The seventeen-year-old had dug into her bullying campaign against my kid. And I’d said, “No, you will not badmouth my daughter, I don’t care how old you are. No, you will not get to call Morgan a nigger, I don’t care who your granddaddy is and who he marched with back in ’63. Yes, I will call you on your shit, think I won’t?” But for some, standing up on behalf of Morgan meant bullying.
But that was then.
This was now, and now, twenty minutes had passed, and we still hadn’t reached Artemis. Sometimes we stopped in our step to watch a lime-green butterfly flutter around our heads. Sometimes a shaft of sunlight cut through the timber, reminding us that it was still daytime. We’d lift our sweaty faces to the sky. We’d smile, then sigh, then press on through the brush.
“We’ll get there,” Desi would say each time. “And it’s gonna be incredible when we do.”
I tried on her enthusiasm and positivity for a minute or two.
Morgan will be so proud of me.
I need this exercise, good for my heart.
Phillip left me at least a hundred thousand dollars in his will.
But then another mosquito bit my neck. Another blister popped up on my foot. And we trekked deeper and deeper into the bush, into thick, oppressive heat, into darker jungle with roots that tripped us and threatened to shatter our ankles and elbows.
How and why in the hell had Phillip chosen this place?
Then we broke through a glade of saplings, and we all gasped. There she was: Artemis. The house had come out of nowhere—God felt sorry for us, so He’d just … dropped it there. Here you go. Satisfied?
The two-story contemporary Mediterranean glowed in the coming dusk. It had a ceramic tile roof, a centered wrought-iron balcony, and at least four chimneys. It had windows of every size and shape: pictures, bays, and a tall arched window two stories high. About fifteen steps led from the tangled jungle up a wide porch and the glass and iron front door. There were no esplanades. No ornamental gardens or porte cocheres. Just a perfectly plastered white house. Beautiful.
Wanting to cry out of relief, I blurted, “It’s like the Embassy Suites.”
Desi, wide eyed, said, “It’s just like Disneyland.”
Frank’s pink tongue licked his lips. “Phenomenal. I want one just like it.”
Javier whistled, then asked, “How much you think it cost?”
“Twenty million,” Frank estimated.
Wallace snorted. “Ridiculous. On a tiny Mexican island with nothing on it except trees and butterflies? Phillip had money, but not twenty million. The land cost four million, and then he spent another million to build.”
“This is Phillip’s house?” I asked.
Wallace smiled. “Surprise.”
“I’ve dreamed of living in castles like this,” Desi said. “And now, lookit. Just lookit. I’ve never been happier in my life than right now.” She smiled up at the sky. “Thank you, Phillip.”
I was first to climb the steps.
A seventy-inch monitor on a stand had been placed on the porch. Animated versions of the bright green butterflies that had traveled with us flitted on the screen around yellow letters.
TOUCH TO BEGIN
“Who’s gonna mash the button?” Desi asked.
I reached out to touch the screen, but Eddie tapped the monitor first. I glared at him, but the activity on the television quickly distracted me.
The digital butterflies flitted away just as they had in the forest. And now we were treated to an aerial shot of Mictlan Island—greenery and bluffs, and a big white house in the middle of it all. A pleasant female voice, an older contralto ex-smoker, drifted from the monitor speakers.
Welcome to Mictlan Island. We are pleased that you’ve joined us.
Wallace said, “That’s one of Phillip’s clients, a voice actress. She’s coming over on La Charon tomorrow. She sounds just like my aunt Doris, owner of a thousand caftans, lover of Virginia Slims and cans of Tab soda mixed with gin.”
Music boomed from the speakers. The score was grand and Wagner-ish, like “Ride of the Valkyries” or the “William Tell Overture.” The shot dropped down to the ground, sped through the front door, up a staircase and down a bright hallway, then stopped at closed double doors.
Each of you has been assigned a room.
The double doors opened, and the orchestra played on.
Mr. Wallace Zavarnella, you will occupy the lavender suite on the second floor.
It was a bright room with purple bed linens, and a wall-in television above a wall-in fireplace.
“Two words,” Desi said. “Gor. Jus.”
