“Let me see that picture.” Aunt Abitha looked it over. “Wow, that’s quite a stone. Looks like a padparadscha sapphire, maybe sixty, seventy carats worth.”
“The stone was called the Demon’s Gaze, and it was stolen from a temple in Sri Lanka a hundred years before the tiara was made.” Mama took the photo from Abitha. “Just add the gold and silver from human sacrifice whistles and you have a recipe for disaster. It sank eleven ships in 1715, and killed fifteen hundred sailors.”
“Snore!” Moira shouted from the couch. Blanche gave the ghost a hard look. Ivy listened to her Mama.
“How do you know that this tiara sank all those ships?” Abitha said. “They were loaded with silver, and a bunch of fancy jewelry for the future queen of Spain.”
Ivy opened the folder. “Well, the tiara does have a history. The tiara was rescued from the wreck by an Indian diver hired by the Spanish. As he rose to the surface, the tiara in his hand, he was bitten in half by a large fish. It was then taken by a salvage captain for shipment to Havana. But he was killed by British pirates from out of Jamaica when they raided the salvage ships. The pirate Archibald Oldershaw—”
“Old Bald Pete,” Abitha clapped her hands. “One of my favorite pirates.”
“—Was convicted of piracy and hanged in Cuba. The initial recovery of the tiara comes from the record of his trial. The tiara was then sent again to Spain on the Segrado Corazón, which was attacked by pirates but sank before it could be looted. Fast forward to 1831. Three brothers were surveying land they acquired in the new U.S. territory. They stumbled on an Indian village. It was occupied only by skeletons, probably the result of pox. On a skull in one of the structures, they found the tiara. Figuring it was worth money, they grabbed it and continued investigating their new property.”
“And they died,” Moira interjected. “Can you find something better on TV, Blanche?”
Ivy sighed silently.
Mama continued, not hearing the ghost. “That night, they heard a large animal stalking them, and in the morning, one brother was missing. When they searched for him, they found a lot of blood, and the prints of a large panther. The remaining brothers struck out of the coast.
“On that two-day journey, the second brother was killed by the big cat. The final brother made it to the coast, but the panther was on his tail. He was trapped between the cat and the ocean. Something told him it was the tiara the panther was after, and he tossed it into the waves. The cat disappeared. In later years, the brother grew up to become mayor of Jacksonville. The story was in his memoirs.”
Mama handed back the photo. “How did Gus Beranger come by it?”
“I don’t know.” Ivy shrugged. “We’ll have to ask him.”
“More importantly, how is he not dead?” Auntie Abitha said. “We’ve all seen the tiara in the museum.”
“Well, first of all, the museum piece is a copy,” Ivy said.
“What?” Abitha took a breath in indignation. “I feel gypped! All this time, thinking that was real sunken treasure.”
Blanche shook her head. “Gypped is not an appropriate term anymore, Mama. It’s racist.”
“Screw that PC BS!”
Ivy jumped back in before the conversation devolved. “None of the museum exhibits are real. The legit items are kept in safe places and trotted out once a year.”
“That keeps Beranger from dying how?” Abitha said.
Ivy said, “He technically doesn’t own the tiara. It’s held by a trust in the name of the museum.”
“Nothing like a little financial flimflammery to confuse a curse,” Abitha said. “Possession is nine tenths of the law.”
“What are the rest of those files?” Mama asked.
Ivy looked at the stack in her lap. Her heart sank. “People with access to the Berangers’ safe. I’m supposed to look them over for anything suspicious.”
“You getting paid for that?” Blanche and Moira asked at the same time.
Ivy fudged a little. “Everett told me to keep track of my hours.”
“You better be,” Mama said. “You can’t run the botanica if you’re running all over hell and gone with this detective fellow.”
“Oh, right.” Mentally, she smacked her forehead. “Can you be a dear and watch the shop for me tomorrow, Blanche?”
“No-can-do, Cuz. I’ve got a meeting with my professor first thing, then a full day at the bank.”
“Aw, too bad. Julio is coming by to pick up some palms for a job he’s working.”
