“I hope you’re not blacklisted,” Mom murmured. (As I’ve mentioned, we do a lot of business in Peru.)
“I’d like to talk to Laine alone,” Dad said.
Mom bounced to her feet, deserting me with no more than an encouraging smile and a pat on the hand. Jeff shot me look full of sympathy, tinged with admiration. I felt Doug’s hand on my shoulder, and then they were gone.
I was alone with Jordan Halliday, my Boss.
Chapter Ten
Even from a wheelchair, my father dominates a room, his silences speaking more loudly than most people’s shouts. I did my best not to squirm beneath the steady amber of his gaze, but it was tough. I’d stepped outside the boundaries of the world he’d created from the ruins of his life, and at the moment neither of us was comfortable with reality.
“I presume you’ve considered that the whole thing might have been a ruse,” Dad said at last, “that you were neatly maneuvered into a situation that forced you to kill?”
“I considered it.”
“And?”
“It didn’t fit. Didn’t feel right,” I added as Dad’s gaze remained steady, revealing little beyond mild curiosity. “I tried to see Rhys as a bad guy, and couldn’t. Not even when he was just a stray with no name. There was something about him—.”
“It didn’t occur to you there was something odd about the Arendsens having so many problems, that it might have been a set-up?”
Omitting information was one thing. Deliberately lying to the Boss was another. So I told Dad about Rhys’s interference in Fantascapes’ business. And why. I worked hard at being casual, as if Rhys’s manipulations, his recruitment offer meant nothing at all. Fortunately, Dad seemed to take it as lightly as I made it sound, zeroing in on Rhys’s sabotage instead.
“Tarrant messed with our operations, Laine. Nearly ruined the Arendsens’ trip. And if we’re to believe his story, he did it to make an end run around the family. To top that, he says he has no idea who’s trying to kill him or why. That’s not exactly Good Guy material. Certainly doesn’t make him a man to be trusted.”
Miserably, I nodded.
“So . . . there may be a Russian connection?” Dad asked, changing gears with his customary rapidity.
“The attacker on the trail—the one I didn’t shoot. He cursed in what sounded like Russian. The man on the train, he could have been Czech, Romanian, Ukrainian, Russian. Impossible to tell.”
Dad tapped his fingers against the arm of his wheelchair. “Worst Case,” he said, “the whole thing was a set-up and Fantascapes is involved in something nasty. Do we have any Slavic connections at the moment?”
“Unless something’s come up while I was gone, there’s just the Kirichenko wedding. The one with the Fabergé matrioshka dolls—Mom’s probably mentioned it.”
Dad’s lips curled into his version of a Mona Lisa smile. He wasn’t about to comment on the frequent excesses demanded by the clients of Weddings Extraordinaire. “Viktor?” he asked, “who’s spending a small fortune to impress a mail-order bride from Odessa?”
“That’s the one.” I could see he was itching to run Viktor Kirichenko through his databases. And Rhys Tarrant. I started to get up.
Dad’s index finger flashed down, for all the world like a trainer giving a silent command to a dog. I sat. A small whir as Dad cruised across the space between us until the foot-pieces on his chair were almost touching my toes. “Laine . . . killing someone is a decision I never wanted you to have to make. It was a righteous shoot, which helps, but you’ll still have to learn to live with it. As I did. As your brothers do. It’s part of what we are, though why I thought I had the power to keep you out of it I can only attribute to the fact that the world I grew up in had very few gun-toting women. The truth is . . .”
Dad paused, looking as flustered as I’d ever seen him. “The truth is, when the Halliday men think Serve and Protect, we include our women under the umbrella. Archaic to some, I know, but there it is. It’s possible this Tarrant character was right. He needed to talk to you somewhere far from home. Which is the Best Case scenario—he is what he says he is, and he really wants the input you could add to Interpol’s files.”
I waited for him to say that Interpol could take a flying leap, but he didn’t.
“Interpol’s a glorified database service, Laine, accumulating information on a global scale, passing it along. In the last decade or so, they’ve added analyzing and consulting, but local policeman make the busts. Interpol agents don’t come with licenses to kill. And they’re seldom targets, but”—Dad pressed a thumb to his chin and scowled—“if Tarrant checks out and you’re so inclined, you have a right to try your wings. I’ll talk to your mother. Hopefully, she’ll understand.”
