like the idea of being a writer, but they don’t want to do the hard work. Too bad because she always offered thoughtful critiques of everyone else’s work and was brilliant at brainstorming when one of us had written herself into a corner.
That is until Kellen sold her first book, and Olivia accused Kellen of plagiarism. Then things got weird.
Most of us were appalled when Olivia made the stink with Kellen because Olivia knew how our writers’ group worked. We helped each other. The author could take or leave suggestions, and if the writer did use the suggestions, well, they were able to do so without being beholden to anyone. A couple of things Olivia couldn’t seem to grasp were that she couldn’t own names. If she’d used the name Sally in one of her books, she didn’t want anyone else using the name. She was also territorial about plot lines, which drove Fran crazy.
One time, after Olivia had pitched a fit about Hailey killing off a victim using arsenic poisoning because that was how she was killing a victim in a book, Fran insisted we all do a writing exercise—to write a short story using the same protagonist, victim, method, means, and motive. Then we all read the pieces aloud. It was thrilling how vastly different they were even though they all contained identical ingredients.
Olivia simply rolled her eyes and kept insisting on exclusivity of plot elements until it all came to a head with Kellen and her book The Sting of Death.
Things took an irreparable turn when The Sting of Death not only hit the best-seller lists, but stayed in the top ten for the better part of a year. Olivia started telling anyone who would listen that Kellen had plagiarized her, that parts of The Sting Of Death had been lifted from Olivia’s work.
Kellen, who had already been traveling back and forth between North Carolina and New York City moved there. When Olivia hit her with a lawsuit, Kellen’s publisher responded. I have no idea what the outcome was—nobody knows. Apparently, Olivia signed a nondisclosure agreement. But the next thing we knew, Olivia had sworn off mysteries and had thrown herself into writing romance.
As we arrive at the Hemlock Inn, Kellen’s phone sounds the ringtone “Dead Man’s Party” by Oingo Boingo. It tickles me. The punk tune is at once contrary to everything Kellen seems to be, but it speaks to the contradiction that gives her the edge that allows her to write about murder. I smile until I see the worry on Kellen’s face as she silences the phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I stop the car under the hotel’s porte cochere.
“Sure. Umm… I just need to return this call. Will you please excuse me? I’ll be right back.”
As Kellen disappears into the lobby, through the window we see her sit on a sofa and place the call.
“Don’t mind us,” MJ mutters. “We’ll get your bags, princess.”
“I can do that,” I say to her.
MJ smiles. “I’m only kidding. If you’ll pop the hatch, I’ll get her bags onto the luggage cart.”
“MJ, the bellman can get the bags,” I say.
She nods to the bellman who has just wheeled a cart next to the SUV. “Welcome to the Hemlock Inn, ladies. Checking in?”
“One of us is…” MJ’s voice trails off as she disappears around back of the car.
I use the key fob to release the liftgate and then join her to help with the dress boxes that are stacked next to Kellen’s rolling suitcase and purse. By the time I make my way back there, the porter has already removed Kellen’s belongings and loaded them to transport up to the room.
When he starts to load the boxes, I say, “Only one of those boxes is going up to the room. I’ll need a moment to figure out which one it is.”
“No problem,” says the bellman, who I recognize as someone with whom my daughter, Jenna, went to school. “Take your time. We’re not busy today.”
By that time, Kellen is off the phone and has moved to the front desk and is checking in. They should have her room ready by now. She’ll have plenty of time to get settled in and freshen up before meeting us for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. I thought having dinner here would be a good no-fuss way to have a quick catch-up so everyone could retire early and meet tomorrow to rehearse for the fashion show.
I reach into the back of the car and pick up the first box. The tag, which is tied to a big yellow bow that secures the box happens to have Kellen’s name on it.
I set it on the luggage cart on top of Kellen’s suitcase.
“This one is yours, MJ.”
“Wonderful! I’m going to go put my box in my car.” She pulls a silly face. “If I don’t, I’ll probably end up losing it. I’ll be right back.”
Since we’re having dinner here at the hotel, Hailey, Fran, MJ, and I decided to meet here so they could leave their cars in the parking lot. It was the most expedient way to do things since everyone was driving in from various directions. This was the most convenient place to meet so I could pick them up and we could all ride together to meet Kellen at the airport.
“If we’re not here when you get back, we’ll be in the restaurant,” I call after her. She waves and picks up her pace toward the self-parking lot.
“I know we don’t get to keep the clothes,” Hailey says, hugging the large box to her chest. “But getting a package wrapped up all pretty like this makes it feel as if we’re getting presents. I love presents.”
“It really is a gift that the whole gang is back together again,” Fran says. “Well, all of us except Olivia.” Fran sucks her teeth and makes a tsking sound as she accepts the box I hand her. “Couldn’t she put aside her pride and join us? I mean, if for no other reason than this fashion show is raising money for a good cause.”
Suddenly, MJ appears hugging her box and looking frazzled.
“That’s not fair,” she says. “You don’t know the details. Actually, I can’t really blame her for not coming. She really believes Kellen took advantage of her. She doesn’t want to spend time with someone like that.”
