Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  8:40 P.M. EST

  ON DEATH ROW, JACKSON, GEORGIA

  DOMINGO GUTIERREZ CIRCULATED through the crowd outside the prison trying to locate one intelligent protestor to interview, but he wasn’t having much luck. Then, as if on cue, the crowd launched into the same inane chant they’d been repeating all evening:

  Hey, hey, Georgia state,

  Killing is a form of hate.

  Hey, hey, Governor Ted,

  Why not fry yourself instead?

  That Wyatt Scrogger was scheduled to die of a lethal injection, as opposed to the electric chair, was unimportant. What mattered was that the slogan rhymed and could be recited by people with no more than a fifth-grade education.

  Eventually, Domingo spotted the type of protestor he’d been searching for—a young, college-age female with a big smile, holding a sign that read, Marry Me, Wyatt!

  Domingo pointed at the girl and the cameraman turned in her direction.

  “Excuse me,” Domingo said, holding his microphone in front of the girl. “Why have you come here tonight? What are you hoping to achieve with your protest?”

  “Oh, my God!” the girl exclaimed. “You’re the pie guy! Wow, those scars are really nasty.”

  Domingo reflexively brought his gloved hand to his cheek. Though most of the inflammation and swelling was long gone, the scars from the second- and third-degree burns were still visible.

  The impact the scars were having on his career—combined with the emotional distress from the constant attention—was enough to pursue a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against the Flagler woman once his remaining fractional ablative laser treatments were completed.

  Fortunately, Mika Flagler was loaded.

  “Tell me in your own words why you’ve decided to brave freezing temperatures to come out and protest here tonight,” Domingo tried again.

  “Why?”

  “Yes,” Domingo said, getting frustrated. “What are you hoping to achieve?”

  “I don’t want to achieve anything. I just wanted to get on TV. Hi, Mom!” she said, waving into the camera.

  8:53 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  OLYMPIA COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d been so stupid. So preoccupied with her costume for the charity event, she’d forgotten the batteries and battery charger for the recorder in the hotel. Now, going back to get them, she was a full hour late. Worse, she missed cocktail hour.

  Was there anything worse than missing cocktails?

  It turned out there was.

  Olympia was no more than five feet inside the ballroom when she realized the other mistake she’d made. The event wasn’t a costume party in the Halloween sense of the word. It was a masquerade ball—a formal one at that—with men in tuxedoes and women in gorgeous, full-length gowns.

  The place was a sea of wealthy people dressed in the latest Gucci and Giorgio from their most recent trip to Manhattan. Olympia was wearing a pink halter top and skin-tight yellow spandex pants, with her hair piled high on her head like a 1960s street walker straight out of a Quentin Tarantino movie.

  And carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

  Olympia was just about to turn and dash from the room when a handsome young man in a tuxedo and a masquerade mask approached. “Good evening, madam. If I might have your invitation?”

  Run…

  The tuxedoed usher took the invitation from Olympia’s hand and glanced at it. “I see you’re at table three, Miss Fudge. Very nice, right up front near the stage. Shall I check your shotgun, or would you prefer to keep it?”

  Last chance, girl…

  “I’ll keep it,” Olympia heard herself say. She was staying, and she was keeping the gun. If things got any worse, she might need it to shoot herself with it.

  8:55 P.M. EST

  THE BAR IN THE REAR OF THE BALLROOM

  QUINN ARRIVED DOWNSTAIRS later than he intended, spending extra time in the sauna to shed enough water weight to fit into his tuxedo. Now all he had to do was get through the evening without eating anything—but he sure in hell was going to have a drink.

  Quinn went to the bar and asked for a glass of red wine.

  “One glass of Krissy Meritage for the incredible shrinking man,” the female bartender said.

  What an odd thing to say, Quinn thought—until the bartender lifted her masquerade mask, and he saw her face.

  It was Robyn.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Quinn asked.

  “What does it look like?” Robyn said as she poured Quinn’s wine and set it on the bar. “I’m tending bar and making big tips.”

  “Did Koda ask you to—?”

  “No, Bruce did,” Robyn said.

  Quinn shook his head, realizing how demeaning it must have been for her to go from being Koda’s houseguest to hired help. “So, what happened between you and Koda? He wouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  From behind him, Quinn heard Declan call his name. Quinn turned and saw Declan standing there with a man by his side.

  “Quinn, I’d like to introduce you to the governor of Georgia. Governor, this is Quinn Cole,” Declan said. “I’ve put the two of you together for dinner.”

  The governor reached out and shook Quinn’s hand. “Quinn Cole? Why do I know that name?”

  “Probably because of the two hundred messages I’ve left over the last month,” Quinn said. “You’re a hard man to reach.”

  “Damn it, Mulvaney,” the governor snapped. “This wasn’t an invitation for dinner. It was an ambush.”

  Declan grinned and slapped Quinn on the shoulder. “He’s all yours, Quinn.”

  Declan waited for Quinn and the governor to walk off toward their table before he turned his attention to Robyn.

