“There wasn’t much talking, but I hear he spent a couple of weeks in ICU.”
Chapter 3
Barnet had been to the Fifth Avenue penthouse a couple of dozen times. He parked below the building, putting his white Porsche next to Marilyn’s baby-blue Bentley. The garage was nicer than his first place in Los Angeles, but, as the elevator door shut, he couldn’t help thinking that the prices these places commanded were ridiculous. He checked his hair in the chrome doors’ reflection just before the doors opened into her spacious apartment.
Greeted by Simon and Garfunkel crooning at full volume, Barnet made a beeline to the kitchen’s audio console and lowered it. As usual, Marilyn was never ready on time. He knew she used every opportunity to prove she was better than the rest of the world. She had it too damn easy, he thought. Never worked a day in her life. Marilyn was spoon-fed all right, and it was a platinum one, not silver.
She didn’t understand how lucky she was, Barnet thought, surveying the penthouse of seven thousand square feet that was a 180 from Keewaydin Island. The designer here used an edgy combination of Miami, New York, and Los Angeles styling that made you feel like you didn’t know where you were. Barnet liked the feel of the place and loved that he could head downstairs and roam along Fifth when he hit his limit of Marilyn.
He took a glass ice bucket from a sleek cabinet in the bar, put the Champagne in and filled it with ice. Grabbing a bottle of Aubert Chardonnay out of the cooler, he reminded himself that the weekly rendezvous was vital to keeping things together. Noting the wine was from the Ritchie vineyard, Barnet pulled the cork. After a deep sniff and a sip, he poured a healthy glass.
A light buzz is what he needed to get through the night. Sipping his wine, he circled the room, appreciating the contemporary art that graced its walls. He wondered how much they were worth, marveling at how perfectly they fit the place. He tipped back the remains of a second glass as Marilyn made her entrance.
“Starting without me?”
Barnet put an arm around her and kissed her.
“Let me pop the Champagne. This is something special. You’re gonna like it.”
“What is it?”
As he took the foil and cage off the cork, he said, “Le Mont Benoit Extra Brut. It’s what is known as a grower Champagne. Emmanuel Brochet is the producer and the grower, and their Champagnes are made only with grapes from his vineyard. Most Champagnes, like Moet and even Dom Perignon, buy grapes from across the region and blend them. They also blend Champagnes from different vintages to make a Champagne that fits the style they’re known for. The growers don’t do that; they make Champagnes that represent the property and the weather of that year.”
“They’re more expensive?”
He popped the cork, saying, “Sometimes, and they should be. I mean, if the weather is bad, they have it all on the line. It’s risky, and I like that commitment. Here, try some.”
“It’s good.”
“Can you tell how fresh it is? It’s amazing.”
“I think so.”
“Brochet is a genius, and the place is totally organic.”
“That’s good. Maybe we should get a winery.”
“That’d be nice, but you can’t do it in Florida.”
“Why not?”
“The climate. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”
“Gemma made rosemary chicken and grilled vegetables for us.”
***
After dinner Barnet pulled the cork out of a Biondi Santi Brunello and poured a glass.
“You want some?”
“Not now, I can’t keep up with you.”
“It’s one I procured for you.” He held up the glass. “And it’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I gotta say, I just love the artwork here. Especially that pink one.”
“That’s by a German artist. I can’t remember his name. I think it’s Richter or something.”
“Where’d you find that?”
“Gideon picked it up at a Sotheby’s auction.”
“Real nice one. Did he get the others as well?”
“Yeah, all of them. He’s really into his art.”
“He did an amazing job. I wouldn’t have bought any of them, if I had the money to spend on art, but they work so well here.”
“It’s the only thing he’s good at these days.”
“Well, he got it right.”
“Gideon said he wants a divorce.”
“So? Why not?”
“The trust will reduce my benefits if I divorce.”
“Wow. So, Daddy’s still calling the shots while the grass grows over him.”
“I know it’s crazy, but what can I do? I want to get away from him, but it’s going to cost me.”
“Maybe Gideon could disappear.”
“What? What are you saying, John?”
“Just that. If he were to disappear, you’d be free from him and you wouldn’t take the hit. That’s a nice solution, don’t you think?”
Chapter 4
Gideon Brighthouse
The more I thought about it, the more the idea grew, like a weed. I had to find a plausible way to kill Marilyn, one that wouldn’t implicate me. There, I said it, and it didn’t feel bad. It really wasn’t my fault; she’s the one who’s forcing me. I don’t really have a choice.
If there was another way out of this marriage that allowed me to stay on the island, I’d grab it in a heartbeat. It’s not the money, it’s really not. Naturally, people would think that, but they’d be wrong. Most people don’t understand what someone like me has to endure. The panic is crippling. Nothing gets through. You could shoot a gun next to my ear and I’d still hear nothing but the blood pounding in my head. I can only imagine what they say when it overwhelms me.
