Snagged by Carol Higgins Clark Read Free Book Online Page A

the way.” Richie sounded as though he was just getting warmed up.
    Ed Durkin suddenly urged everyone to move into the living room. “Have a drink, for God’s sake, tonight is a celebration.”
    As everyone wandered back into the large living room, Regan and Maura hugged.
    “Let me get you a drink,” Maura urged. “Still drinking white wine?”
    “Of course,” Regan replied and sat down on the couch next to her parents.
    “You know, dear, you could stay in our room tonight. Maybe that would be a good idea,” Nora suggested.
    “Mom, chances are I’m not going to get killed escorting Richie back.”
    Richie plopped down in the chair across from them as Maura returned with Regan’s drink. He began his fourth recitation of the near tragedy.
    “My God, Richie, isn’t it just about a year ago that Dolly Twiggs was murdered?” Maura asked.
    “Murdered?” Regan echoed.
    “We don’t think she was murdered,” Richie said, “but yes, it was just about a year ago she died. We’re having a memorial service in the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room on Monday.”
    “The cops think she was murdered,” Maura reminded him.
    “What happened to her?” Regan asked quickly.
    “She liked to take early-morning walks on the beach. A group of sunrise swimmers found her face-down in shallow water. There was a bump on her head and some blood, but it could have been from hitting a rock when she went down. Dolly actually died of drowning, so she had to have been breathing when she hit the sand,” Richie reported. “She had a heart attack. Her jewelry was missing.”
    “That’s too bad,” Regan murmured, as all her instincts warned her that it sounded like more than a mugging.
    “We were just lucky,” Richie continued, “that she had signed the deal giving us the year-long option the day before she died. She wasn’t supposed to sign it until the next day, but the nice young man from the real estate office brought it over for her on his way home from work. It gave us a year to raise the money to buy the place. Otherwise we probably would have had to get out right away. So now, if my panty hose takes off on Saturday—”
    “Who was the guy from the real estate office?” Regan asked.
    “I was sitting at the front desk that day when he came by. We all take turns. I think he said his name was Joey.”
    Regan immediately thought of her gum-chomping seatmate, Nadine, whose boyfriend Joey worked in a real estate office. She made a mental note to check it out first thing in the morning.
    “Richie,” Regan said. “Get out your panty hose.” She turned to her mother. “Mom, what do you think of hosting a cocktail party on Saturday afternoon, before a panty-hose fashion show?”

N ICK FARGUS SAT at his desk in the manager’s office of the Watergreen Hotel. He liked to think of himself as the captain of a ship. The one-thousand-room hotel with its many conference rooms, ballrooms, restaurants and arcade of shops all hummed around him. It was always busy but especially in the winter months, when they were booked solid with conventions. One after another. Wanting to escape the dismal cold and slushy streets up yonder, conventioneers came down to Miami anxious to soak up the sun and play a few rounds of golf or tennis, often abandoning the idea of attending unnecessary seminars or meetings.
    And it wasn’t only the weather. Miami had become a real international hot spot, a center for culture. In the past few years it had experienced dynamic growth, and the future looked even better. Designers, musicians, dancers, photographers and models were all setting up shop down here. Celebrities were jetting in for the weekends. Even Madonna had bought an estate. Things were happening. There was a beat that was getting louder, and people from all over the world were hearing it.
    So why did Nick feel so out of it?
    Because of South Beach, or SoBe, as it was also known these days.
    Just a few miles down the road, it felt like a different world