  “Hello, Robyn,” Declan said. “I thought that might have been you.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” Robyn said.

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. It feels a little awkward.”

  “Then why did you come?” Declan said.

  Robyn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew why already.

  Declan reached out and placed his hand on Robyn’s. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. The universe has a way of working things like this out all on its own.”

  9:05 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  STAN LEE CLIMBED the steps to the stage and positioned himself behind the podium, which he really didn’t need since he had no notes. All his bits were memorized—including several new pieces he’d written specifically for the evening. It was time to be the Southern Gentleman.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who do not know me, I am the Southern Gentleman, and I shall be your master of ceremonies for the evening.”

  Stan Lee waited for the applause to die down before continuing, something he’d learned over the years as a public speaking professional.

  “One year ago, I had the pleasure of addressing you on this festive and all-important occasion, a night in which you will be entertained by yours truly, enjoy perfectly cooked culinary creations—catered by none other than the Low Country queen of catering, Ms. Beatrice Shaw—and then poured enough alcohol to loosen your tongues and wallets for the benefit of the Restoring Savannah Foundation.”

  Stan Lee took a sip of water and waited for the applause to die down before continuing:

  “This year is a bit different from last year in several ways. First, we find ourselves as guests of the Mulvaneys, who have so graciously opened their home to us all. And second, we are sitting here a few mere hours from the solstice eclipse—the first since the year 1638. I know, I Googled it.”

  The audience laughed.

  “Now, if the predictions are true—we shall all be attacked by a flood of ghosts from the beyond. I, for one, plan to lock myself in the bathroom.”

  The laugh-line drew the exact response Stan Lee had hoped for. Again, he waited patiently for the lau
ghter to quiet.

  “Before that, let me share a few helpful recommendations for the gentlemen in the room in the form of a poem I have penned specifically for tonight’s event.

  “A Southern gentleman will open a door

  whenever he encounters a Southern belle.

  And if she’s pretty and quite a lady,

  he helps her off with her clothes as well. I’m sorry. Did I say clothes? I mean coat.”

  Koda stood at the back of the room, watching the Southern Gentleman deliver his opening, pre-dinner monologue. Koda just wished the man would hurry it up. Dinner was already five minutes behind, and Beatrice was having a conniption fit in the kitchen.

  Declan walked up and stood next to Koda. “Where’s Dr. Stoller? I haven’t seen her.”

  “She’s on her way,” Koda said. “She got caught in the storm in Richmond. She’s flying down with Simon, her publisher. You met him at Thanksgiving.”

  “I remember,” Declan said as the Southern Gentleman continued from the stage…

  “A Southern Gentleman knows to take a chair

  with his back turned to the television set.

  Including Saturday, when the games are on.

  Even if he’s placed a rather large bet—unless, of course, the Gamecocks or the Bulldogs are playing—in which case this rule does not apply.”

  The room erupted in laughter.

  “Is this the same guy who did the event last year?” Declan asked. “The one you said was creepy?”

  “Yep. I would have hired someone else, but I ran out of time,” Koda said.

  “Well, people seem to like him,” Declan said as Stan Lee continued delivering his remarks.

  “A Southern gentleman watches the weather

  and is prepared for a sudden rain.

  And he never tries to guess a belle’s weight—

  Lest not if he wants to walk normally again.

  “A Southern gentleman always knows better

  than to forget his Southern etiquette.

  For a Southern belle, she can hold a grudge,

  and make sure that you don’t get a bit.”

  “Don’t look now, but here comes Warren and Bunny Whitlock,” Bruce said. To Bruce’s relief, the well-dressed couple walked past without stopping.

  “Headed to the bar obviously,” Koda said.

  “What have you got against the Whitlocks?” Declan asked. “They give big to the foundation.”

  “It’s not Warren. Warren I can stomach,” Bruce said. “It’s that obnoxious wife of his, Bunny. God, I hate that woman. She wears her fur coat in the middle of summer just so people know she’s got money.”

  Declan squinted, gazing across the room. “Is that Mika?” he asked, pointing a finger at a table up near the stage.

  Koda looked to where Declan was pointing. “Where?”

  “Sitting next to the woman dressed like a hooker with the big hair,” Declan said.

  Koda saw the black woman Declan was talking about. Then he saw Mika. “Jesus, what in the hell is she doing here?”

  “I can assure you, it wasn’t my doing,” Declan said. “Mika and I have been having quite the tug-of-war lately. She knows better than to come anywhere near me.”

  “Tug-of-war? Over what?” Bruce asked.

  “I caught Mika stealing things from my office and selling them,” Declan said.

  Bruce shook his head. “Seriously?”

  “Yep,” Declan said.

  “Where is she?” Bruce asked.

  “Over there, next to the hooker with the afro,” Declan said pointing.

  “You hired a hooker?” Bruce said, shooting Koda a look. “When I put you in charge of entertainment—”

  “No, Dad, I didn’t hire a hooker,” Koda said.

  “I don’t see Mika,” Bruce said.

  “Look to the hooker’s left,” Declan said.