Ms. Miriam Macy, we have prepared the green room for you.
Arias and strings now. Light green walls and matching sheer curtains. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Lots of light.
Mr. Javier Cardoza, as the island’s executive chef, you will command a kitchen that has been designed to make your cooking a pleasurable experience.
The fancy kitchen had dark brown cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. The walls were painted cantaloupe and cinnamon, and the floors were light and dark hardwood. A breakfast bar glowed beneath four overhanging lights.
Eddie would sleep in the red room on the second floor, which was next to Frank’s yellow room. Evelyn’s room was light blue and on the first floor with Desi and me, who’d been assigned the navy-blue room.
The nerves beneath my eyes twitched. I frowned, then murmured to Desi, “Okay, so why do the men get to stay on the second floor?”
Desi waggled her eyebrows. “Being on the first floor just means we’re closer to that gorgeous kitchen.”
Tomorrow, at quarter to seven, the voice continued, please join us on the terrace for a cocktail reception in memory of Phillip Omeke. Dinner, prepared by Chef Cardoza, will be served afterward. For tonight, though, please rest and make yourselves comfortable. At twelve thousand square feet, you have luxury, privacy, and a beautiful view overlooking the turquoise-jeweled waters of the Sea of Cortez. Amenities include a hot tub, spa, media room, sauna, swimming pool, and tennis court. Indulge. Relax. Remember. Thank you again for coming to Mictlan Island.
The lime-green butterflies bobbed back onto the screen. They flapped their wings twice and the monitor faded to black.
Javier shouted, “Thanks, Aunt Doris.”
Desi said, “She sounds just lovely.”
“There was no mention of house staff,” Frank pointed out.
“Yeah,” Desi said. “Who do we call if we run out of toilet paper?”
“Or vodka?” Javier said, then laughed.
“What if there’s trouble?” Eddie said.
I squinted at him. “Like, what kind of trouble? Someone shooting and killing us? That kind of trouble?”
“Jokes. She’s got jokes.” Eddie shrugged. “I don’t know. People lose their minds when they’re away from home. And when they’re at a funeral? Shit gets crazy. No lie—about nine months ago, I had to break up a gang fight. Listen to this: During the processional, one group of thugs saw another group of thugs and hopped out the funeral car. A beatdown right there in the middle of the fuckin’ drive to the cemetery. During the freakin’ processional, I kid you not. And then. Then! They smashed homie’s skull open, hopped back into the limos, and headed to the cemetery. Unbelievable. Bunch of assholes.”
“And … you think we’re going to … jump people?” I asked.
Eddie shrugged again. “I’m just sayin’ it happened, is all.”
“You worry too much, my friend.” Wallace clapped his shoulder. “Phillip always said you were wound a little tight. Relax. You’re sounding a bit like our friend Miriam.”
Right as I opened my mouth to respond, Desi squeezed my arm, then asked, “Can we go in now? It’s getting late. And I gotta pee.”
“Who’ll do the honors?” Wallace asked.
Eddie said, “Me,” then opened the front door.
We moved forward with lots of “oohs” and “wows.”
Before stepping
across the threshold, I glanced back over my shoulder. The jungle was so close. Ninety acres of wilderness right … there. I could run through those trees and never be found again.
The lights in the foyer’s large iron and wood chandelier popped on. Soft yellow light.
“Hello?” Desi howled. “Anybody here? Aunt Doris? Hell-ohhh!” Her voice echoed across the two-story entryway and the sparkling parquet floors. Stained-glass windows candy-colored our faces. The house shuddered from the sudden noise of us.
No one answered. No one else was here.
There was a full-length window at the opposite end of the foyer that boasted a view of the terrace, and beyond that, blue sky and a sun the color of molten gold. There were thousands of pillows on the couches and armchairs in the living room. Two staircases led to the second floor.
No foul smells. No ugly angles. Perfect. Classy. Just like Phillip Omeke.
Awed, I gaped at the dramatic ceiling. “This lobby is just … it’s incredible.”
“Despite your earlier observation, Miriam,” Frank said, “this is not the Embassy Suites.” He paused, then added, “And it’s a foyer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Relax, Roget. Just used the wrong word. Gravity still works.”