Moira sat up straighter. “That smoking hunk of Latino love machine? I’ll work the shop.”
“That sweet boy you went to college with?” Mama said. “How is he?”
“He’s awesome. He’s a landscape architect now, and he’s brought the family business up a few notches.”
“Well, you know what? I’m working through a manuscript, but there’s no reason I couldn’t do it at the botanica. I’ll open up tomorrow.” Mama smiled.
Could her mother even work a cash register? Before Ivy could protest, Auntie Abitha broke in.
“I’m not doing anything tomorrow. I’ll join you, Sissy. It’ll be fun. Maybe I can do some readings for your customers, Ivy.”
Concern must have beamed from Ivy’s features. She remembered the reading her aunt did for Harmon. Abitha looked contrite. “Palm readings, of course. Or maybe phrenology, if somebody with an interesting skull shows up.”
“You will not be reading the bumps on anyone’s head in Ivy’s shop,” Mama said.
Auntie Abitha’s head waggled back and forth like a scale. “I suppose that is a little personal.”
“Before I go read through all this paperwork, I need one more favor,” Ivy looked at Blanche.
“Another hand-me-up outfit? You need to go shopping, Cuz.”
***
During her drive home, Ivy felt the air in the truck cab constrict. Harmon, getting in touch through their psychic link. She pulled over, not wanting to split her concentration.
Hey, Sissy.
Bro-chacho!
We made it through the Somali Sea. Should be nothing but smooth sailing all the way across the Indian Ocean.
Ivy let out a sigh. She was worried about Harmon, especially after Auntie Abitha’s tarot reading. How did you manage to resupply without me?
It is kind of a mess in the galley. I’ll get it sorted. He chuckled in his head. There isn’t all that much to do out here, y’know.
Don’t forget to eat the produce first. Maternal instincts always popped to the fore with Harmon. Even though they were twins, the same age, Mama was never a one for normal parenting.
I have a banana in one hand, my other on the wheel.
Ivy sat in silence for a while, experiencing the night sky exploded with stars from Harmon’s point of view. He was so far away now, already past Africa and heading for India.
Don’t you get all maudlin on me, Sissy.
She took a few deep breaths, fighting back the sadness. I just miss you, Bro-chacho.
You just don’t know how to have any fun on your own. Ivy took the mental chiding in stride. They were two halves of a coin, she the responsible eat-your-veggies half, he the let’s-play-hooky-and-go-sailing half. Take out the dive boat with Blanche, do some scuba diving or go fishing or just lay out in your bikinis and make the boys crazy. Just do something other than work for a change.
Ivy laughed out loud. Like she would do any of those things. Okay, Harmon. I’ll make time for fun.
She felt a hesitation from him. I can tell you’re making time for something, but you won’t let on what it is.
Guilt suffused her thoughts, but she pushed it aside. Ivy had kept her misadventure with Detective Klein from Harmon so as not to worry him. Distracted at sea was no way to sail. We will have something to talk about when you get back.
For a long while, she received no response. Had Harmon psychically hung up on her?
I guess we’ll both have a lot of stories when I get back, he finally tho
ught at her. But I’m-a gonna set the auto pilot and hit the sack. Love you Sissy. Go have some fun.
Love you, too, Bro-chacho. Just you be careful out there.
Chapter 5
“You get anything from the files?” Klein nodded to the stack in her arms. He was driving the snake green Dodge Viper today. The sporty little car was in need of some TLC, but Ivy had to admit she liked riding in it. Even if she would only admit that to herself.
“Nope.”
Everett got out and took the folders. “Yeah, me neither.” There was absolutely no room in the car for anything other than two people. He popped the trunk. The briefcase inside took up nearly all the space. He stowed the files and walked around to open the door for her.
“Not very practical for a business car.” Ivy slid in.
Everett started the car and gave it some gas. It purred; then roared with a throaty sound. “I didn’t buy it because it’s practical.”
He drove north. The morning sun stuttered as they drove up the tree-tunnel of Magnolia. Ivy saw the squat watchtower and Light House on the right as they crossed the Matanzas River on the Vilano Causeway.