We’d heard Olivia’s side of the story dozens of times. She honestly believed Kellen took her story and if she had finished it first, she would be the one at the top of the best-seller list, not Kellen. She was still writing mysteries and coming to the weekly group meetings when she first filed the lawsuit. Every time we were together, we had to endure her rants about how Kellen had stolen from her because Kellen had no talent and couldn’t do it on her own. I lost count of how many times Olivia promised Kellen would be a one-hit wonder. But her prediction never came to fruition. By the time Olivia had signed the nondisclosure agreement, forbidding her to talk about the outcome of the lawsuit, Olivia had moved to Asheville and turned her back on mystery writing.
“What I meant was it’s too bad Olivia couldn’t be here,” Fran said.
MJ sucked in her cheeks and narrowed her eyes, a clear tell she was getting ready to deliver one of her mother-knows-best lectures.
I preempt MJ’s homily. “We are going to have a lot of fun, right, ladies?”
“I hope so,” Kellen says, as she rejoins the group. “I could definitely use some fun this week.”
That seems to further diffuse the situation. Then I notice MJ is still holding her box.
“MJ, I thought you were going to put that in the car,” I say.
“I was, but I can’t find my keys.”
“Did you lock them in your car?” Fran asks.
“I looked in the windows, but I didn’t see them. But, you know, I don’t see how I could’ve because I lock my car with the key fob.”
Her face was pinched and she looked as if she might cry.
“Okay, take a deep breath,” Hailey says. “Retrace your steps. When was the last time you remember having them?”
“Well… I…” MJ bites her bottom lip. She slants a sheepish glance at Kellen. “Ugh. I feel like such an idiot. Um… Well, I know I got here. And then we rode to the airport. Oh, I hope I didn’t drop them.” Her forehead is furrowed and she’s wringing her hands.
“I’ll go in and ask at the front desk if anyone turned in a set of keys,” Hailey says. “What do they look like?”
MJ’s face goes blank. “I don’t even know. Just keys. Um, there’s an Oldsmobile key fob and a keychain that says, I Love My Chihuahua.”
“Be right back,” Hailey says.
“Maybe they fell into a crevice when you spilled your purse at the airport?” Kellen suggests.
MJ sighs. “Oh, that’s a good thought. I hope so. If not, I hope they didn’t fall out onto the pavement under the car where I couldn’t see them.”
“Let’s have a look,” I say releasing the back hatch again. “It should be easy to search since we’ve cleared out everything from the back.”
MJ sets her purse and box on the luggage trolly and looks on as Fran hops into the back of the car. A moment later she holds up the keys and sings, “Bingo! Got them. They fell between the way-back and the back seat.”
“Oh, Fran, you’re my hero and, Kellen, you’re a genius! No wonder you’re the success of the group.” She puts her hand over her heart and heaves a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I’m so relieved. And I’m so embarrassed. Just give me a minute and I’ll put this box in the car.”
She grabs her box and her purse off the luggage cart and trots off to her car, her short legs carrying her as fast as she can make them go.
“Crisis averted,” I say. “Let the fun begin.”
“Fran and I are staying at Maddie’s this weekend,” Hailey says. “Why don’t you stay with us, Kellen? It would be like a big slumber party.”
Kellen smiles and sighs. “I wish I could, but I have a deadline. I’ll need to work after hours so I can get some pages done. But I’ll spend as much time with y’all as possible.”
“Surely your editor could forgive you a week,” Fran says. “I mean, a big shot like you?”
Kellen’s gaze drops and her cheeks turn pink. It makes her look even prettier. I didn’t think that was possible, but that’s when I notice the small, barely there lines at the outside of her blue eyes. Even as the soft, early evening light casts its golden glow on her, I sense her weariness. I get a feeling most people don’t look past her pretty, reserved persona. It’s just this side of aloof, but not quite. It’s an invisible fence designed to keep people at arm’s length.
“I always like to be professional and that involves turning in my work on time.” She shrugs.
I realize that when I take a long, hard look past the pretty and the fame, I can glimpse the fine fissures in the armor threatening to betray her.
Then again, maybe it’s just deadline and travel stress.
“Kellen, are you hungry?” Before she can say no, which it suddenly hits me that she might beg off to work, I say, “I booked a table for six in Hemingway’s, the restaurant in the hotel. How about if we wait for you in the bar; after you get settled you can join us. We can make it an early night so you can rest or get some work done.”
“Six?” Fran asks. “There’s five of us.” She counts on her hand, lifting a finger for each person. “You, Kellen, Hailey, MJ, and me. Five.”
“Jenna is joining us,” I say.
Jenna is my daughter. About a year ago she moved back to Hemlock from Raleigh, North Carolina, to open an event-planning business. Naturally, I was thrilled to have her home, because at first, I didn’t think she was going to come back. She’d moved to Raleigh after she’d graduated from the University of North Carolina to work for a commercial event planner, but after a couple of years, she was ready to strike out on her own. I think she was a little homesick.
