Ethan was like a rock star in Florida industry, so when word spread throughout the county that Florida’s richest man hung out in the Sunset, businesspeople started showing up for drinks and meals. Maybe they were hoping to be noticed by the king of phosphates or were praying that some of his money would just rub off on them.
While I wanted nothing more to do with Ethan, I had to admit I liked what knowing him was doing for the Sunset. Soon we were turning diners away. Clay was already right about Ethan improving our finances.
And Clay was right about another thing. Ethan introduced him to people. Over the next week when Ethan dropped by for lunch, he brought interesting people with him, many of them orchid fanciers. One was Sasha Kranoff, a man Ethan introduced as a Russian immigrant and “one of the biggest collectors in Florida, with a special interest in exotics.”
Sasha’s silk sports coat was well cut, but it didn’t hide his inelegant build. He had short pillars for legs and a long body with shoulders that rolled forward, but he was saved from ugliness by a handsome face with soulful brown eyes and long feminine lashes.
When Ethan introduced me, Sasha said, “So you’re an orchid fancier,” pointing at Ethan’s gift.
“Not really. I just like them because they don’t die within days of unwrapping them.”
Ethan said, “Sherri has no interest in orchids. I’ve bored her to death with my talk.”
Sasha shook his head and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Believe me, when it comes to orchids and me, there’s nothing to miss,” I told him and began working my way down the bar, filling tiny bowls with peanuts.
“Mick,” I whispered to the other tender when I was out of earshot, “change stations with me so you look after those two guys.”
Mick nodded and kept on moving.
When Sasha left for the men’s room, I went back to speak to Ethan. “Your friend . . .” I began and then hesitated. How do you ask someone if his buddy is in the Russian mob? It wasn’t just where he came from but his whole demeanor that made me uneasy. Ethan saved me from finishing my question.
“He’s not my friend. He contacted me days after Ben died and asked if I had the black orchid.”
“I remember—you told me black ones are rare.”
Ethan couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “Not rare, nonexistent.”
“But Sasha thinks Ben had one?”
Ethan glanced towards the men’s room.
I added, “If he didn’t, why would he be here?”
He nodded.
“Both Ben and Sasha thought a black exists.” I worried the inside of my cheek, intrigued despite myself. “So what does that mean?”
“It means that if I made a list of people who might have killed Ben, Sasha’s name would be at the head of the list.”
“And you’re drinking coffee with him?” It was my turn to glance over to where Sasha had disappeared. “I surely don’t thank you for bringing him to the Sunset.”
“He’s rich, the kind of diner all restaurants want.”
“Yeah, but how did he get rich?”
“Ah, good question. His father was high up in the Russian army before he left Russia. The old man brought tons of cash with him. It’s a safe bet that if anyone knows what happened to the missing nuclear warheads from the old USSR, it’s Sasha and his old man. They escaped with more than just money.” Ethan pointed a finger at me. “Be careful. Sasha is very Americanized but still thinks like a Russian.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means rules and laws are for other people, not Sasha.”
“Now I know I’m not going to thank you for bringing him to the Sunset.”
“Maybe you should. He’s on the board of a half dozen not-for-profit organizations. He’ll bring the right kind of people your way. Don’t worry, he has beautiful manners, and he’ll always have someone attractive with him; he always does. Lately it has been an American model named Willow. A treat to meet.” He laughed but I heard something more than amusement in his voice, something below the surface of his words. I wondered just what kind of amusement Willow handed out.
Sasha returned but he didn’t stay. He spent maybe ten minutes with Ethan before he took a call and charged out, shouldering aside people at the door like he’d just learned his house was on fire.
Ethan didn’t even watch him go. Taking his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, he signaled for me to warm his coffee.
While I filled his cup, I asked, “What sent him off?”
His eyes rose to mine. “I don’t know. I was talking about you. It seemed to upset him.” His eyes went back to his Blackberry.
“Exactly what were you saying?”
He glanced up briefly and then his eyes went back to the device in his hands. “Oh, I just told him about the weird coincidence of Tito having your business card.”
I wanted to hit him with the coffee carafe. Instead, like the good bartender I was, I said, “How about some lunch, Ethan?”
“I’ll wait,” he said, without looking up from the tiny screen. “Someone is joining me.”
I started to turn away but then stopped and pointed the coffee carafe at his Blackberry. “Is that a list of enemies or friends?”
“Both. And some I’m not sure of yet.” His granite jaw clamped down tight.
“Man, I wouldn’t want to be on your enemy list. Just do me a favor and don’t bring all of your enemies to the Sunset.”
The woman who joined him minutes later was nearly six feet tall and severely undernourished. She had a long face with thin eyebrows that rose like mountain peaks over deep-set piercing eyes. The look of leanness about her was underscored by her upswept hair. A human wolfhound, her name was Nina Dystra.
I wondered if she was married to a lawyer named Dystra, the guy Clay had taken to court over a real-estate deal that went wrong.
I went over to take her drink order. Ethan and Nina were making plans for some kind of a fancy party. When I came back with their drinks, they seemed to have settled on three hundred dollars a person as the ticket price. I went away shaking my head.