“Are we going to the beach?” Ivy asked. They headed east across the Francis and Mary Usina Bridge.
“Vilano Beach,” Klein said. “The river side. Beranger’s compound is on Wahoo Drive.”
Of course it is, Ivy thought.
Vilano Beach was both the name of a little community and the actual long stretch of sandy beach St. Augustinians preferred. It was going to be a nice day, and traffic congested with sun and surf lovers. Everett took the back roads around the water treatment plant and headed for the western shore. Low, scrubby trees twisted by coastal winds surrounded them, growing from the damp soil. A few blocks later, the landscape opened to residential homes.
The Berangers’ home was not actually on Wahoo Drive, but on a narrow one-lane thoroughfare only named Private. Blacktop spread out around a low house perched over the river. Ivy caught sight of a private dock behind. The east wing of the home boasted what looked like a three-car garage, but closer inspection showed it to be a small loading dock. Klein put the Viper between two panel trucks.
Ivy got out and looked up. The only windows were narrow, and high up on the second floor. Bland beige stucco, a strip of rocks between the driveway and structure, and an old standing ashtray made the place utterly uninviting. “People live here?” she asked.
Everett grabbed his briefcase and led her around the building. It was an odd layout, the overall structure kind of H-shaped. In contrast, the west wing had a wraparound porch, big windows, coral trim pleasant against the beige, with lots of local landscaping. Beyond the porch, the land sloped down to a small sandy beach on the Tolomato, a private dock and boathouse complete with two boat lifts, and a view of low trees across the water.
They walked up the porch steps. Technically, probably the veranda steps, Ivy thought. Oak double doors faced north. They looked bound in iron, with matching door knockers in the mouths of wrought iron lions. Klein ignored the lions and pushed the doorbell. It clanged with four tones inside. Ivy admired the potted plants surrounding the entrance.
“May I help you?” The right-hand door opened soundlessly. A rail of a man in a formal black suit looked down his nose at them.
“Klein,” Everett said. “I’m expected.”
“Of course, sir. This way.”
When Ivy entered, she saw an open floor plan spread out beyond the foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the Florida sun, making the parlor, dining room, and kitchen gleam with hard highlights. Broad planked floors were almost shiny enough to look up her hand-me-up dress. Ivy smoothed the skirt of the navy blue number, her cousin’s second least favorite outfit.
Only their footsteps sounded as the butler led them across a vast family room. Opposite the kitchen, a hallway ran toward the east wing. Except when they entered, Ivy realized it wasn’t a hall, but a lengthy butler’s pantry. At the end, glossy woods and fine trim were replaced by sheetrock walls and industrial carpet. The interior of this part of the house matched the outside, she thought.
They entered a wide office, three people at desks speaking quietly on telephone headsets. On the back wall, an open door led to a more private office. A woman saw them enter, and came to greet them. She made Ivy, even in her cousin’s banker outfit, seem as undressed as if she were wearing her usual cutoff overalls.
Dove gray suit, all Jackie O, save a pillbox hat, low cut shimmering pink blouse, matching heels, the glitter of subtle (and yet expensive) jewelry and a mass of wavy black hair sauntered over.
“Mr. Klein,” the butler said, and eyed Ivy. “…and associate.”
She thrust her hand out at Everett. “Susan Miller-Day. I’m the coordinator of Beranger Imports. Please come with me. Thank you, Tanner.”
The butler turned, dismissed; then turned back. “Employees generally announce themselves at the east wing door.”
Klein gave him a hard stare. “Good for them.”
Tanner seemed nonplussed for a split second. Almost immediately, his nose stuck back up in the air and he glided off.
Everett gave Susan the up-and-down at the same time Susan gave Ivy the same. Ivy felt like she could not wash off the taint of dressing down for work every day. She plodded behind the two in her flat shoes and disfavored navy dress. Susan took a card from her suit jacket pocket and opened a door next to the offices. It led down a short hallway with concrete floors, florescent lights and unadorned sheetrock.
Voices came to them, raised in argument.