Frank puffed out his cheeks, then pushed out his chest. “I’m calling my Realtor as soon as I return to Dallas. I want an estate—no, a villa, no, a hacienda—similar to this one, but grander.” He stroked his chin as he thought. “However, I want a better location. Not on a deserted island—what good is a mansion if no one sees it?” He nodded at Wallace. “No offense.”
“No offense taken, friend. Phillip designed the house without too much input from me. Honestly? I wanted to build in the Maldives. Anyway, you can offend him when we all get to heaven. Or hell, if what Phillip said about you is true.” He laughed.
Frank grinned and pointed gun-fingers at him.
“What’s this?” Desi wandered to a round brown table that sat in the middle of the foyer.
Wallace stood over it and traced the edges of the table with his slender, yellow fingers. “Interesting. This wasn’t here on my last visit.”
The entire tabletop was a work of art. Literally. A painting of Jesus in the center of a large circle, and smaller circles of scenes from everyday Renaissance life. A man drinking wine. A man eating. A man asleep at a fireplace. Couples having a picnic. A woman gazing at her reflection in a mirror. A woman standing between two men fighting. A couple looking at a rich man who’d strapped a hawk to his wrist. A man listening to another man speak. Four panes spoked off those circles with depictions of an angel and a demon, heaven, angels awakening the dead, and a sinner in hell. Seven carved figurines, similar to chess pieces, sat atop seven slices of the circle. Finally, two banners filled with scripted Latin sat on the top and bottom of the Jesus circle.
“So, this is weird,” I said, touching the figurine of a round man eating cake.
“Is it a game?” Desi asked. “Like old-timey Monopoly?”
Wallace tapped the table with one finger. “Hmm … I don’t see a man shooting down six people.” He glanced at Eddie. “Are you still planning to murder us like Miriam thinks?”
I smirked at Wallace. “Good one.” To Eddie: “Are you, though?”
Eddie said, “Yep. Line you guys up in the parlor and just start shootin’. Then, collect two hundred dollars once I pass Go. I’m thinking that’s painted on the other side of the table.”
Frank snapped his fingers. “The Seven Deadly Sins. Hieronymus Bosch.”
Wallace nodded. “Impressive, Franklin.”
“I collect art,” he said. “At my main home, I have a Degas, a Dalí, lots of Pollack. No Bosches—too weird, too busy. Obviously. Anyway, right now, I’m more interested in having a quiet moment in my room than further discussing this depressing table.”
“Oh, dear Franklin,” Wallace said with a sigh. “You can’t own a Bosch. There are not that many, first of all, and second, they’re all hanging in someone’s museum.”
Frank cocked his chin, then said, “Anything, including some weird painting, can be bought. Everything has its price.”
“You must tell me, then,” the old man said, “how you would manage to get your hands on something as rare and precious as a Bosch.”
Both men bid us farewell, then chatted about good art as they climbed the stairs to find their bedrooms … on the second floor. Which was higher than the first floor. And had better views of the jungle and the ocean than the rooms on the first floor. Where I would be staying.
Ugh.
Desi slipped her arm through mine because we were now besties. “Whaddya think so far?”
“About what? About being lied to? About not having staff around? About being alone on an island with six strangers and finding out that my friend died a month ago but only learning about it an hour ago?”
“No, silly. I don’t need somebody cleaning up after me. And I think it’s kinda funny and sweet what Phil did.” She flicked her wrist. “No. What do you think about all of this? The house. The men.” She dropped her voice. “I know he’s married, but Frank is kinda cute. Sounds like he’s got some money, too. He’ll do for three days … unless you want him.”
My skin crawled at the thought of Frank standing naked anywhere near me, and I gagged. “No. Have at it. Enjoy.” I paused, then said, “You’re not pissed off just a little?”
Desi shrugged. “I didn’t come here for money, remember? I wanted to get away from the assholes and jerks and haters back home. And I’m gonna get to do that and take home some cash I wasn’t counting on. I’m grateful, girlie. You should be, too. Now…” She licked her lips. “Who are you gonna hook up with? Not Wallace. If you couldn’t tell, he’s gayer than a piñata.”