Minutes after they moved into the dining room, Clay came in. He checked out the bar, searching for Ethan, before even saying hi.
“He’s deserted you for another.” I set a coffee in front of him. “But don’t feel bad. She isn’t nearly as cute.”
CHAPTER 17
That was about the time I started to get the feeling I was being followed. Crazy, spooky feelings, but ones I knew well. I didn’t tell Clay or anyone else; I kept it to myself because my sanity had come into question more than once lately. It wasn’t just Clay advising me to get professional help. Even Tully, king of the wary, thought I’d crossed a line. Trauma, that’s what everyone kept telling me I was suffering from. Seems it isn’t only soldiers who suffer from post-traumatic stress; victims of crime have their own issues. But even admitting to one and all that I’d now danced around the bend couldn’t stop the alarm I felt, the creepy sensation at the back of my neck that said I was being watched.
I knew it wasn’t my imagination. If you’ve been stalked, you develop an extra sense, one it’s best to pay attention to no matter how nutty your nearest and dearest say you are.
Be aware of your surroundings is what they taught me in the self-defense course I took after Jimmy’s murder, and I had become a master at it. I started doing strange things—well, things that were bizarre for anyone but me. I wrote down license-plate numbers, noted unfamiliar cars outside the house and checked the parking lot for those same vehicles before I left the Sunset. I even took a good look through the glass doors of the grocery store or the bank before leaving, looking for a face or vehicle that kept turning up.
I began changing my schedule, never doing things by rote, making it difficult for a watcher to pred
ict where to find me. Sometimes I got up early and went into the Sunset when Clay left for his office. I told Clay I was going in early to catch up on bookwork to explain why I was there hours before the restaurant opened. I wanted his protection, but more than that, I didn’t want to be alone among all those empty houses. And when the staff questioned why I was leaving in the middle of a shift, I started coming up with various health reasons, anything other than telling them I was jumping at shadows.
I developed a new defensive routine. Every day when I got to the Sunset, I went immediately to the front windows and looked outside. I’d ignore the turquoise-blue Gulf of Mexico, the sea grass and the boardwalk and concentrate on the people. I was looking for that one figure that didn’t fit in. Mostly I saw inline skaters, earbuds firmly in place, zipping along the sidewalks and forcing the rest of the world to step aside, dog walkers and tourists, heat rising from the pavement, and white ibises stepping in and out of the tall grasses, searching for food. Just another day in paradise on a street where everyone and no one belonged.
Later in the afternoon, after the drinkers playing hooky from life had left and before the serious drinkers had arrived, I’d be back there. The neutral time—that’s how I always thought of this time of day. I’d stand at the windows for half an hour, searching for anything out of the ordinary, but it was the normal things that kept grabbing my attention, like a father kneeling down in front of a crying child to wipe away his tears. My heart did a somersault, my brain deep in a fantasy of the future I dreamed for Clay and myself.
One day, when I knew I would be coming home alone after dark, I sprinkled a little cinnamon outside the glass doors at the back of the house. Not a lot, not enough to catch Clay’s attention, but just enough to show a footprint. I did the same outside the front door. Then I got in my truck and locked the doors before I opened the garage door. Like I said, I was well into the wacky and weird, playing hide-and-seek by myself and discovering nothing.
The spooky feeling wouldn’t let go, jerking me around like a puppet to locate danger. But there was never a concrete reason for my discomfort.
It was the shower curtain that really set me on high alert. A shower curtain—how’s that for something to pin your arguments on? Growing up in a trailer park, in a home covered in tin, we alternately froze and fried. In the summertime, at a hundred percent humidity, it was almost as wet inside as it was outside. With temperatures hovering around a hundred degrees and rain pouring down, mold grew everywhere. My mother fought mold like a true believer fights sin. She hated it, even though it was as much a part of our world as the heat. That didn’t stop Ruth Ann.
She’d go on these campaigns, battles to eradicate the creeping black fuzz from our lives, and attack the black ooze growing around the single-paned windows with bleach so strong it made our eyes water. My job in this war was to pull all the shoes and purses out of my mother’s closet and scrub away the gray haze inside with vinegar. That miserable occupation taught me to hate the black goo as much as she did.
But she saved her real fury for the slime that grew in the shower. To fight its spread, we pulled the shower curtain across the tiny enclosure at all times so that water would drain off the plastic, preventing black gunk from growing in the folds. Some things become a habit. I may be the world’s worst housekeeper, but my shower is always wiped down and the curtain is always stretched wide to allow it to dry.
On this night I’d left the Sunset early, still changing up my routine, and the first thing I did when I got home was head for the shower. The shower was wide open. I was the last one to leave the house, the last one in the bathroom. I was sure this wasn’t how I’d left it. But why would an intruder pull aside a curtain and check out a shower? Only the silliness of the idea kept me from calling the cops and telling them someone had been inside our house, but I knew it was true. I couldn’t even tell Clay someone had been in our shower because it would prove I’d lost it and really have him on my case to get some help.
