As I moved toward the thermostat, I sniffed the air around me—a man’s woodsy cologne.
Strange.
Had someone come to my room? Had someone stood over me as I’d slept?
I glanced at the door—it was closed—and then noticed the silver carpet … and the impressions left of shoes there.
Are those my…?
I knew the answer before I could even finish the question.
Those shoe prints were bigger than mine, and had crossed over the pointy-toed prints made by my suede flat … right?
That scratching sound returned, this time, though, in my head.
It’s the booze. It’s fatigue. All of it’s got you imagining things.
I shivered, then pulled the comforter around my shoulders. Yeah. I’m imagining things. I plucked the television’s remote control from the nightstand drawer and aimed it at the sixty-inch monitor above the fireplace. The screen blinked on but remained dark. Of course—there could be no television without internet or cable service. So much for distraction.
The fireplace was natural gas, so I pushed the ignition button. No whoosh. No blue flame. No gas logs sat over the vents. Useless.
I took one last look at the carpet and those shoe prints—just my imagination—then shuffled across the room to the bathroom.
As high end as it was—with a fireplace near the tub and a pointless flat-screen television above the fireplace—the black-and-white tile reminded me more of a restroom in a California Pizza Kitchen than the bathroom at the Langham Huntington hotel in Pasadena. Hell, even a bathroom in the Embassy Suites. This was not a place to linger, to lose yourself in a novel or a crossword puzzle. Still, it was warmer than my bedroom. But then so were the polar ice caps and any place in Greenland, or even the freezer that had held Javier and me hostage for three minutes.
This fireplace worked, though—flames danced and dazzled as I stood before it to thaw out. I showered and scrubbed off dirt, caked-on makeup, and bits of bark and dried leaves. After I dabbed cortisone cream on my insect bites, I brushed my teeth twice. I slipped back into my igloo, determined to speak with Wallace about the room’s broken thermostat. Couldn’t handle two days of cold—that wasn’t me being a diva, just a mammal from Southern California.
Perched at the vanity, I began the attack on my hair with a rattail comb, scraping and prying apart strands that had clumped together after the episode with Prudence McAllister. I won the battle by making a slick chignon, an elegant choice for a dinner party. I attacked my face next, skipping the ridiculous foundation that had stained my green silk tunic. I plucked my black Gucci dress (Truman called you a swan, but you’re more of a dragon…) from the chaise lounge. The frock, cut from stretch crepe, was still tight around my middle, so tight that my toes were turning blue.
On my most challenging days, I wore a size 8. But the day I’d purchased this dress had been a good day, and so I’d asked the saleswoman at Neiman Marcus for a size 6. A tight fit, with “fit” being a loose description of the barbaric, primeval torture that had spread across my torso. The sales-bitch had cocked an eyebrow and confided, “You really need something bigger.” I had snapped at her with “You can go now,” then told myself that I’d wear three Spanx and eat four bags of spinach a day for the rest of June and July.
Yeah. Spanx and spinach.
Ashlee wore a size 0—I know this because I found her dress in Billy’s suitcase during their sneaking-around days. I’d also be a size 0 if I’d hadn’t had Morgan, if I chain-smoked Newports and lemon-juice-cayenne-pepper-cleansed every day.
But I didn’t. And now, seated at the vanity wearing the Gucci dress (allegedly flattening, supposedly flexible—it’s a lie, girl, don’t believe it), I tugged at the middle section’s grosgrain bow to rearrange the shaper (one Spanx, not three as planned) now carving into my skin.
“It’s all good, I’ll be fine, it’s okay.” Light-headed and numb from the neck down, I slipped on my Louboutin spectator stilettos (You’re the type of woman who dismisses proper circulation…) and waited for the dizzy spell to pass. As I sat there, I stared at the black-and-white framed photograph hanging on the wall above the chaise.
Sophia Loren was giving the stink-eye side-eye to Jayne Mansfield’s tits hanging out of her dress. The picture had been taken at Romanoff’s in Beverly Hills—I’d written copy for Hidden Treasure’s winter catalog that featured replicas of Sophia Loren’s dress. Sophia, so beautiful and classy that night, had been the opposite of Mansfield, who wore a flimsy, low-cut satin dress and looked like she’d just stumbled in from a brothel off Highway 66. It was obvious—Sophia wanted to stab the blonde in the face with a butter knife. But Mansfield had to do something—she wasn’t as beautiful or as talented as the Sophia Loren. “Tawdry” had been her only solution.
