This was absolutely Skyler’s mecca. She sat down on the couch and took a deep breath. The rich leather and carpet gave the cabin a new-car smell. But there was something else happening in the air. A scent was being pumped into the cabin, much like high-end hotels and casinos use fragrances to intensify a guest’s experience. She couldn’t quite identify it, but it had notes of cotton and sandalwood. Very clean and crisp and utterly relaxing.
A tall thin Asian woman in a tailored black pantsuit appeared with a small tray. She smiled politely and placed a silver bowl of mixed nuts and a glass of champagne on the coffee table in front of Skyler. “Welcome aboard, Miss Moore. My name is Susan,” she said. “Mr. Martin will be out momentarily. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”
“I think I’m already in heaven, Susan,” Skyler said. “I couldn’t possibly want anything else, except maybe to fly with you guys to Maui.”
“I’m sure Mr. Martin would be more than happy to have the company on the flight. He did mention that it might be a possibility—are you coming with us?”
“I am not, unfortunately. Perhaps next time.”
The woman smiled politely and bowed ever so slightly. “I’ll leave you.”
Skyler pulled out her smartphone and opened the camera. She took a few clandestine shots of the interior and then texted a selfie—with a good portion of the lush cabin behind her—to Leonard. She captioned it:
We need one of these! #lifegoals #737
Just as the photo was delivered, one of the doors opened behind her and she jumped to her feet.
“Hi, Skyler,” Foster said as he entered the cabin and sat down on the couch. “Sit, sit. Relax.”
“This airplane is absolutely gorgeous, Foster. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“There is nothing quite like it. But it is my last extravagant creation, I imagine,” he said as he looked lovingly around the salon. “At one point, Martin Media had a fleet of seven airplanes, can you believe that? Most of the executives fly commercial or with fractional jet cards now; it’s just a lot more economical to fly first class or to rent a plane than it is to buy one and have the headache of employing pilots, cabin crew, and mechanics, and to rent hanger space and all of that boloney. But, Skyler, I just could not resist this Seven-Three. This is the Max-10 version; the longest one they make, at nearly 144 feet. It’s the most fuel efficient, environmentally friendly, single aisle Boeing has ever produced; not that I have an aisle,” he chuckled. “It has superior range, too. But, alas, I am boring you.”
Skyler almost choked on her champagne. “You most certainly are not boring me, Foster. I am somewhat of an airplane aficionado; ask anyone. Please don’t spare me the details. How far can you go?”
“About 3,300 nautical miles. I can get to Hawaii, for sure. I can fly from Las Vegas to my favorite resort in San Juan, Puerto Rico, or all the way up to Maine. I can’t quite get to London without a stopover, or any other European city from Las Vegas, for that matter, but I’ve been to all those places more than enough. Too many times, really. I pretty much stay within the good ol’ United States nowadays. I had a lot of fun working with the designers to come up with this interior.” He gestured around the cabin like a spokesmodel on a vintage television game show. “It took nearly nine months to complete after Boeing delivered the plane to us, but it was worth the wait. Plus, I had my old G-6 to get me places in the meantime.”
“It’s gorgeous. There are just no other words for it.”
“Thank you. So, are you flying with me today inside the new toy that my son didn’t think I needed to waste $130 million on?”
“Oh, Foster,” Skyler said as she grabbed ahold of his left arm. “I would absolutely love to, really I would. And it was very kind of you to invite me. But I’ve got my friends here for the holidays. Maybe next time?”
“Of course,” he said, trying hard to mask his disappointment. “As I explained, I do have friends in Maui, so I won’t be alone. And Susan—did you meet her? My stewardess?—she’s a formidable opponent on the chess board.”
“Well, then I don’t feel so bad.” It just sunk in what he had said a minute earlier. “$130 million dollars?”
“Outlandish, isn’t it,” he said. “And that didn’t really include all the retrofitting we did. But what do they always say?—you can’t take it with you. And I still have several hundreds of millions of dollars that I can use to help educate the people. With your help, of course.”
Foster stood up and walked over to a credenza next to the divan. He picked up a large white envelope and handed it to Skyler. “Here are the documents I told you about. I didn’t email them because I don’t completely trust the world wide webs. I’ve been hacked more times than I’d like to remember. And I don’t want word about the foundation getting out until we are ready for the world to know about it. Are you willing to do this C.I.A.-style so that we can keep a wrap on things?”
“I am. Absolutely,” Skyler said, accepting the package and immediately hugging it to her chest. “And I will guard this with my life. I look forward to digging in. It will be refreshing to work with actual paper, for a change.”
“I still buy all my books in hardback. I hate those newfangled electronic tablet things. It can’t be good for peoples’ eyesight.”
“I do a little of each, I have to admit,” Skyler said. “But there is nothing like a real, honest to goodness book and turning actual paper pages to see what happens next. And you can’t put hundreds of e-books on your bookshelves either, now can you? I love looking at all of my old books, even if I don’t have time to read them all. There is always a stack of books on my bedside table waiting to be read. Unfortunately, most of them are covered with dust. I’m only good for about 20 minutes before I fall asleep.”
