Dirty Secrets

by Drummond, Lonaire

  So taken aback was Adele that when her brain finally communicated to her feet about the danger, it was almost too late.

  Spit from the darkness, two burly men appeared, distracting Maurizio, who was a fraction of a second away from jamming the poison-laced needle in Adele’s arm.

  Italian cut through the air like a sword. Adele was no expert, but the dialect they spoke was particularly hard to decipher. She only understood “Ambrogio’s girlfriend,” “innocent” and “kill,” Maurizio’s face, a burner glowing red on the kitchen stove, twisted in indignation as he fought against his human binds.

  Moths in search of light, or in this case, the cause of a raucous so loud it drowned out the steel drum players, guests filtered out onto the patio just in time to watch Adele approach her rescuers.

  “Do you know he’s been watching me?

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s coming with us. No harm will come to you.” Just as rigid and unbendable as cement blocks, their faces gave away nothing. Adele had so many questions.

  “Have you been lurking around all along? Did Ambrogio send you? How long have I been in danger?” She asked.

  Maurizio had long since lost the physical battle, but now he fought with an arsenal of words. “Harm a hair on my head and it will be war.”

  “The war has already started.” The taller of the two bodyguards said.

  “What war? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Go back to your party, Miss.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They won’t be necessary.”

  “She’s not supposed to know.” One of the guards, who was busy rolling his eyes, said.

  Determined to get some answers, Adele continued to question the men. “Know what?”

  “You’re marked.” Maurizio said, although quickly silenced by a punch to the gut which sent spittle flying from his mouth.

  The punch had shaved a few inches from his height. Adele took the opportunity to look her wheezing, hunched-over attacker in the eyes, the knee to the groin a sneak attack. “I hope I never see you again.”

  The demeanors of the two gentleman leading Maurizio away suggested she would soon get her wish. The realization made her tremble.

  Celeste, small in stature and big in heart, rushed to Adele’s side. “I heard a commotion and came out to investigate. I’m happy you’re not hurt.”

  “Me too.” Adele said.

  “What happened?”

  “Your staring partner, Maurizio he said his name was, tried to kill me with a poison midori sour. When poisoning me didn’t work, he changed his weapon of choice to a needle. Those men leading him away saved my life, but their short on answers. I should call the police.”

  “The Argentero’s own this hotel. Imagine what a police presence would do to their business. I could lose my job. Anyway, Mr. Argentero and you make a cute couple, but if you get the police involved, whatever you two had going will be over.”

  “What about me? I could have been killed.”

  Celeste hugged Adele. “I mean you’re protected. Just let it go.”

  All signs pointed to a conspiracy, one Adele was clamoring to solve. With her hand scratching her head, she debated about what to do next. The drink, her one shot at justice, remained where she had put it.

  Diluted, the midori sour, poison and all, should be enough to convict Maurizio of attempted murder. Adele would make that cocky son of a bitch pay, getting under Ambrogio’s skin was an added bonus.

  Celeste corralled partygoers still milling around on the patio. “Ladies and gentlemen, the show is over, but now the contest begins. Be the first to reveal the motive behind the murder plot and win a prize.”

  “I’ve heard of murder mysteries, but not motive mysteries.” A young female guest said.

  “Is Le Chocolatè your typical hotel?” Celeste asked.

  “No,” the guest said.

  “Then why would you expect us to carry out a murder mystery the old conventional way?” Celeste asked.

  “Stop harassing the staff.” A man who appeared to be her much older husband said.

  “What the hell?”

  “If anyone had it in their minds to call the police, now they won’t because they think what just happened was part of the festivities,” Celeste said.

  “It’s is the exact opposite of what I want to happen.” Adele bit her bottom lip.

  Celeste stared at Adele intently as if trying to excavate her thoughts from her mind. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re thinking are you?”

  “Can you do me a favor? I left my purse at the bar. Could you get it for me?” Adele asked.