Ashlee was the Jayne Mansfield in my life. All that spirally hair and those mile-long legs. And that email she’d sent. Ugh. Agreeing with me about Brooke, then smacking me on the nose about Brooke, bringing me close only to kick me in the gut. Talking to me like she was my moral better. Who does she think she is? I didn’t have the affair with somebody else’s husband. I didn’t cause my brand of crazy to stink up our lives. And I would move on when I decided to move on. It had been my hard work and my salary and my perfect credit score that had put Billy through medical school. She was the one who—
Dizzy again, I closed my eyes. “Father God, help me.” My prayer sounded small in the heavy stillness, like the prayer of a three-year-old lost in Buckingham Palace.
Maybe I should sleep it off. Maybe I should take off this dress. Maybe I should skip it all and go to sleep, wake up and start again, refreshed.
Hell, no. Not with Desi fluttering her eyelashes like that and speaking in hillbilly whispers, being the Appalachian Jayne Mansfield to my grown and sexy Sophia Loren. If I wanted to visit Artemis again and meet more of Phillip’s fanciest friends, lawyers who would (hopefully) help me fight my legal battle, I needed to get up, wear the dress, mingle, and impress.
It was now six fifty. Time to join the others.
I spritzed my pulse points with perfume and glanced out the window.
Beneath the light of the moon, something moved over at the tree line. Couldn’t tell, but … The tall grass moved and I kept my gaze on that … There!
In that tall grass, a teenage girl stood with her back to me. She wore a pink leotard and white track pants. Mist slowly curled around her legs and wind tousled her long black hair. She darted to the right and scooted up a twisty tall banyan tree with the speed and ease of a jaguar. She stood on the topmost branch, then lifted her hands to the sky. She held them there for a moment, then dropped her arms back to her sides. Then she took a step forward and fell from that banyan tree branch, disappearing somewhere in that tall grass.
I cried out and squeezed my eyes shut. It’s in your head, it isn’t real, she isn’t real, it’s okay, you’re okay.
I forced my breathing to slow … forced the thoughts feathering around my mind to stop.… Finally, I opened my eyes, avoiding my reflection in the vanity mirror, avoiding the tall grass where the girl’s twisted body lay crumpled. Instead, I stared at the small container of Valium that sat near my hairbrush. I stared at it forever, remembering the promise of a single tablet. No scratchy thinking. Easy breathing. No more echoes. No more ghosts.
Take one. You only need to take one.
But I shook my head and whispered, “No.”
No. Even though two men had brought guns to Mictlan Island. No. Even though Brooke McAllister had followed me here to Artemis. No. Even though the shoe prints that had been left in the carpet were bigger than mine, even though those shoeprints had trampled over my shoe prints and had stopped at my bed.
I needed a drink. I needed a pill. But I couldn’t surrender control to controlled substances. And I wanted to make Phillip proud. I needed to behave.
But those shoe prints …
And the ghost girl in the woods …
I n
eeded something.
No.
Don’t.
Stay sober.
14
And I would stay sober.
Since I’d been drinking throughout the day, I resolved to limit myself to one glass of wine and to kibosh any pill popping that night. Because bad things happened if you stayed drunk and medicated. I was a grown-up with self-control, not some ditzy young British heroine with low self-esteem and an even lower tolerance for prescribed meds, who awakened after an all-nighter next to a dead body.
I had issues, but being a ditzy-ass drunk wasn’t one of them.
You’ll be fine. It’ll be great.
Beyond the courtyard, the trees rustled with the ocean breeze. Their slick leaves and flowers looked wet beneath a sky of soft purple clouds. Golden light from iron lanterns filled the terrace. The fire pit had come alive and danced with long, curly flames that gave off the most beautiful light.