The old man chuckled. “It’s the same exact story at my house. But I have maybe 10 minutes before I’m out cold. And my stack of books is very tall…but dusted daily, of course.” He was quiet for several long seconds. “Will you be able to have a Merry Christmas, Skyler? Given all the…” Foster’s voice trailed off. “All the unpleasantness you’ve experienced here in Santa Fe?”
Skyler crinkled her brow. “Gosh, I hope so. It’s my favorite time of the year. But just being with my best friend is more than I could ask for and I’m confident that Georgia will be found soon. I mean, she’s got to turn up sooner or later. Maybe we’ll have a Christmas miracle.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, my dear.” He stood up, which was a clear indication that their meeting was concluded. “Thank you for coming, and we will be in contact soon into the new year.”
“I look forward to it,” Skyler said. She reached out to shake his hand, but he went in for a hug. She obliged, and he hung on just a tad too long—she was certain that she caught him smelling her neck. She pulled away ever so gently and gave him a big smile. “Merry Christmas, Foster.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” he said as he led her to the front door. Susan handed Skyler her coat then the flight attendant opened the sliding door and Skyler deplaned.
She ducked into the private jet terminal and found a comfortable seat next to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the tarmac. She had no intention of leaving the airfield until that beautiful sleek bird was airborne and out of sight.
* * *
Alon Leibovitz waited for his client to be escorted into the small interrogation room. He hadn’t minded the late call from Archibald Grey the night before, pleading for him to fly to Santa Fe just as soon as was humanly possible, because he knew the payday would be worth the inconvenience of having to completely rearrange his packed schedule. This wasn’t the first time he’d rushed to Mallard Protection’s rescue and the steady legal work was largely how Alon and his wife were able to afford their palatial weekend house in the Hamptons, as well as their Park Avenue apartment.
“Thanks for coming, buddy,” Archie said when they were left alone. The security man was dressed in yesterday’s clothes, unshaven, and quite hagg
ard looking. “Did you fly private? Is this going to cost me an arm and a leg?”
“Oh, yes sir, it is,” Alon said. “An arm and a leg. Maybe two of each. But I think it’s all going to have a happy ending. For both you and the goon.”
“The goon doesn’t actually like when we refer to him as a goon, I’ve come to find out.”
“Terrance, then. My apologies. I’ve worked my magic and managed to get both of you off, scot-free. No charges have been, or will be, filed, they tell me. The Lowery brothers aren’t pressing charges for trespassing and the Ferrera brothers aren’t interested in taking this further. But, the local law has something to convey to you.”
“Jesus Christ, Alon,” Archie said. “Not fucking community service, please. I don’t have time to be spending a hundred hours in this God forsaken town.”
“No. Actually, you won’t be spending any time in Santa Fe. Ever again.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard this decree. “What’s this now? Three states?”
“Yes, Archie,” the lawyer said calmly, “Mississippi, Washington state, and now New Mexico. You are banned from all three.”
“Fuck. Well, I can live without New Mexico, I guess. I just need to make sure never to take any business from Tom Ford or Julia Roberts.”
“Do they live here?”
“Among many other celebrities.”
“You need to be more careful,” Alon said. “So, Terrance and you are being let go within the hour. Without your guns—they get to keep those. Sorry. You are to make your way to the jet and get the hell out of here just as soon as you can. The rest of the Mallard team needs to hightail it home, too. Nobody passes ‘go,’ Archibald Grey. And don’t look back. If you ask me, you got off very easy this time. But it’s Christmas and these people simply don’t want to be bothered with you.”
“Thank you,” Archie said. “I owe you big time.”
“Yes, you do, Mister. And you will be billed accordingly.” The attorney got up and started placing papers into his briefcase. “Merry Christmas. My love to your wife and kids.”
“Merry Christmas, Alon. Or, should I be saying, Happy Chanukah?”
“Chanukah was weeks ago. And we’re doing Christmas this year, actually. The wife is having all her far-flung gentile relatives to the apartment. We even have a decorated tree for the first time ever. A live one.”
“How festive.”
“Enjoy Aspen. I’ll see you back in the city. Don’t pull a gun on anyone up there on the slopes.” And Alon left the room without waiting for a reaction from his number one client.
Archie was taken back to the holding cell he had been sharing with his employee. “We’re sprung,” he said. “But, I hope you didn’t get too attached to New Mexico.”
“Why’s that?” Terrance asked.
“Because you’re never coming back.”
* * *
Without an assistant within 2,000 miles, Brenda wrapped all of her presents by herself…and then she was bored out of her mind. And when she was bored out of her mind, she tested recipes. And ate.
She didn’t actually need to test the crab cake recipe; it really wasn’t hers originally and absolutely wasn’t meant to be messed with. Like honest to goodness, authentic Maine lobster rolls—a true one, with nothing but succulent steamed meat and just enough mayonnaise to bind it together, mounded into a split-top long roll (she was partial to brioche hot dog buns)—Brenda was a traditionalist at heart and didn’t feel the need to mess with a good thing. So many chefs had the tendency to add unnecessary filler. A real crab cake doesn’t have minced red or jalapeño peppers, chopped parsley, or any number of add-ins. A real crab cake is mostly crab, damn it.
