Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  One is greeted at the front entrance by men who, although decked out in blue frock coats, red knee britches and top hats boasting red pom-poms, manage to carry off the frilly livery with dignity. The hotel decor is antiques-meet-whimsy, with the art work from the best and wildest like Dali and Chagall, the furnishings pure Madame de la Pompadour.

  Unfortunately, we only learned all of this intriguing info from the internet, since we were whisked by our driver through a service entrance, into a freight elevator, and then into our fifth-floor suite as though the paparazzi were hot on our tails.

  Once safely inside—but safe from what, one might ask—my phone rang.

  “Yes, Jenks, we’re in our suite, and no, we were not seen by a soul, as far as I know. Is there something you'd like to share with me? Like, why in the hell are we being treated as though we're in a witness protection program?”

  “How's the suite?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  I looked around, taking in the opulent decor. “I just hope to hell Po Thang doesn't lift his leg on something silk.”

  Jenks chuckled. “He won't. He's a good boy.”

  “Never, ever, trust a dog. That's my motto. So how long are we to be under house arrest in this gilded Bastille?”

  “You'll be moved out pretty pronto. For now, we don't want you to be seen around Nice. Don’t worry, you’ll be happy with your next move.”

  “We don’t want us seen? We who? How about this? Since the four of us are being treated so crappily, we want twenty grand. Each.”

  “Hetta, you are in a five-star hotel. Besides, the money is not my call, and you already agreed to the deal. Just relax, rest up, and order what you want from room service, but don't answer the door unless whoever it is knocks 'shave and a haircut’. ”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope, them’s the rules, and I’m just the messenger. Oh, and if you go out on the balcony, cover your hair or wear a hat, and sunglasses. All of you.”

  “Po Thang left his hat and sunglasses at home.”

  “Keep him off the balcony.”

  “Jenks, we're on the fifth freakin' floor. Who can even see us?”

  “I know it sounds like overkill, but there’s a reason. And by the way, I’m told the fifth floor is the floor to be on if you want great security. And we do. All will be revealed soon enough, then you’ll be free to roam at will. I promise. It’ll be a ball.”

  I grumbled something like, “I’ll have yours if this keeps up,” under my breath, but he'd already hung up.

  Jan, who had sidled over to eavesdrop, asked, “What did Jenks have to say? All I heard was, ‘you'll have a ball.’ So, when does said ball start?”

  “He said soon. Until then we can’t even go out on the balcony unless we’re in disguise. Oh, well, let's get settled in and order something expensive from room service.”

  “Well, ain’t that just the pits. I saw on the internet that Richard Burton got drunk in the Le Bar Negresco downstairs. I wanna do that.”

  “Not tonight, Chica. We're stuck.”

  “I know. There’s a guard on the door.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, I peeked.”

  “What does he look like? Can we take him?”

  “Sure. You got a gun?”

  “You know the French cops still have mine. Why?”

  “Cuz that big dude outside the door does.”

  “So, one has to wonder if he’s our bodyguard or our jailer.”

  “Ya wanna test him?”

  “Nah, too tired. Where’s that room service menu. Order from the right side.”

  Back in the main salon after showers and a change into sweats, we raided the minibar while perusing our food choices. We were evidently in some kind of VIP suite, as we had two bathrooms, an office, three bedrooms, a balcony—the one we were forbidden to use freely—a spectacular ocean view, a kitchenette with a quickly emptying minibar, and all of it in over-the-top luxury.

  “What can I have for dinner, Jan?” Rhonda asked.

  “I suggest the fresh salmon salad, and you can have a glass of wine.”

  “Gee, what can I have, Jan?” I sneered.

  “Anything you want. You're a lost cause.”

  “Hey, watch it! I consider myself Rubenesque.”

  “Kinda like these cherubs decorating our abode?” Jan asked, sweeping her arm to encompass gilded-winged chubbettes in abundance. “Although, there is absolutely nothing cherubic about you.”

  “How about me? What would my description be now?” Rhonda asked.

  “Hmmm.” I had to admit her transformation was incredible. And even though I was annoyed with that diet of hers, I decided to be as angelic as charged. For now. “Anne Hathaway-ish. Although not as tall or as thin. She's too skinny, anyhow.”