  Drink in hand, careful not to spill one drop, Adele climbed into the cab she had flagged down in the street after. The grumpy driver received Adele’s request—a trip clear across town— with resentment, the grimace drawn into the creases of his old face deepened with every advancing minute.

  To the driver’s luck, two men different from before, surrounded the car. A third man approached Adele’s window which was kept down despite her protests. Adele sat in silence, nursing the drink against her breast and hoping to disappear into the taxi’s plush seats. Head swiveling in all directions on his scrawny neck, eyes wide with terror, hands cocked against the steering wheel, the cab driver bowed his head in a prayer.

  “The drink,” a guard said.

  She didn’t move, so he reached in for it.

  Broad-shouldered with an earpiece growing out of his right ear, the man quickly discarded the contents of the glass and pocketed Adele’s only shot at revenge.

  Not so royal guards, sans towering feathered hats and red jackets, escorted her back to her cottage where she assumed she would stay until her flight out of St. Lucia tomorrow—an hypothesis confirmed by her bodyguard stained window and similarly decorated door. Defeated today, but triumphant tomorrow, Adele, resolute in her pledge to contact the police, did the only thing she could do. She went to bed.

  The next morning, Adele woke up with an exceptional amount of vitality. She dressed quickly, not caring to impress anyone in a pair of yoga pants, a tank top and a bright smile. The reason for her jovial mood: the thought of Ambrogio’s face when he realized she had defied him.

  His wants meant nothing to her. She had wanted him to leave her alone and he pursued her. She had wanted to seduce him and he called her a slut. She had wanted him to stay and he left. Ambrogio would like nothing better than for her to leave the police out of this. Adele would like for him to go to hell. No one was going to get their way.

  An exuberant Adele (despite the recent attempt on her life) pranced down to the front desk with luggage in hand upon discovering her door unguarded. It was she who was in for a surprise. Like ants circled around a piece of discarded cake, the guards swarmed around Adele before she had a chance to approach the front desk. She realized resistance much like her feelings for Ambrogio were futile.

  “Per Mr. Argentero’s request, we will be escorting you to the airport.” The skinny one out of the three, the handle of the wheelbarrow, held Adele’s forearm, leading her in front of the other two wider whole-bodied guards.

  “Do any of his so-called requests require me to sleep with the fishes?” Adele

  A chorus of laughter erupted around her.

  “You watch too much television Ms. Jaspers.” The guard flanked behind her and to her right said between fits of laughter.

  “If Mr. Argentero wanted you dead, he would have let Maurizio give you cement shoes.” The guard bringing up the rear to Adele’s left guffawed loudly.

  “I’m glad you all think this is funny.”

  “I didn’t think it was funny until you said sleep with the fishes.” The skinny one said, taking his turn ribbing Adele.

  “I think I like the silent approach better.”

  “As you wish, but before we do, just to ease your mind. Mr. Argentero is not involved with the mob.”

  “Cazzo! Why don’t you tell her everything?” As if moved b
y the angry force of their words, the skinny one dropped Adele’s arm when his colleague chastised his slip of the tongue.

  “I told Mama you couldn’t handle this job. You’re too soft. You’re feelings are like a thirty foot wall, their always in the way. Two lovers holding hands on a morning stroll, Madonna, you know better Lucio.”

  Now it had seemed everyone was in a mood for confessions. Adele put the small chunks of information in her pocket to aid in her escape. She had felt a strange vibe from the one they called Lucio—the vibe intensified when she caught him staring. He gaped at her like she was a dog treat and he hadn’t eaten for days.

  If it was a treat Lucio wanted, it was a treat Lucio would get. Adele would make sure of it. Her plan was simple: seduce the love-struck bodyguard into slackening her leash. Enough slack, she hoped, to enable her to inform the police of the attempt on her life, enough still to pay Ambrogio back for leaving the way he did.