She took 15 saltine crackers and placed them in a gallon-sized plastic baggie and crushed them to smithereens with a rolling pin. In a large bowl, she combined a pound of picked over lump crab meat with a half cup of mayonnaise, a beaten egg, a tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, and a few healthy sprinkles of Old Bay seasoning. While it sat in the refrigerator to meld together for an hour or so, she popped open a bottle of cold pinot grigio and pulled out her iPad. She opened a file titled, ‘Beach House Cookbook-working title,’ and added some notes to the bulleted list. The book was due to the publisher the following September and she’d only just started sketching out the outline. She wanted to evoke classic New England Americana with her seventh volume—simple, straightforward dishes geared toward big family get-togethers by the sea. The photography would have to be on point and she planned to pull together a huge team in order to shoot the entire book over a long weekend in Maine the following summer; she hoped to use Skyler’s cottage as the backdrop. She’d need a cast, too, and started jotting down names of possible ‘family’ members since she had very few real ones to speak of; rather, no family members that she actually spoke to nor could stand to be in the same room with.
Brenda pulled out a cast iron skillet and heated a quarter cup of canola oil over moderately high heat. She rolled the crab mixture into two dozen, inch round balls, pressed them down a bit to form a disk, then began frying them in batches, two to three minutes per side (she rarely timed anything, unless she was baking; she just knew when things needed to be flipped and when they were perfectly done) until they were golden brown. Seventeen of them sat on a paper towel-lined plate, because she ate seven directly from the skillet.
Save for the dogs, there was no one in the house to eat her appetizers, so she popped four more into her face, then placed the rest in a small plastic container and put them in the refrigerator. She knew that they were just as good cold. She woke up the iPad and made a note that the recipe could also make eight entrée size cakes and that lemon wedges should certainly accompany the treats. French dressing, tartar sauce, or any number of accompaniments would also be suitable. She envisioned three of the smaller bites sitting on an appetizer plate with a heaping spoonful of her fresh corn kernel, bacon, and onion salad. She was partial to a poached egg and a simple hollandaise on an entrée sized cake for a great brunch, with a watermelon and feta side salad.
Despite all the crab she consumed, Brenda still felt hungry as her mind wandered through all the culinary possibilities.
The wall phone is the kitchen rang, startling her. She believed it was the first time she even noticed the antiquated thing.
“Pronto?” (She’d been waiting to use that as a telephone greeting since hearing Ava use it the day before.)
“This is Sergeant William Kern with the Arizona State Police. Is there a Mr. John Sparks there?”
“John Sparks? No, sir,” Brenda said. “He and his entire crew should be leaving the state as we speak. May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Who am I speaking to, ma’am? Are you related to Georgia Reece?”
“I am not. My name is Brenda Braxton and I’m a house guest of Ms. Reece. Do you have information about her whereabouts, Sergeant?”
“I do.”
“And?”
There was a pause, then, “Brenda Braxton the cook on television?”
Cook? “I’m a chef, sir. What do you know about Georgia?”
“She is currently at the Twin Oaks Hospital in Flagstaff, Arizona, being treated for exhaustion, dehydration, and a concussion. But she is expected to make a full recovery. She apparently asked for Mr. Sparks to come fetch her.”
“How did she get to Flagstaff?”
“I’m not sure I can divulge that information to you, ma’am,” the police officer said. “But please know that she is safe and quite eager to get home. I’ve spoken to the police department in Santa Fe; they are aware of the situation and they’ve called off the search.”
“Called it off? But Massimo Medina is still out there, officer! Unless you nabbed him. Did you nab him? Was Georgia with Massimo when you found her?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“You couldn’t say?! Or you won’t say? Seriously, we’ve been quite terrorized by that man for the past week. I think you better say
something, sir.”
“I’ll refer you to the Santa Fe Police Department, Ms. Braxton. In the meantime, can you help make arrangements to get Ms. Reece back to New Mexico?”
“I will do that, yes,” Brenda said. She was frustrated, but relieved. “Is there a phone in her room? Can I call her?”
“She sedated. She won’t be able to have visitors or receive calls until tomorrow, but the doctors do believe they will be able to release her on Sunday. They asked me to pass that along.”
“Sunday is Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, Ms. Braxton.”
“Okay. Thank you for calling, officer. We’ll do our part.”
“By the way, I’d keep this hush-hush until Mr. Modena is located,” the officer said. “I’m telling you that off the record, of course.”
“Of course. Thank you.” And she hung up. “Well, shit,” she said out loud to no one.
Incredibly frustrated by the fact that she was all alone with no one to tell the news to, Brenda picked up her cell phone again and dialed Archibald Grey’s number.
“Why, it’s Brenda Braxton,” he said when he picked up. “We’re at S.A.F. about to taxi down the runway. What can I do for you?”
The New Mexico Scoundrel Page 18