If working for Interpol wasn’t dangerous, then what had been happening in Peru?
At the moment I was too relieved to think about it. Maybe, just maybe, my family obligation was going to be eased enough to let me be part of something bigger than weddings and holidays.
If Rhys came back.
If the job offer was still open. Did it pay money, or was I expected to be a volunteer? I needed to research Interpol. Hm-m-m.. I was as anxious to get to my computer as Dad.
He scooted his wheelchair back, flicked a hand to indicate I could go. “Laine,” Dad added as I reached the door, “be careful out there.”
Doug, Jeff, and I stayed for supper. Mom and Gramma Blaine smiled a lot. Dad, blast him, never said a word about what his initial database searches told him about Rhys Tarrant or Viktor Kirichenko.
Jeff drove me back to my Lexus and, not long after, I was booting my computer. Although I didn’t have Dad’s access to secret databases, I could always try Google. Eighty minutes later, I logged off the Net. According to Google and several other search engines, neither Rhys Tarrant nor Viktor Kirichenko existed.
Fine. I was in the dream business, and that’s what I’d just had. A dream of going to Peru, walking the Inca Trail, meeting Rhys . . .
I opened my suitcase, took a long look at the ugly hump of my hiking boots, the rumpled tan of my trekking clothes. I touched the squashed leather of my trail hat. Rhys? Where are you?
My cell phone rang. Rhys? I glanced at the Caller ID and sighed.
“Laine, you’re back!” Flint Ramsay. I’d thought him my personal fantasy man, yet my heart had just nosedived into the carpet. “Hey, girl, sorry to call so late, but I’ve been getting desperate. Didn’t think you were going to be gone so long.”
Flint. Big, blond, and scrumptious. And I was having trouble picturing his face. I fought to recover the Laine who flew off to Peru. Couldn’t do that either.
I had it bad.
“Laine?”
“Sorry.” I told him Peru was great, just great. He asked me out for Friday night. Friday . . . okay, that gave me a few days to get my head and heart together. Truth was, I needed Flint Ramsay. He was solid, down-home Florida. A sea anchor in a hurricane of conflicting emotions. Unfair to Flint, maybe, but he was sturdy enough to withstand being used. I needed his bluff heartiness, his openness. Like Jeff, with Flint you got what you saw. A sharp, more-than-competent cop, with no aspirations to grandeur. No ambition to work international crime. Calusa County, Florida, was enough, thank you very much.
I hung up the phone, started to unpack. Not much to it. Everything but my boots, make-up, brush and comb went into piles for the laundry or the cleaners. I eyed my computer, clicked back onto the Net. Without bothering to google the URL, I entered www.interpol.com. And there it was, including a photo of their impressive headquarters on the Rhone River in Lyon, France.
Was that where Rhys was? Or did he work out of Interpol London? His easy, expert French that had so impressed the Frenchmen on the train said he was based in Lyon, but who knew? My prowl through the Interpol site told me there was something called a “Criminal Intelligence Officer” who roamed the world, as needed. Was Rhys one of those?
Or none of the above.
I g
ave up, gave in, and went to bed. Only to lie awake, thinking that thirty hours ago, I’d killed a man. And I’d have to get over it. Or around it. Tomorrow I would check on Viktor’s matrioshka eggs and find out what new challenges had cropped up for Fantascapes.
Interpol? I’d cross that bridge when and if it—in the form of Rhys Tarrant—ever popped back into my life.
“Laine!” Candy’s penetrating tones echoed out of her office the moment I walked into Fantascapes the next morning. “They’ve just sent the egg sketches. Come see! They’re absolutely gorgeous. Oh, and welcome back,” she added, flashing me a single glance before returning to her computer screen.