  Adele spent the car ride to the airport sandwiched between Lucio and his pissed off brother. With the ease of a cat, she slipped her hand level with her outer thigh—a prime position for seduction. She gently stroked the seam of Lucio’s thigh, while glancing emotionless into the distance.

  Face flushed, smile broadened, Lucio could barely contain himself. Adele gathered his dress pant covered flesh between her fingers (a task which had proved difficult due to the lack of meat there) and pinched to ensure he wouldn’t give them away.

  Through her peripheral vision, she watched him nibble his bottom lip: an action which Adele was sure muted a groan. She played him like the keys of a piano, purposefully but delicately, hoping to win his assistance.

  Unfortunately, Adele had tuned Lucio up for nothing. They avoided the terminal altogether, driving right onto the tarmac, guided by black suit wearing, rigid-faced guards. Further curtailing her plans, Lucio faced an instant demotion.

  “Call Mr. Argentero and let him know Ms. Jaspers will be boarding the plane in less than five minutes. When you’re done, wait in the car.”

  “Niccolo, I can handle Adele.” Lucio all but kicked his feet in response to his brother’s command.

  Now that Adele knew of the familial relationship between Lucio and Niccolo, she started seeing a resemblance. They shared the same broad forehead, beak-like nose and hazel eyes. They were each other’s mirror images, except one was skinny and one was a hulking mountain of muscle.

  “She was the one handling you. You think I didn’t see her hand stroking you. You’re as malleable as silly putty and just as lightweight.”

  Lucio hung his shoulders. “You always take Niccolo’s side, Francino.”

  “Speaking of sides, what about the side of justice. Maurizio has gotten away with attempted murder? What about my side, the side of the victim?” Adele interrupted the fight brewing between her bickering guards.

  “Mr. Argentero will see to Maurizio himself.” Niccolo led Adele up the staircase of the awaiting plane.

  “What do you mean?” Adele stopped halfway up the stairs; however, Francino’s urging proved a bit more tenacious than Adele’s obstinate will.

  “You ask too many questions.” Francino reinforced what Adele already knew, which was nothing. He handed control fully over to Niccolo before disappearing into the cockpit.

  “Why did Maurizio target me?” Adele asked.

  “Why strike against Ambrogio when a blow against the person he loves would be more debilitating?”

  “You think he loves me? We’ve only known each other for a little under a week.”

  “Women! You focus on one meaningless word—love—when I implicitly stated someone means to do you harm because of your association with Mr. Argentero? You’re a distraction—a dimly lit one. I think it’s best you go back to New York and forget about the Argentero family.”

  With his diatribe over, Niccolo gave the cockpit door three abrupt knocks, summoning Francino from its depths.

  After not so much as a backward glance, Adele’s protectors by proxy de-boarded the plane, their charge left in a virtual prison. A prison decorated with the finest accoutrements: a master suite rivaling a Park Avenue penthouse (at least the ones Adele was privy to in the New York Times style section), an in-flight chef, but most importantly, a fully stocked bar complete with expensive bottles of champagne. She swallowed down her anger, elegant champagne flute in hand, and settled in for the long flight.

  Chapter 20

  After three bottles of bubbly—and a valiant attempt at a third—nearly in a coma, a tablespoon away from alcohol poisoning, Adele landed in New York. Newly arrived and positively shit-faced, she found herself hoisted up and hauled around by a fleshy man who smelled like Buttercream frosting.

  The smell so strangely comforting to Adele, she pressed her nose into the tiered flesh on the man’s neck, finding a respite there against an ever present nausea.

  Whisked out of a tropical country in a private plane owned by corporate raider/potential mobster millionaire had its advantages–the customs agents came to you. Smell therapy interrupted, Adele answered a few pointed questions from a rather unfortunate looking man.

  Then her chaperone whisked her out of the airport, the destination…her apartment. Carried to her door, wrapped up in a purple blanket like a bottle of Crowne Royal and just as potent, Adele finally arrived home: a very special drunken package for Robynne.

  “Are you Robynne?”