She’s been a fan of Kellen’s work since the writers’ group days and had asked to join us tonight. Plus, her company is handling the fashion show, which will take place in the hotel’s ballroom on Saturday. She said she would be here checking on last-minute details.
I selected and styled the outfits we’re sending down the runway and invited the writers’ group. Jenna recruited the rest of the models and is handling the operations of the show, as well as working with the Hemlock Ladies’ League to facilitate the fundraiser luncheon. The event is happening in conjunction with Hemlock’s annual Fourth of July weekend celebration.
“That sounds great,” Kellen says. “Thanks for making the reservation. I could definitely eat something.”
Her gaze lights on the big white box on the luggage cart.
“That’s your dress and accessories for the fashion show,” I say. “Are you up for slipping it on, before you come down, to make sure it fits? We can do any last-minute tailoring at my shop tomorrow.”
“It’s so pretty,” she says as she eyes the satin yellow ribbon tied around the box. “It’s almost a shame to open it, but I can do that. If it needs anything, I’ll bring it into the shop tomorrow.”
The bellman clears his throat. “I’ll start making my way to your room with these things.”
“I’m ready. I’ll walk with you.” Kellen turns to us. “I’ll meet y’all in the restaurant in fifteen minutes.”
After she leaves, MJ returns. Fran and Hailey are still standing there hugging their boxes. The valet approaches and asks if I’d like him to park the car. “That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you two go put your boxes in your cars and meet MJ and me inside. We’re a little early for our reservation, but I’ll let the hostess know we’re here. Maybe she can go ahead and seat us once Kellen comes down. In the meantime, we can wait in the bar.”
A half hour passes and Kellen hasn’t come down.
“If she doesn’t hurry,” Fran says. “We’re going to miss our reservation. Should we say something to someone? I mean so they don’t cancel us?”
I glance around the nearly empty bar. I can see into the restaurant from where we’re seated and it doesn’t look much busier. “The restaurant doesn’t appear to be very crowded. So, I’m sure we’re fine.”
“Yeah, but I’m hungry,” MJ grumbles.
“If you’re starving, why don’t we order some appetizers?” I wave at the server. “She probably lost track of time. It takes a few minutes to get settled in and she’s trying on her dress. Who knows, she might have taken a shower after her flight.”
“Well, if she was going to do that, the courtesy of a phone call would’ve been nice,” MJ grouses. “Everyone knows it takes longer than fifteen minutes to shower and we are waiting for her.”
“We don’t know that she did shower.” There’s an edge in my voice and I take a deep breath to center myself. “I was only speculating. I’ll give her a call.”
While the others order drinks and appetizers, I dial Kellen’s number. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Kellen, it’s Maddie. We’re here in the hotel bar. We thought maybe you came down and didn’t see us. Okay… I’m sure you’ll be here soon. Or give me a call if you need more time.”
“She’s not answering?” Fran asks.
I shake my head. “Maybe she’s on a call. She had to return that call that came in when we arrived at the hotel. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. It’s early yet and we’re not in a hurry.”
Then it hits me. Maybe she has bad cell reception in her room.
“Does anyone remember if Kellen mentioned what room she’s in? If so, I’ll go to a house phone and ring her room.”
“I don’t think she did,” Fran says.
“I’ll go to the front desk and ask if they’ll ring her room.”
When I exit the bar, Jenna is walking with Omar Stetson, the hotel’s manager. They wave and walk toward me.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jenna says. “Omar and I were in the ballroom. The runway for the show is taking shape. You should see it. It looks great.”
“We were going over some last-minute adjustments for the show with the foreman, Ms. Bell.”
“I’m glad to hear everything is on track,” I say. “The show and luncheon are sold out. Kellen just arrived and is still settling into her room. I came out to see if someone at the desk will call her room. I forgot to ask her room number.”
Jenna chuckles. “So she’s late, too? Glad I’m not the only one.”
I smile and give her a one shoulder shrug. “Yeah, when we arrived, she said she’d be down in fifteen minutes.” I glance at my watch. “It’s been almost forty-five. I wanted to see if she needs help with anything.”
“I can help you with that,” Omar says.
As we approach the desk, the shrill sound of an emergency vehicle siren pierces the air. A moment later, a trio of medics burst through the lobby doors with a gurney. One of the medics races toward the front desk.
“We got a 911 call from the cell phone of Kellen Corsi. She indicated she was staying here, but we lost connection before she could give us her room number.”
Jenna and I exchange a startled look as Omar rapidly taps on the computer keyboard.
“What’s wrong with Kellen?” I ask. “I just picked her up from the airport and she seemed fine.”
The medic frowns. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t say. Ms. Corsi placed a call to 911 and asked for medics to come to this hotel, but that’s all the information we have.”
“She’s in the presidential suite,” Omar says. “Room 450. Fourth floor. End of the hall.” He writes the number on a piece of paper, but before he can hand it to the guy, the medic has sprinted toward his coworkers with the gurney.
“Is there any way I can help?” Omar calls.
“Where are the elevators?” one of the medics asks.
“That way. Down the hall.” Omar points, but the trio has already taken off.
I look at Jenna and gesture toward the elevators. “Come on. Let’s go.”