  The woman turned and Koda was finally able to get a good look at her. “Grandpa, that’s not a hooker,” Koda said. “That’s Olympia Fudge from the TV show.”

  Bruce looked to where Declan was pointing and finally saw her. “Yep, that’s Mika,” Bruce said with a laugh.

  “What? You think Mika being here is funny?” Koda asked.

  “No, but you do have to give her points for persistence,” Bruce said. “When Mika wants something, she’ll lie, cheat, and steal to get it.”

  “Here are a few final tips that every Southern gentleman must know should he wish to keep a Southern belle happy…

  “Send lots of flowers and chocolates too.

  Pick up your things, and try not to curse.

  And dear God Almighty, whatever you do,

  don’t let yourself get caught in her purse!

  “So, let us now, Southern gentlemen all,

  escort every belle on a bended arm.

  And should those pesky ghosts show up?

  Let us hope they will do us no harm!”

  And then, as if on queue, every light in the giant room flickered, causing a wave of nervous laughter to erupt.

  “Very spooky—nice touch, Son,” Bruce said before walking away.

  Declan turned to Koda. “Was that something you arranged?”

  Koda shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Declan said.

  9:05 P.M. EST

  JUST OFF THE MAIN BALLROOM

  BEATRICE SHAW STOOD in the hallway, just around the corner and out of sight of the dinner guests, waiting to hear the magic words from the Southern Gentleman as he finished up his introduction.

  What didn’t the man understand about being off the damn stage by nine?

  At least the champagne was already poured.

  Beatrice glanced behind her at the line of masked servers, each doing their best to balance four shredded brussel sprout and beet salads on their arms. At least the Southern Gentleman did a decent job of plugging her services, which was $200 well spent.

  Suddenly, without warning, every light in the house flickered and went out.

  Then, as quickly as the lights went out, they came back on, eliciting a wave of nervous laughter from the guests. If the dimming of the lights was a planned part of the evening, it was news to Beatrice.

  Seconds later, Beatrice heard the words she’d been waiting for: “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

  It was about damn time.

  Beatrice turned, stepped out of the way, and mouthed: “Go. Go. Go.”

  9:07 P.M. EST

  DECLAN’S TABLE IN THE BALLROOM

  QUINN COLE WAS grateful to Declan for placing him at table #1—not because it was up front near the stage, but because the governor of Georgia was sitting there as well, which Quinn knew had not happened by chance.

  It was clearly Declan’s doing.

  The next step now was up to Quinn.

  Declan looked on as Quinn made his case for Wyatt Scrogger’s innocence.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cole,” the governor said once Quinn finished. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Governor, and we both know it,” Quinn said. “There is something you can do. In fact, it’s something you can do that no one else in the world can do—other than the president.”

  “If you’re suggesting I pardon the man who abducted that Georgia peach and did God knows what—”

  “That young Georgia peach you’re referring to happens to be my sister,” Quinn said.

  “Your sister?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that,” the governor murmured. “Well, that being the case, why are you lobbying me for a pardon?”

  “Or a commutation,” Quinn said.

  “A pardon. Clemency. Nothing simple about granting either one,” the governor said. “Same duck, different feathers. One gets me into trouble. The other gets me into more trouble. Now, explain why you’re going to bat for Wyatt Scrogger.”

  “Because Wyatt didn’t do it,” Quinn said.

 
“He didn’t do it?”

  “That’s right,” Quinn said. “Wyatt’s innocent.”

  “Innocent? Well, hell, Mr. Cole—why didn’t you say so sooner? Imagine that, an innocent man on death row. Learn something new every day.”

  “But he is,” Quinn said.

  “Okay, Mr. Cole,” the governor said, turning in his chair. “I’m all ears. Tell me how you know Wyatt Scrogger is innocent. Can you offer me a shred of proof, or am I supposed to take your word for it?”

  Quinn remained silent.

  “As I thought.” The governor leaned back as a waiter approached and set a salad plate in front of him. The governor glanced at the salad and then grabbed the waiter’s arm. “Pardon me. Are those brussel sprouts? And what’s that with them—beets?”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Tossed in a light vinaigrette and olive oil with pine nuts and a hint of saffron.

  “Well, take it back to the garden or wherever the hell it came from,” the governor snapped. “See if the chef can whip up some normal food—like some fried green tomatoes maybe? If he balks, tell him it’s for the governor.”

  The waiter nodded, removed the plate, and scurried off.

  “Well, it’s nice to see someone got a pardon tonight,” Quinn said.

  “How’s that?” the governor said.

  “When you grabbed the waiter’s arm—you said, pardon me,” Quinn said. “See how easy that was?”

  Quinn watched as the governor turned redder than the beets. “My constituents won’t stand for it,” the governor said finally.

  “You mean voters,” Quinn said. “You mean your voters won’t stand for it. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Governor? An innocent man is going to die tomorrow morning, and all you can think about are votes and fried green tomatoes.”

  The governor pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “I’m going to go powder my nose. With any luck a plate of fried green tomatoes will have arrived—and Declan will have arranged a seat for you somewhere else.”