“Frankie, if I hear you say you wanna investigate this on an internal level one more time, I’m-a cloud up and rain all over you.” Gus Beranger.
The room the two men stood in hinted that this part of the home was once a comfortable place. Carved wood paneling and tiled floor spoke to this being a den, a man-cave, even a decent sized library. This illusion was dispelled by the half-open door. Steel, and nearly a foot thick, it sat in a steel frame. Hemmed in by the polished wood were doors, large and small, also of dull gray metal. Ivy finally relaxed a little. What better place to wear Blanche’s banker dress than in a vault?
A man in a security guard uniform stood at parade rest outside the door. He came to attention, eying Klein and Ivy. Susan must’ve given him the high sign, because he folded his hands behind himself again.
Beranger and Frankie stood at opposite sides of an island in the middle of the room. Frankie, J. Benjamin Franklyn, Ivy had learned from the stack of files, owned Eagle Security. Anger boiled behind his eyes even if the rest of his expression seemed calm. Gus Beranger turned as the trio approached.
“Thanks, Susie. We’ll take it from here,” Beranger said.
Susan gave a little bow of the head. Everett stopped her from leaving. “She’s got access. Let her stay.”
“Really, I have no part in the running of the Grand Auditorium,” Susan said. Her confident stance seemed to slump in the presence of the boss.
Ivy looked around the room. It turned out to be little more than a fancy gun locker. She saw a few pistols and rifles on display. They looked like antiques. Even without knowing a lot about firearms, she could pick out several vertical lockers that most likely housed other rifles. Several other doors, rectangular and square, gave her the impression of a safe deposit vault.
“Fine. She stays. To what end, I have no idea. Here.” Gus pointed to an open door of inch-thick metal. Instead of a combination lock, there was a square black screen. “This is where the tiara was kept.”
Everett stepped up, flipping the door back and forth. He pointed at the screen. “Biometric?”
“Same as on the outer door,” Franklyn said with a note of pride in his voice, “plus a keypad with a voice recognition password.”
“I’d like to see one opened,” Everett said.
Gus moved to an adjacent door.
“No, I’d like to see Susan open one,” Everett stopped him.
“Oh, well, I reall
y only have access to the safes on the opposite wall,” Susan said.
Everett shrugged. “That’ll work.”
Susan punched a code on the digital pad and put her palm flat on the screen. There was a deep click. She opened the door. Ivy saw the safe stacked, the boxes black plastic with a handle, like cheap luggage. She saw the legend on the top box.
“Uzi?” She faced Gus Beranger. “You’re an arms dealer?”
Susan’s eyes got big, her face paling. Everett tried to suppress a smirk. To her surprise, Beranger laughed.
“That’s a little dramatic. I’m a firearms importer. And believe you me, if you have the proper permits, these weapons are perfectly legal.”
Ivy gazed around the room with new vision. Gus answered her unasked question.
“That’s right, the majority of these safes hold guns that are heading out to dealers across the country. Plus, a few that may go to auction. Take this big ol’ pistol here.” Gus proudly indicated the long cowboy gun that had first caught Ivy’s attention. “War Between the States issue, Yankee Colt. Last one in this condition that came up at auction went for more than thirty K.”
Ivy shrugged, impressed. “Well, I guess you really do need a fancy vault like this. Thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“Oh, this is just a tiny part of the business. Hell, last year, I sold a Russian MiG-17, a Vietnam-era Huey, two bazookas, a flame thrower, and even a grenade launcher.” Beranger’s face fell a little. “No grenades, though. Not at two hundred dollars in tax per grenade.”
This was hard to believe. “You sell fighter jets and military helicopters?”
“Decommissioned, of course. Buyers will have to find their own missiles and such. I do have a line on several mountable machine guns,” Gus said with pride.
Everett cleared his throat and jumped in. “I’d like to see the vault secured.”
“Of course.” Gus gave everyone the eye, and they filed out of the vault. The guard in front planted his feet and pulled the massive door closed. It shut without a sound. Then, a clanging snap followed. Iron latches sealed the door. The guard resumed his pose.
Brewing the Midnight Oil Page 3