As much as I hate to admit it, Aunt Candy and I are look-alikes. There, the resemblance ends, as personality-wise we are at opposite ends of the gene pool. Although her hair needs help from a bottle these days, it was once the same natural bronze as mine; her eyes, the same soft green. About twenty years ago, she gave up trying to tame her curls. Whereas I sometimes get really angry and try to straighten mine, hers riot about her face in what has become her striking trademark look. Candy Spangler, the indefatigable dynamo no one was ever allowed to forget.
I leaned over, studied the screen.
“Hot damn, but those kids are good,” Candy breathed. “Look at that.”
Filling the screen was a Fabergé egg of shimmering pink, decorated with fluted bands of gold, white filigree, hot pink roses with jade green leaves, and glittering inset gemstones. In one corner of the screen was an inset showing how the egg would look when it opened, split top to bottom, to reveal the egg beneath. Impressive, truly impressive. Candy was right. The kids at the Ringling School of Art were really good.
She clicked her mouse, and the screen filled with a jade green egg, elaborately decorated in coordinating colors, except this one featured silver ribbons instead of gold. Click. The green egg opened into an egg dubbed “Romanov blue,” even more elaborately decorated than the pink and green eggs. I sucked in my breath. Somehow I had not really considered just how spectacular Viktor’s vision was going to be. Click. The final egg, the one designed to hold the bride, was opalescent white. Banded in silver and decorated, of course, in pink, jade green, and Romanov blue.
My eyes misted. We’d managed so many unusual Florida weddings—including a white horse for a Hindu wedding in downtown Sarasota, a medieval spectacle coordinated with a Renaissance Fair, a down-home old Florida wedding in nineteenth century garb, complete with wild pig roast along the jungle-like Calusa River. But Viktor’s wedding was even going to top Jake’s and Marybeth’s wild ride dangling from a helicopter.
I loved it.
Reigning in my enthusiasm, I peered at the statistics on the screen. The students had solved the problem of opening the eggs by attaching door hinges to the center back of each egg. And, yes, the white egg should have plenty of room for the bride. “Do you think there should be a light?” I asked. “She’s going to be in there maybe ten or fifteen minutes while everyone is seated. They ought to be able to rig something battery-powered, don’t you think?”
Candy agreed. “But other than that, you approve the plans?”
I did, but I needed to run them by Viktor. The price tag for constructing four such eggs in a relatively short time frame was staggering.
I think Viktor broke a few speed records on the ten-mile trip from Three Rivers. “Ah, da!” he chortled. “Is good.” He muttered something I didn’t quite catch, but I suspected it was the Russian equivalent of the Rhysism “effing gorgeous.”
I let the opalescent white egg hang there, filling the screen. I could understand enough of Viktor’s Russian, not to mention the beatific smile flashing through his beard, to know that he was pleased. I clicked on the final page. “Viktor,” I said with some trepidation, “did you notice the price? It’s a bit more than we’d hoped.”
He glanced at the screen with lordly disdain. “I tell you, ‘no problem,’” he said. “Is good. We do.” I was glowing when we shook hands, I admit it. It was good to be back, good to be involved with something beautiful and wholesome, something that brought happiness with no shadow of harm.
Viktor nearly shook my hand off before sauntering out, giving Jessie a friendly leer as he passed by. I went online and authorized the students to get on with it. Now we could only pray they were as good at building as they were at sketching. And that we didn’t get a call from the dean demanding to know why his students were cutting classes.
Helen Lomelo, our on-call JP popped in. She’d been contacted by the owner of an eighty-foot yacht that had just docked at the marina at the Golden Beach jetties. Could she perform a marriage that evening? After being told the boat would be easy to find—eighty-foot yachts weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, except maybe in Palm Beach—Helen asked the owner if they’d like some experts to doll the place up a bit for the wedding. They’d said yes.
“I’m so sorry, Candy,” Helen burbled to my aunt. “My intentions were good, but I just wasn’t thinking. I mean, it’s tonight. I’m really sorry. It’s just that you and Karen are such miracle workers. You, too,” she kindly tossed in my direction.
I swear Candy’s curls stood straight out from her head. She’s tall and imposing, a complete contrast to Helen, who is tiny, has black hair cut in a timeless bob, and a broad earnest face. She also dabbles in New Age stuff, including herbal remedies—I suspect she’s done a Wiccan ceremony or two— and I knew for certain she did a gay wedding last year. Legal or not. I liked Helen, even if her fear of heights kept her from doing the wedding in the hot air balloon.