The air smelled of vinegar, pepper, burned sugar, and the sea. All of it mingled with Desi’s soda-shop perfume and Frank’s cologne. Wallace was wearing a bespoke blue three-piece suit (Power. Grab it. Now!). Desi looked lovely—she’d combed her bird’s-nest hair back into tamed ringlets. She looked comfortable in her low-cut crimson dress (Simple. Slutty. Elegant. They will never figure you out…).
She looked … lovely. Yeah. No hate. Honestly? I wanted that dress. I wanted the freedom of breathing, of—
Frank’s cologne. I sniffed again. Woodsy. Heavy. Familiar. I’d smelled that scent … Today, after waking from my nap. Had he been the one who’d come into my room as I slept?
Maybe.
But why would he do that?
Made no sense. Just me being anxious. Just me being light-headed, damned dress.
I searched each face, looking for a woman who could be Aunt Doris sharing a drink with one of Phillip’s friends. But I saw no one new. Had Wallace reached Raul on the radio? Had guests arrived but were too tired to attend a dinner party?
I ignored the flutes of champagne on the cocktail table and selected a glass of sparkling water. Perfect—and really, too much alcohol would have left me bloated, and there was no extra space for extra anything wearing this dress. And anyway, the Gucci’s tightness made me weak-kneed and woozy, something already close to drunk.
Javier’s appetizers had been arranged into black clay bowls and platters. Red things, things with tentacles, orange flower-shaped things on silver skewers. We all laughed uneasily as we studied the table. Desi slipped an octagonal-shaped thing onto a napkin and tiny red balls gushed from the creature and splatted onto her foot.
Desi whooped and said, “Those balls look like they came out of one of them bouncy-bounce rooms at Chuck E. Cheese.”
I tried to hoist a seafoody … thing onto my plate, and it exploded in purple-black goo. I “eeked,” startled by the pickled creature’s ejaculation.
Wallace chuckled and said, “I’m sure the squid’s saying, ‘That’s never happened to me before.’”
And we laughed—all except for Eddie, who stalked the edges of the terrace. And Evelyn, who hunkered near the bougainvillea. She had combed her wiry hair away from her weird gray and blue eyes. Goat eyes, that’s what they were. She wore a multicolored skirt (Image not loading) and a worn turquoise sweater with tiny holes in the wool (Item discontinued).
Frank and Wallace picked up their conversation again. As Frank spoke, he lit Wallace’s cigar with the most elegant gold lighter (Its flame lit Fidel’s famous Cubanos…) I’ve ever seen. I joined them, content with nibbling round crackers loaded with ceviche. “That’s a gorgeous lighter, Frank,” I said, interrupting the men’s conversation.
Frank ran his thumb across the scratchy-looking finish. “Cartier, eighteen-carat yellow gold.”
“My husband smokes cigars,” I said, “and he collects vintage lighters. Haven’t seen a Cartier like that, though.”
Frank pointed at me, reading my mind. “Not for sale. I received this piece from a very dear friend—I could never, ever part with it.” He pointed again, then added, “At least, not for anything less than two thou.”
“That all?” I asked. “I thought it would be worth more than that. I’ve seen some for five.”
Wallace sighed. “Anyway, Frank, you were saying…?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, slipping the lighter back into his pocket. “Frogs.”
“What about frogs?” I asked.
“Do you hear them?” Frank said.
“Like … right now?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, not at this very moment. One can’t hear himself think in this noise. I mean, in the quiet. Frogs—they’re croaking right beneath my bedroom window. It’s somewhat strange.”
I shook my head. “I’m from L.A. I don’t think I’d know what a frog would sound like in real life.”
He smirked. “I guess that kind of classification would take imagination.”
“Or maybe,” I said, “maybe I’m not that shocked animals make noises on islands. That frogs are croaking and birds are chirping and that it’s all part of God’s great plan.” I shrugged, then offered an innocent smile before turning to Wallace and asking, “Where are your other guests?”
“Oh, that.” Wallace rolled his eyes. “I did reach Raul on the radio, and he said that the weather kept them docked. They should all arrive tomorrow morning. So unfortunately, this will be a turnaround trip for them. Of course, I can’t call any of them to apologize or to make arrangements for them outside that dreary little town, but they’re rich, and some of them are very smart. I’m sure someone in the group will figure it all out.”