  Rhonda glowed. “Anne Hathaway? Wow, thanks.”

  Jan gave me a look of approval. Since I was on a roll, I said, “And you, Jan? Guess Botticelli-ish. Although not as...white and rounded.”

  We all shared a giggle and Po Thang jumped up in my lap, wanting in on the fun. I grabbed his ears and looked into his eyes. “You, my fine furry friend, are very…dawg-ish. I wonder what you'd look like with a poodle cut? I mean, we all need a disguise, according to Jenks.”

  “Oh! I saw something on the internet you gotta see.” Jan left and returned with her laptop, did a search, and showed us the screen, which we all found funny. Except Po Thang. He snorted derision, somehow sensing he might not like what we thought so amusing, especially when the video entitled “How to give your dog a lion cut,” soundtrack buzzed with an electric clipper.

  After learning a king of the jungle “do” would take at least five hours and some hair dye to transform Po Thang's coat into a lion-look, we ditched that idea and decided to order dinner instead.

  As we were trying to make up our minds, someone tapped, “Shave and a haircut, two bits,” on the door. Po Thang charged the door, growling like the lion he would be had it not been too much work. “Friend,” I told him, and he sat, but still grumbled. “At least they have the secret knock, so they must be.”

  I opened the door to a guy dressed similar to the doormen in the full livery we'd seen photos of on the internet. I craned my neck, but couldn’t spot our keeper anywhere. “Dinner, mademoiselles,” our visitor announced.

  “Now that's what I call room service,” Jan said. “We haven’t even ordered yet, and here it is.”

  I stepped back for the man to push in a large cart. “I guess the staff here is so good all you have to do is think of something, and they deliver.”

  “S'il vous plaît, ladies and gentleman, á la bouffe,” I said, using the Belgian’s favorite slangy phase for chow down.

  The man, who was probably in his seventies, nimbly pushed the laden cart straight into the dining room, where the table was already set for four. Po Thang, now accustomed to French ways, jumped up into the chair with the doggie setting: a plate and a bowl. No utensils, no wine glass.

  “Thank you, sir. We will serve ourselves,” I told the man in French. He gave us a formal bow and backed out of the suite.

  Our dinner, although not what we probably would have ordered, was heavenly, as was the wine. We were dog-tired. Well, except for the dawg, who was the beneficiary of our fatigue and all-day snacking; not a dab of the savory lamb roast survived.

  I was in the kitchenette gathering a couple of overpriced bottles of water to take to bed with me when I heard the secret knock again. Our majordomo, still in his finery, and a female assistant, dressed in a regular maid's uniform, were there to collect dirty dishes, tidy up the suite, turn down our beds and set the breakfast table. However, when he saw me in my jammies, he apologized for disturbing us. He refrained from glancing at his watch, but probably considered going to bed at eight-thirty quite barbaric. As was eating the dinner he'd delivered at seven-thirty.

  Waving him inside, I said, “Don't mind us. Go ahead and do what you have to. But we’ll atten
d to our own bed-turning, so if you have chocolates for the pillows, I’ll just take those off you.”

  He smiled, handed me a bag of gold-foiled Lady Godiva chocolates, and hefted a large valise from the floor beside him. “Would you like me to take this to your room, mademoiselle?”

  “Uh, that's not mine.”

  Before he could answer, my phone rang. It was Jenks. “That valise is yours, so have him put it in your room. It’s pretty heavy.”

  Did Jenks have a spy camera planted somewhere? How rude! That's something Jan and I would do!

  Jenks, evidently reading my mind, said, “No cameras. I’m just working closely with some in-house staff. Like I said, chill and have fun, trust me on this one. Consider it a mystery trip for a good cause.”

  “Cause of what? Come on, gimme a hint. Or better yet, let me call you back in a few minutes, from my bed. I promise some dirty talk.”

  “Dammit, I won't be available, but hold onto that idea for the future. You can do me a big favor though. When you're ready to leave the hotel, please email me photos of all of you. Love you. Bye.”