  “Yes, and who are you?”

  “It’s not important.” He said.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I was tasked with making sure Ms. Jaspers arrived home safely,” he said.

  “Is she alright?”

  “She’s fine. She’s just drunk,” he said.

  “I’m not drunk.” Adele said.

  “Then you’ve been gargling rubbing alcohol?” Robynne moved out of his way.

  “No, some champagne and maybe some vodka, although I can’t remember at the present moment.”

  “You can put her down on the couch,” Robynne said.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” The guard carried Adele over to the couch, careful not to step on Ebony and Ivory.

  “Don’t call me Ma’am. I’m twenty-three if I were a day.” Generous with the decorative pillows, Robynne quickly cleared them off the couch to make room for Adele.

  “No she’s not, she’s almost thirty.” Adele covered her mouth to prevent vomit and more of Robynne’s vital secrets from spilling out.

  “Did she go through customs like this?” Robynne asked.

  He rolled his eyes as he placed Adele, who was busy flopping around like a freshly caught fish, down on the couch. “Yes, she did.”

  “Fun for all involved,” Robynne said.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “She had an accident.” Robynne pointed to the stain on the guards shirt.

  “One of several I am afraid.” He straightened his suit.

  “Who do I thank for bringing my friend home?” Robynne asked.

  “There is no need for thanks. I shall be going now,” he said.

  Ambrogio Argentero is the man I would like to punch, not thank for abducting me.” Adele said with most of her words were disguised under a slur.

  Robynne placed a pillow over Adele’s head to shut her up. “Since you didn’t tell me your name, I think I’ll call you Bruno.”

  “If it pleases you to do so, go ahead.”

  Robynne walked Bruno to the door. “It does. Goodnight Bruno.”

  Later on, Robynne dressed in a sleep shirt, approached Adele’s now slumbering form with a compact she had pulled out of her purse. Ebony and Ivory purred in chorus as if to ask Robynne what she was doing.

  With a first year med student’s awkwardness, Robynne tilted her friend’s head, placing the compact under her nose. She sighed in relief when a puff of breath clouded the mirror. Robynne swaddled Adele in her blanket, an impromptu remedy Roybnne hoped would help Adele sweat herself sober.

  The next morning Adele emerged from the bathroom to
find Robynne leaning out of their fifth story window. At first she was just peering out the window, seconds later, when her search became more frantic, her friend’s entire upper body hung out of the outside.

  “What are you doing?”

  A startled Robynne nearly lost her balance. “You scared me shitless. I came looking for you and when I didn’t see you, I followed the water bottle trail to the window where I saw your blanket laying on the floor.

  “Why would I jump out window? Adele worked hard to suppress a smile. Any movement from her eyebrows down intensified her violent headache.

  “You drank three times your body weight. The decision making part of your brain is fermenting in alcohol.”

  Adele held her head. “Are you punishing me by yelling, if so, it’s working.”

  “Stop being so dramatic, I’m not yelling.”

  Ebony and Ivory meandered between Adele’s legs, stopping only to scratch their backs against her ankles before wondering off again.

  “Can you tell your cats to stop using me as their scratching post?”

  “It’s how they say I love you.” Robynne said.

  “Can you bring me an aspirin or a shot gun please?”

  “I’m all out of shotguns, but I do have some aspirin for my drunk little bestie.”

  “I’m hung over, not drunk.”

  “Speaking of being drunk, why did you get liquored-up on the plane?”

  A faucet turned all the way up, Adele spilled the sordid details. The flow sputtered only on two occasions, once when Adele laid down to stop the room from spinning and once more when a delivery truck rolled by.

  Robynne stood, sat, and then stood again. When Adele finished her story, Robynne had interspersed every lapse in conversation with “Get the fuck out of here,” “Oh my God,” “Asshole,” and “I should have been there.” It was the “I think trying to involve the police when you were specifically told not to was stupid on your part” that sent Adele flapping her arms into the bathroom.