“Laine, call your mother,” my aunt ordered, “get her down here, then head for the party store at the mall. Theme . . . theme, we have to have a theme. Helen, what do you know about these people?” Helen just stood there, eyes wide.
“The guy that’s paying likes boats?” I ventured.
“Fine.” Candy nodded decisively. “Nautical theme . . . Florida stuff, if that won’t do. Flowers—I’ll take care of that. Let me know if you have to go with palm trees, Laine, that’ll change the color scheme. Helen, did you give him a price?”
“Are you kidding? What do I know about price?”
Candy groaned. “Name and phone number?” My aunt squiggled her fingers until Helen handed over a crumpled slip of paper.
By this time Jessie had stopped whatever she was doing and Grady had paused on his way to the coffee pot. “Jessie, tell Karen she’s got the office,” Candy said as she picked up the phone. “I’ll be at the marina. Grady, look this guy up.” My aunt scribbled the name and cell phone on a piece of paper. “Laine, get going. I’ll let you know if the color scheme changes.”
Thank God for cell phones. And computers. People with eighty-foot yachts seldom minded the price of getting their wishes fulfilled, but Grady would provide a hint of just how high our bill might go.
I climbed into the Lexus and headed for the mall. I had no doubt that by the time I’d made the twenty minute drive to the party store, Candy would know all. And been given carte blanche to arrange an instant wedding smack in the midst of Golden Beach marina.
Just another day at Fantascapes. I was back, with a vengeance. No time to brood about an Interpol agent with steel gray eyes.
But I did. Not snapping out of it until my cell phone rang just as I was pulling into the parking lot at the mall. A nautical theme would be great, if I could find it, Aunt Candy told me. If not, go for classic hearts and flowers. The bride, Candy whispered into the phone, was considerably younger than the groom.
Oh, goody. I was spending my day embellishing the dreams of a trophy wife. Perhaps we should simply decorate in greenbacks. When I suggested that, Candy disconnected.
The wedding—complete with a lattice-work trellis interwoven with white silk orange blossoms and nautical blue carnations, sparked by an occasional silver rose shimmering with crystal dewdrops—was a complete success. Aunt Candy even spritzed the wedding area with the heady scent of orange blossoms, inspiring a beatific smile
from the groom, as well as the bride. But their smiles couldn’t match Candy’s triumphant grin the next morning when she handed the check to Grady. I found myself, not for the first time, wondering about Viktor’s bride. Was she as eager and willing as the yachtsman’s bride, who had managed to look thrilled and awed while marrying Mr. Got-Rocks, instead of merely triumphant? Or was Viktor’s bride simply desperate? Desperate for a husband? Or willing to do anything to come to the United States? I wondered if she knew how fortunate she was to be getting a guy like Viktor, a man with a romantic heart and the money and willingness to make a girl’s dreams come true.
So when did mine come true?
My mind was a jumbled heap—personally and professionally—of might have and should have, vigorously whirled with my friend Flint and Rhys-where-are-you? And through the chaos Interpol’s blue globe icon flashed on and off like a demented lighthouse beacon.
Cling to Fantascapes, Laine. It’s all you’ve got.
I sat at my office computer, writing, deleting . . . trying again, as I severely edited most of what had happened on my trip to Peru. I entered my expenses . . . and sat there, motionless, staring at the amount of Rhys’s debt to Fantascapes. I tried to tell myself my instincts were wrong, that we’d never hear from him again, that the money would never be re-paid. But even in its present sad condition my brain refused to believe it.
I answered a call Jessie put through from reception. “Laine Halliday, may I help you?” As the caller spoke, I sat up straighter, my brain coming back into focus, my flagging enthusiasm sparked by yet another magnificent dream. A wedding in an ice palace. Norway, next winter. The bridal party in red and black inside a cathedral carved from ice. I began to take notes, fill out the Fantascapes info form. How marvelous . . . yes, of course we could do it.
Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) Page 13