  Mystery trip, indeed. Take snapshots before we leave the hotel? What the hell? Actually, I was starting to enjoy all the mysterious drama and, as Jenks asked, told our butler to put the valise on my bed. I followed him, curiosity overriding bone-tiredness in my desire to jump into the feathers. Po Thang, in a lamb-roast coma, was already snoring from dead center in my bed.

  He did manage to crack one eye when Jeeves hefted and plopped the mysterious suitcase onto my duvet before leaving.

  I was snapping open the catches when Jan sauntered in through an adjoining door. “Heard voices. What's that?”

  “Dunno, but let’s crack this thing and find out. Jenks knew it was here, but don’t know if he sent it. He's being so damned cryptic about this whole thing. It feels like we’re on a scavenger hunt of some kind.” I popped the top of the leather bag, peered in, lifted the first item, and let go with a belly laugh.

  Chapter Seven

  Someone with a warped or wicked sense of humor was behind the contents of that valise Jan and I opened and cracked up about. Whoever it was, Jan and I loved them already.

  Our disguises came with instructions, and just three hours later, we suited up and prepared for a clandestine exodus from the hotel. So much for a good night’s sleep.

  We piled our luggage in the hallway as instructed, next to that armed guard keeping watch on us. It was collected at precisely two a.m. by the same limo driver who brought us from Paris, and then, one at a time and thirty minutes apart, we were hustled down the freight elevator and whisked into his car. After a ten-minute drive, we were quickly rushed onto a mega-yacht Med-moored in the marina. I went first.

  My garb, a full-on belly dancer getup complete with enough veils to cover up my slight potbelly, probably would have been an attention-getter just about anywhere else on God’s green earth, but in Nice, exotic dancers being delivered to party yachts in the middle of the night? Not so much. I doubt, however, any of them were forty years old and eternally grateful for scads of concealing scarves.

  I thought I closely resembled Fatima, a.k.a. Little Egypt, a famous belly dancer whose likeness—complete with a bullet hole in her navel from a drunken cowboy back in the day—hangs in the Birdcage Theater in Tombstone, Arizona, touted as the “wildest, wickedest night spot between Basin Street and the Barbary Coast.” Why it was called The Birdcage, I have no idea, but probably because it housed the “soiled doves” of the day.

  Once safely inside my cabin, I ripped off the long black wig and a heavily bejeweled face veil and let a howling Po Thang out of jail. After vigorously rejecting any attempt to dress him in wig and veils back at the hotel, he was relegated to a crate, which was then shoved into a large cardboard box. If our new boss wanted stealth, he picked the wrong dog.

  Jan and Rhonda arrived, both looking a danged sight better in their veils than I did. We were, once again, asked to stay out of sight, lest we catch the attention of any curious lookie-loos on shore.

  We all went to our cabins, changed into comfies, and reconvened in my cabin, which I surmised was the master, as it was on the main deck and almost larger than my entire boat. As soon as I could, I texted Jenks that requested a photo, taken by a barely straight-faced majordomo, of us vamping it up as, what we dubbed, the Dovies of the Undulating Veils.

  We were speculating on where we were headed, when a crewman arrived with a cart laden with all manner of finger food goodies, wine, pastries, dog treats, and coffee.

  My drapes were tightly drawn and I was asked to leave them that way until we cleared port. We gathered around a small dining table in a galley equipped with a fridge, microwave, and wine bar, and soon heard the unmistakable sounds of the yacht being prepared for departure.

  We’d worked our way through everything but the Madeleines and coffee when the engines fired up.

  “Okay, Dovies, it is high time we went to work. I don’t know where we’re going, but we have internet service, and some major snoopery to do.”

  I killed the interior lights, pulled back the drapes a smidge and sneaked a glimpse of a crew member loosening a dock line. Jan went to her cabin for her laptop, while Rhonda, whose cabin was one deck below, re-secured the drapes and turned all the lights back on. By the time we felt the boat pulling out of the slip, we were already hard at work.

  “Okay, so what do we think we know?” I asked.

  “We’re being shanghaied?” Jan quipped as she opened her laptop.

  Rhonda giggled and said, “On a really big boat.”