Whatever method I decide on, it can’t be violent, nothing like shooting her, unless I can set it up to look like a robbery. She has massive amounts of jewelry and was careless, make that stupid, about it. Bottom line was she lost things all the time, or maybe her boyfriend stole some of her things when they got together. Except for a piece or two her daddy got her, Marilyn didn’t care if something got lost or was stolen; she’d just replace it.
What if it looked like a drug-crazed addict had broken in? They’re everywhere, but they’d need a boat to get here. What if it happened in town? But how would I accomplish that? Forget that idea. I picked up the da Vinci biography I had been reading.
A huge formation of gray clouds rushed in from the south, darkening things as the wind picked up. I kept reading until I felt a drop and headed inside the pool house as the sky opened up. The TV was blaring nonsense from one of those ridiculous reality court shows and I flicked the remote, landing on an episode of American Crime Story.
I stood, book in hand, watching as a husband said he’d gotten away with killing his wife. The guy looked like an average Joe and spoke like he’d barely finished high school. The show shifted to an image of a smoldering site, the sole hint it had been a house being the brick chimney was still standing. I inched closer to the screen as an actor reenacted the crime.
The actress playing the wife left the house during the afternoon, and her estranged husband slipped in and went to the den where she watched television each night. He explained that the lamp he was standing before went on automatically each night at eleven as a security light. He removed the bulb from the lamp, pocketed it, and replaced it with one of a dramatically higher wattage. The narrator explained that the lamp was rated for a maximum 100 watts, and that the husband had replaced it with a 200-watt bulb.
Bulb replaced, the husband took a couple of tissues from the bathroom and laid them over the new bulb, ensuring that if the inappropriate bulb didn’t cause a fire that the heat would ignite the tissues as his wife slept. I couldn’t believe it when the narrator mentioned that nearly thirty thousand homes per year were damaged by electrical fires. Tens of thousands of fires would provide a l
ot of coverage.
As the husband exited the home, the show cut to an interview with a forensics expert who speculated it was the tissues that had caught fire, doubting the overload was responsible for the blaze that killed the wife. The expert said the heat had made it impossible to determine the cause, and had the husband not confessed, it would have been attributed to an accidental fire. It was then that a blood rush coursed through me. I took a couple of deep breaths and sat down.
Closing my eyes, I recalled what the lighting looked like around midnight at Serenity House. The porch lights glowed from dusk to dawn, but they were LEDs, I was sure. Since Marilyn hated the color of LEDs, I knew all the lamps and art lighting were incandescent. Damn, the art! I couldn’t turn all those wonderful pieces to piles of ashes. Even with insurance you just couldn’t replace them. I couldn’t do it. An electrical fire was out. I’d have to find another way.
After showering, I searched Netflix for American Crime Story and started going through the first season. There were no spousal killings, and most of the cases involved distancing the killer from suspicion by hiding the body. I did pick up one tip, and that was to make it look like someone in particular did it.
I headed to the guesthouse, where I’d been living for over two years now, to get some dinner. The humidity was high as the evening sun soaked up the remains of the rain. Most people can’t stand the humidity, but it never bothered me. I liked the way it loosened me up. Passing the pool, I noticed the water level was high from the downpour. The idea of drowning Marilyn cascaded through my head.
Doing it in the pool would be tough—too many people on the property during the day. She rarely went in the pool at night, but every now and then she went into the gulf and did her yoga on a wakeboard. The boards were hard enough to knock you out if you hit it right, but the gulf was calm. It’d have to look like she’d fallen off and hit her head on a rock or something to make it plausible. I’d double-check in the morning, but I didn’t know of anything off the beach that would fit logically.
The stress of trying to decide how to kill her without implicating myself was getting to me. I wanted Marilyn to know I was the one killing her. Ideas were circling in my head and I needed to shut things down. I wasn’t supposed to be mixing alcohol with my meds, but I needed something and poured myself a tumbler of cognac. It burned going down, but the spreading warmth was relaxing. Grabbing the bottle, I sat in a recliner and put the TV on, trying to force Marilyn out of my head.
***
“Sir, sir, is everything all right?”
I struggled to open my eyes. Shell, the housekeeper, was shaking my shoulder. “Uh, yeah, I must’ve fell asleep.”
Shell helped me sit up. “Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m okay.”
“I know it’s none of my business, sir, but you can’t keep drinking with them medicines you’re taking.”
Shell stood up and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The cocktail table was overthrown and there was glass everywhere. A John-Richard lamp was laying in pieces by the sliders. Holding my breath, I checked the walls, exhaling when it appeared all the artwork was undamaged, unlike the last time. The smell of cognac steered my eyes to the shattered bottle of Courvoisier scattered across the fireplace hearth.
“Don’t get up Mr. Brighthouse. Wait till I get you some shoes.”
What had happened? This was the third time in two months I had blacked out, leaving a trail of destruction and no recollection of my violent behavior.
Chapter 5
Barnet sat at his desk watching camera feeds of the floor of his store. The intermittent, drip-like foot traffic troubled him. Dragging himself off his chair, he walked out of his office and began circling the empty store. Forcing a smile at the four sales associates who were chatting, he made himself a promise to cut staff down to two as summer approached.