I blinked at her, then laughed. “Girl, bye. I have better shit to do. Like finding out who the hell made the room assignments.”
Desi said, “Goodness gracious, relax, Miriam,” then she gave me a raspberry.
“A word of advice, Desirée,” I said. “You better get your head out of Frank’s pants and hope your name’s in that will.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s in the will. Phillip wouldn’t have brought me all this way if he wasn’t gonna hook me up.” She playfully shoved me, then said, “Don’t be so boring. This is our one chance to be free, to cut loose and not be judged for once in our lives.” She waggled her hips, whipped off her blue scarf, and waved it in the air. “And that’s exactly what I’m gon’ do. Cut loose and get me some. Thank you, Phillip O.!” She threw kisses to the sky, then said, “This will definitely be a celebration of life. Cuz you only live once, right?”
8
Desi was right. You do only live once—and I didn’t want to spend too much of it talking to her or hiding in my bedroom (on the first floor). I wanted to find a quiet space to pen a tribute to Phillip.
But first, I found my room and quickly unpacked. I barely glanced at the queen-size bed, the teak armoire, or the chaise lounge before I rushed back into the foyer. It didn’t take long to shed the unease I’d felt earlier—it was like shedding a fur coat in Tahiti. Just that quick, I’d been suckered and seduced by the swimming pool that lapped out and out and beyond the blue skies. I’d been charmed by the Mexican tile work cemented against the house’s stark whiteness, lulled by the opium-poppy-sweet breeze lifting the gauzy white curtains. The excitement of mansion-living on someone else’s dime brought out my inner Desi Scoggins—ohmygosh lookit that fireplace in the bathroom, ohmygosh lookit the laundry room, ohmygosh lookit the chan-dee-leer!
Standing out on the terrace, I took a deep breath—no stink of sweaty men or dead fish or dead dogs left to rot in dark alleys. The air smelled of ocean and green, and no one smell lingered too long before it was replaced by the scent of another living thing. Nothing died here on Mictlan Island.
Now that we had arrived, fatigue tugged at my limbs as though they’d been trapped in quicksand. Complete thoughts sat unused like old furnitu
re in the dark shadows in my mind. Eat, drink, and sleep—my three directives for the rest of Friday night. I trudged to the kitchen to handle numbers one and two.
“I’ll whip up something real quick for dinner,” Javier announced to Desi and me. “How about … shrimp scampi?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, settling on a stool at the breakfast bar.
“Yum, yum, yummy,” Desi said, pulling a bottle of Corona from the fridge. “You got some crusty bread in them cupboards?”
Javier nodded. “And berries with fresh whipped cream?”
Desi giggled and hopped up and down. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I flicked my hand. “I don’t care. Just as long as there’s alcohol nearby.” The thought of talking to one more person, of casting another side-eye at Eddie or Wallace, the thought of all the mental gymnastics with anyone not in this room made me nauseous and clammy. Good food and a giant cocktail would thaw and soften parts of me that had turned hard and cold.
Wallace—it was his smugness that burned me up more than anything. The dismissive way he talked to me reminded me of the way Billy talked to me.
I’d seen my ex-husband late last night after being assaulted in my own front yard. Billy had called me a liar, had rolled his eyes, had told me to take my meds and …
Don’t think about him right now. Enjoy the quiet. Enjoy the ocean. Don’t let Bill Macy ruin your time here.
And so, I actively ignored all Billy-thoughts as Desi and I devoured the most delicious scampi we’d ever eaten. “West Virginia ain’t known for its fine cuisine,” Desi was saying with a full mouth. “No one ever says that word ‘cuisine’ in my neck of the woods. Squash casserole, pinto beans, and fried chicken ain’t cuisine. Apple butter and pepperoni rolls? That ain’t cuisine, either. And I’ve always wanted to say that word and have it to be true. To eat what that word—cuisine—means. And hors d’oeuvres: I want some of those, too.”
I said, “Uh-huh,” then offered her another piece of crusty bread from the basket. “So how did Phillip trick you into coming here?”
They All Fall Down Page 6