  “Yes, it is. When I boarded, my veil obscured my vision, but being the nosy broad I am, I did a fast estimation. The beam is at least twenty-five feet wide, and using that and the time it took to get me and Po Thang into this cabin, I’m guessing at least a hundred feet long.”

  I unearthed a legal pad, pencils, and measuring tape from my luggage, cleared our dishes from the table, and sat down.

  Rhonda, who followed me and brushed remaining the crumbs from the surface, asked, “You travel with this stuff?”

  “Tools of the trade. I love flea markets, and am always looking for stuff to someday put in my dream house. I take measurements, snap photos, and do sketches with notes. One of these days I’ll show you my scrap book of ideas.”

  “Not that you can tell by the way she dresses, but Hetta is quite the interior decorator. You should have seen her place in Oakland. Chock full of antiques from all over the world, all now in storage. When she finds something she can’t live without, she ships it home for her future mansion.”

  While Jan was telling Rhonda about the house I’d sold in order to buy my boat, I was already done with an outline of the yacht we were now on, guessing at the layout. When I was escorted to my quarters, we’d passed through a main salon with a galley, dining area, and bar.

  Tearing off that sketch, I then did a quick side view, figuring on a flying bridge, a sundeck and probably a toy deck for dinghies, jet skis, and the like.

  Rhonda’s room being on a lower level, I made that deck cover the entire length of the boat. Knowing how boats are laid out, I figured the crew quarters were probably below my cabin, as well.

  I showed my rough sketches to Jan and Rhonda. “Okay, what can you add?”

  Jan took a sip of coffee and pointed at my work. “The boat name was obscured—by design I’m pretty sure—under a broad expanse of canvas, but,” she picked up a monogrammed throw pillow, “whaddaya bet this is either the boat's initials, or the owner’s.”

  “OXL? Hmmm. I think you’re right, but not much to go on there.”

  Rhonda, not being a boat person hadn’t said anything yet, but asked, “Does that Maltese flag they’re flying mean anything?”

  Jan and I looked up in amazement. Rhonda, evidently mistaking our stunned looks as evidence of disapproval for asking a stupid question, added defensively, “Just askin’.”

  “Rhonda, you are a gold star genius! How do you kn
ow it’s a Maltese flag? Is there a falcon on it or something?”

  Rhonda’s face lit up at my praise. That mother of hers must have been a doozy; I reminded myself to be careful, even in jest, not to put her down like Jan and I do each other. “Actually, that Bogart film was based on a bejeweled hawk made in the sixteen-nineties. The flag of Malta is a bi-color with white in the hoist and red in the fly, with the George Cross in the canton of the white.”

  Impressed, Jan asked, “Hoist? Fly? Canton? I suppose those are parts of a flag, but how do you know all this?”

  “I’m kind of an amateur vexillologist.”

  “Ha! Hetta’s an expert. She vexes almost everyone she meets.”

  Rhonda snickered. “Vexillology is the study of flags. Since I never got to travel, I compensated by collecting flags of the world and learning their historical significance. The walls of my room back home are covered with them. Pretty pitiful, huh?”

  Jan patted Rhonda’s arm. “Knowledge is never pitiful. What’s a George Cross?”

  “King George the Sixth, Queen Elizabeth's father, gave it to Malta in 1942.”

  “Aren't you just a walkin’ encyclopedia?”

  Rhonda's face clouded. “It’s easy to stuff your brain full of useless knowledge when you don't have a life other than teaching and taking care of an invalid mother.”

  “I meant it as a compliment, Rhonda. You’ve gotta get used to accepting them. And trust me, all that brainy stuff will pay off in your new life. Jenks says men don’t like dummies.”

  “And yet….” Jan raised her palm in my direction and smirked. I shot her a digit.

  Rhonda smiled. “Book knowledge is useful, but it sure didn't do much for me when I met Rousel. If it hadn't been for you two, there’s no telling what would have happened. I’m surprised you still have anything to do with me.”

  She had a point there, but this was no time to admit it. “Lemme just say this. If I ever play Trivial Pursuit, I want you for a partner. And that Rousel thing? Water under the keel. You'll be just fine now that he’s gone and you’re finding yourself.”