The reality of a further slowing as the season wound down, forced Barnet to retreat to his office again. Maybe it was time to focus on Internet sales. Online competitors were biting into his sales, and going on the offense would bring orders in. He thought the idea of putting together a campaign highlighting his unusual store had merit.
Logging on to Winesearch.com he scanned rows of offers. How the hell were these guys making any money? The margins he saw were minuscule. Barnet believed the business was about suggestions, introducing and convincing clients to experience new regions and varietals. Staying away from the commodity side of things sold in huge numbers by big players was not only far more interesting, it provided a chance to make a decent return on each bottle.
He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Red Juice Press. As he twisted the cap off, he spied an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux from 2000. Recalling the dark-blue and red fruit present in the trophy wine, it hit him. He took a guzzle of juice and pressed the intercom button.
“Bridgette, can I see you for a moment?”
Before he finished another swallow of the deep-red drink, the store’s general manager came in.
“What’s up?”
Barnet was disgusted at the roll of fat around her waist. “Sit. I’d like to make a real push into the futures business.”
“Bordeaux, right?”
“Naturally. It’ll help us ride out the summer.”
“It’s a good idea. There’s a lot of collectors down here, and if we do it right, we’ll grab a nice slice of the market.”
“As far as I know, Jacques from Bleu Provence has the strongest futures program, but you’ve been down here a lot longer than I have.”
She nodded. “Yeah, Bleu Cellar has been at it for a while, and they have most of the Port Royal buyers.”
“Thought so. Look, you know me, I never want to give anything away, but for this, let’s position our prices under all the major players. At this point, it’s about working our way into the collector market, and the cash flow won’t hurt either.”
“We’ve got a decent email list we can market off of.”
“That’s a great tool. We should have a couple of banners made for the store, and I’d like to do some Facebook ads targeting wine drinkers and especially Francophiles. Also, we’ll do a couple of ads in the Daily News.”
“It’s a good idea, but are we going be able to get Margaux, Haut-Brion, and Petrus?”
Barnet nodded. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“We had a . . . uh . . . an issue last year, if you remember.”
“Everything got settled, but if they don’t want to play ball, screw ’em. We don’t need them anyway.”
“I don’t know about that, John. We’ve got to be careful. Many buyers place all their futures with the same retailer.”
Barnet knew not having those wineries would eliminate a fat slice of potential buyers, but said, “How quickly can you get a campaign together?”
“Fast. Graphics aren’t an issue. Say, within a week. But we’ll need to nail down the producers and what we’re going to price things at.”
“Find out what Bleu Cellar, ABC, and Total Wine are selling at and come in five percent below the lowest of them.”
“That will get some attention for sure, but I really need to know about Margaux, Brion, and Petrus. Are you going to see if they’ll sell to us this season?”
“Assume they will. If they give us any hassles, I’ll wave the pile of orders we get at them.”
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent. Now, get cracking.”
Barnet knew the storied wineries would never sell to him, but he needed the cash flow the futures would provide. The eighteen months until the wine would arrive would give him time to explore other ways to increase sales and reduce costs. As for any disgruntled futures buyers, he’d deal with them when the time came.
***
Leaving his store, Barnet made a left, past the dancing fountains and lululemon and into the corridor that housed the offices of the Forbes Company. He knew the meeting with the owners of Wa
terside Shops would be difficult. Before opening the gold-lettered door, he reminded himself to curb his pride.
The management offices were perfunctory, providing a stark contrast with the opulent feel of the outdoor mall. He stood waiting until Albert Chesny, the managing director, was ready.
In keeping with providing as much retail space as possible, Chesny’s office was smaller than the size of most Port Royal kitchen islands.
They shook hands over a steel desk piled with files.
“It’s good to see you, John.”
“Same here, Al.”
“Hey, thanks for that recommendation you gave me on that cabernet.”
“My pleasure, I’m glad you liked it. We’ve got a couple of nice new ones from Washington State you should try.”
“My wife’s throwing a dinner party next week. I’ll stop in and pick up a few bottles.”
“I can take care of it for you. It’s what we do at Barnet’s.”
“Thanks, but we’re keeping it low-key, so nothing fancy. What can I do for you?”
Barnet shifted in his chair. “Things are really slowing down early this year. I’m sure everybody in here feels the drop-off.”
“Actually, foot traffic is up almost six and a half percent this month.”
“Really? Everyone in town seems to be complaining.”
“We don’t focus on the rest of town, John. Waterside is a unique shopping experience.”
“It’s special, that’s why I took the chance in locating my store here.”
“And we appreciate the vote of confidence. You made the right decision.”
“I hope so. It’s an unusual location for a beverage store.”
Chesny said, “Barnet’s is more than a beverage store. You’re selling an experience. That’s why we were excited to have you as part of the Waterside family.”
“I still believe Waterside has the right traffic and cachet we need, but I’m not going to beat around the bush, Al; the operating costs are sky-high.”
The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3) Page 2