Javier had entered the dining room. He wore a toque on his head and a pristine white chef’s smock. He held Desi’s elbow and guided her around the appetizers table, and for a second (okay, many seconds), I hated him for being with her, for betraying Team Miriam, and my stomach clenched at the thought of him telling her about my discovery in Eddie’s bedroom. Two-faced bastard. “You see,” he was saying to the widow, “the ink from the squid is salty, bringing with it a slight ocean-y taste.”
Desi, uninterested in the properties of squid ink or Javier (ha!), kept her gaze tight on Eddie.
Maybe Eddie left his footprints on my carpet.
Red Sox had hiked past the swimming pool to reach the edge of the property, a drop-off that ended down, down, down to the churning sea. He lifted a pair of binoculars with one hand and used the other to touch the butt of his gun (gun!), now stuck in a holster on his hip. He paused in his step, stared out at something in the distance, then lifted the field glasses to study that something in better detail.
I clutched my neck and squeezed. A gun! Just like I’d said. I wasn’t blind, I wasn’t crazy, I knew it!
“Unclench, Miriam,” Wallace said with a playful lift of his eyebrow. “Edward is security. The whole world didn’t need to know that when you burst into the yacht’s living room like Cicely Tyson on fire.”
“Is he a police officer back in America?” Frank’s question bristled with anxiety.
Wallace nodded. “Back in Boston.”
“But what is he securing right now?” I couldn’t exhale, I couldn’t relax. Not with my pulse break-dancing in my chest. “Why do we need security? Are we in danger? This is just a memorial service, isn’t it? Or…” My breath caught. “Or is this really Felix Escorpion’s house?”
Frank said, “Who?”
“The leader of the drug cartel in Puerto Peñasco,” I said. “Yesterday, the men back at port, Raul and Andreas, they told me about him and said that Escorpion has marijuana crops and opium poppies all over the island. Andreas said that Escorpion’s men killed a bunch of Americans just last week.” Or something like that, yeah.
“What?” Frank said. “Are you serious? Wallace, you brought us here—?”
“Miriam, dear, you are something else, aren’t you?” Wallace sighed heavily, then turned to the banker. “Relax, Frank, and remember who you’re talking to.” He placed his hands on either
side of his mouth, then whispered-called, “Wolf!”
I glared at the old man, then said, “So are you completely bald underneath there or not? Cuz honestly? It looks good. Your wig, I mean. Like … you’re ready to win it all back on a single throw in Monte Carlo. Like…” I gazed at his hair. “Like … your client just won the Nobel Prize in poetry but won’t attend the acceptance ceremony and so you’ll accept the award on his behalf. It’s a nice wig. Really, it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I sat my glass of sparkling water on Wallace’s plate, then wandered back to the appetizers table.
You just can’t help it, can you? I mentally kicked myself in the head—I’d just jeopardized my future. Again. All because I couldn’t let shit go. All because I couldn’t turn the other cheek. All because I couldn’t let him win. On the other hand? My dress had loosened a lot since I’d gotten all that off my chest. At least.
Evelyn was also scuttling around the hors d’oeuvres table. She’d showered—I smelled soap but also something earthy. Like she had walked through a dairy farm to reach the terrace. She wore that gorgeous turquoise ring, oval cut with a silver band (According to Aztec legend, the wearer of this ring…). It deserved a better hand than Old Goat Eyes.
“Having a good time?” I asked the nurse. “Haven’t really seen you all day. Feeling better than last night?”
She groaned as she stared at the strangeness on her plate. “I don’t like my food mixing.” Her plump thumb was stained black with squid ink, and that purple-black goop had swirled into a dollop of sour cream.
“I hear that’s good luck,” I said, smiling. “Having ink on your thumb. Either that, or you just voted in Iraq.”
“I wanna go home,” she said, her eyes shimmering with tears.
“Then go home, Evelyn.”
She grimaced at her thumb. “Can you help me? I don’t know how.”
I shook my head. “Sweetie, this ain’t Oz, and I’m not Glinda. Just go to Wallace and tell him to call the boat. I’m sure they’ll send somebody to get you. You’ll have to wait until the morning, though, because it will probably be the same boat that was supposed to come today. Anyway, just ask Wallace, okay?”
They All Fall Down Page 10
