How could this be? As far as I knew, only Trevor-and me, now, because I had his password-could delete any pictures. I began to wonder what the rules were with Facebook when someone died. Did Trevor’s page just stay up there indefinitely?
Then I remembered that I’d told Frank DeBurra about that picture. Maybe he actually took me seriously. That would be a switch.
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and made a mental note to ask him whether he found out anything from the pictures.
I heard Springsteen warbling “Born to Run” from inside my bag. I got up and took out my cell phone, flipping it open even though I didn’t recognize the number on the screen.
“Yes?”
“It’s Kyle.”
His words were rushed, his voice lower than usual.
“Do you have a cold?” I asked.
“It’s Charlotte. She’s sick.”
Panic rose in my chest. “Sick?” I thought about Wesley Lambert on the floor of his bedroom, dead from ricin poisoning, and Charlotte’s hoodie in the living room. Granted, I’d seen Charlotte between then and now, talked to her, but it was possible that it just took that long for her to get sick. “Where is she?”
“Chez Tango.”
“Can I meet you at the hospital?”
“Here.”
I looked at my watch. My client would be here any minute. “Just take her to the hospital.”
“No. Here.”
This sounded a little too familiar. “Last time she wanted me to meet her I ended up alone with a dead body.”
“Not kidding. Please.” The last word was said with so much emphasis that I couldn’t ignore it.
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there in a few.”
He’d already hung up, so I closed my phone and stared at it a second. She must be really sick. Kyle was such an upbeat guy, but he sounded defeated, so unlike himself. Almost like he was sick himself.
I didn’t like the idea of Charlotte not going to the hospital right away. Then I had a thought. Colin Bixby. He was a doctor. He might know what to do. And I had his card somewhere. Where had I put it? I grabbed my bag and rifled through it. Had Tim returned the card with all the other things? I couldn’t remember.
Finally my hand settled on something that felt like a business card. Yes, this was it. I punched the number into my phone.
“Hello?” he asked hesitantly. Oh, right, we hadn’t exchanged phone calls yet, so he wouldn’t know my number offhand.
“It’s Brett,” I said, and before he could respond, I told him what was going on.
“You should call an ambulance,” he said.
“Are you free right now? Can you meet me there, and then we can see what’s up?” I asked. “Kyle’s with her. I think if it was that bad, he would’ve called an ambulance even if she said not to.”
“I hope so,” he said slowly.
“Can you get there?” I asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but you were the first person I thought of.”
“I like the sound of that,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I can meet you. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”
I thanked him and hung up.
For about a nanosecond I thought about calling Frank DeBurra, too, but if Charlotte really was that sick, then we could call him when we assessed the situation. It might not even be the ricin. I hoped.
I was walking out when my client walked in. She smiled shyly at me. Shoot.
“Oh, Susan, I’m really sorry, but I have an emergency,” I said quickly.
Bitsy looked up with a frown. I hadn’t told her yet.
“Is Joel here?” I asked, and Bitsy nodded, although I could see that she was eager to find out just what my “emergency” was. “Can you tell him Susan’s stencil is on the light table?” I turned back to Susan. “Do you mind? Joel’s fantastic.” It wasn’t like it was her first time. She had four other tattoos.
She smiled. “Sure, do what you have to do.”
I leaned toward Bitsy and whispered, “It’s Charlotte. Kyle called. She’s sick. I’ve got Bixby meeting us at Chez Tango.”
Bitsy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me, too,” I said as I walked out.
I’d forgotten that I’d valet parked. I had to wait too long for my car to show up, and when it did, the valet got out of the car and stood by the door as I walked around to get in.
“Miss, I hate to tell you, but I think something’s wrong with your trunk latch. It keeps popping open. Whenever it hits a bump.” He cocked his head toward the back of the Bullitt, and I could see that the trunk was slightly open.
I went around the back and saw the lock had been punched out. My heart dropped, and I swallowed hard before I felt the anger rise. I looked up at the valet, who was shaking his head.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said, but he knew a complaint would be filed. I certainly wasn’t going to pay to fix my trunk lock when the car had supposedly been safe in the parking garage under the eye of resort security.
He handed me a card with the name of the manager I needed to contact, and I stuffed it in my back pocket.
I lifted up the trunk lid farther, because something inside had caught my eye. Something that I hadn’t put there.
It was Trevor McKay’s makeup case.