My insomnia came back big-time. I prowled the house at night, checking and rechecking locks, hunting shadows and hidden places where death could wait, never confident I was safe. Deep in my heart I believed it was just a matter of time before someone came for me. I didn’t know who, and I didn’t know why; I just knew it would happen.
Sick with fear. That’s exactly how it feels, like you’re going to puke. It’s a never-ending thing sitting in your gut and gnawing away. You can’t eat, you can’t think of anything else, and you sure as hell aren’t getting any sleep. There’s just no relief from this kind of fear.
One night I was staring out into the night, trying to see any light or any movement, something that didn’t belong, concentrating all of my being on the world beyond the slit in the curtain. Hands slipped around my waist. I drove my elbow back hard and whirled with the flat of my hand raised, ready to strike. Clay had already danced away.
“Jesus, Sherri, it’s only me.”
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” His right hand rubbed his ribs.
It was true. He hadn’t been trying to surprise me. It was just that Clay moved like a panther in the night. I never heard him, never knew he was there, until he touched me.
He stepped towards me, arms circling me and pulling me against his naked chest. “You’ve got to get some help, Sherri.”
I laid my cheek against his shoulder. “We’ve been through this. I’m fine.”
“You jump at shadows and see danger where there isn’t any. How many times have you woken up in the night, sure someone was in the house? Or had Miguel check out strange cars in the parking lot? Asked him to walk you to your truck? You even have him follow you home and then sit there with the engine running until I open the door and you know it’s safe. Do you think that’s normal? I’m worried about you.”
It was no time to tell him that I was too.
My fears were given credence when a friend who worked at our bank told me someone had been making discreet inquiries into our financial position. A credit check had been done, but there was no indication of why or who was involved. Then Gwen, the Sunset’s hostess, told me about a man who asked too many questions and showed too much interest in me. Even Clay was aware of someone poking around in our lives, but it didn’t rattle him. But I didn’t like being in someone’s headlights. It wasn’t just what had happened out in the Glades that had me jumpy. There were way too many secrets in my past, and too many scary people who might want to get even, for me not to worry about a stranger poking around in my life.
While all of this was happening, Ethan Bricklin was becoming almost a regular. I was never surprised to see him come in and always enjoyed our conversations, and if I’d really paid attention I could have become an expert on orchids. It was just about his only topic of conversation.
One day he surprised me by saying, “I came to invite you to a party,” adding quickly, in case I got the wrong idea, “you and Clay.”
“What kind of party?”
“The Orchid Ball at Selby Gardens—it’s a glitzy black-tie night. I’m on the committee with Nina Dystra, and it’s my duty to buy lots of tickets.” He smiled in a wry, self-deprecating way that took years off him. “Buying tickets is about all they expect of me so I’m making it a celebration.”
“Woo, black tie! I’m not sure we’re up for that.” I threw a bar towel at the sink. “A hog roast with hillbilly rock is more my kind of social evening.”
“C’mon. A masked ball—how can you turn that down? The theme’s Venice,” and then he added, “Italy, not Florida.”
“Good thing you cleared that up. Our Venice is cargo shorts, with tee shirts that advertise Sharky’s, not tuxedos and cummerbunds. Although I once saw a man in a tux dancing with a woman in shorts out at Sharky’s tiki bar.”
Ethan wasn’t interested in local color. “This will be fantastic, good food with superb wines.�
�� His eyes glinted and he waved his hands in the air, enthusiastic and excited. “I’ll pick you up in a limo so you can let yourself go without worrying about driving. Even better, I’ll book you a hotel room.” He added, “Did I mention there’d be fine wines?”
“Yes, I seem to have heard that.”
“C’mon, say yes.”
My brain was going over my wardrobe and finding it wanting. I shook my head. “We’re beach people, not charity-events people.”
“You’ll enjoy it. And you’ll get lots of new customers for the Sunset.”
I shook a finger at him. “Appealing to my greed; good one. I’ll talk to Clay.”
He rubbed his hands together. “And I’ll order your masks. Everyone is going to have something unique, something that represents them. I’ll pick the perfect one for you.” He bounced to his feet, eager to make things happen.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“But you will.”
Ethan didn’t wait for me to talk to Clay but went out to find him and convince him to join the party. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a hard sell to get Clay to agree, not as hard as it was for Clay to convince me.
The hunt for the perfect dress turned into my personal crusade to improve the finances of southwest Florida. After a new dress and new shoes came hair and nails. My mission to grow the economy was such a success that for once in my life I got it all together.
On the night of the ball I stood before a full-length mirror and turned this way and that. Damn, I looked good in a lock-the-doors-and-turn-out-the-lights sort of way. Elegant sophistication will always elude me.
After making sure everything was tucked into place, I swept into the living room, doing my best red-carpet posing and enjoying the tender kiss of silk on my skin.
Clay clutched his heart. “I think I’m having a coronary.”
Stroking my hair back carefully, I lifted my chin and showed him my profile before I vamped towards him with my hand on my hip. “Do you like it?” I purred.
6 Martini Regrets Page 9
