I took one last look at the child, now riding on his father’s shoulders, and went to the etched-glass doors leading from the lobby into the bar. I stopped inside the door and drank in the smell of the room, smoky ten-year-old Scotch mingled with the musk of expensive perfume. Overhead the giant fans on pulleys creaked and groaned softly while Oscar Peterson played in the background.
I didn’t see anyone who might be waiting for me. At the bar a string of middle-aged women, wearing bright capris with matching tops, perched on the wicker-backed stools, laughing one bit louder than was polite or necessary. Two businessmen I knew sat in the farthest corner deep in conversation, talking in hushed tones, probably about some future development that would change all our lives. Their body language said plans were being made and money was involved. I always figured if I were smart enough and eavesdropped on enough power conversations, I could figure out how to get rich. But instead of becoming disgustingly wealthy on real estate deals, I’d bought the Sunset and worked seventy hour weeks just to service my debt.
I stepped farther into the room and looked around the potted palms. Sheila sat at a small round table with two glasses of wine in front of her. She lifted her hand. I went to her table and sank into the leather club chair across from her.
C H A P T E R 4 1
She looked like a runway model, exquisite in every way, with makeup that artfully highlighted her fine eyes and wide mouth. Her chartreuse silk pants and top and high-heeled backless sandals were the upscale version of what her plumper sisters at the bar were wearing.
With makeup this fresh and impeccable she hadn’t come here from somewhere else, everything about her was too unwrinkled and just-applied-looking. So had she dressed like this to impress me? But why would she go to all this trouble for a drink with me? “Because she wants something or is hiding something,” my brain replied. “She doesn’t want to appear weak or needy in any way and being impeccably turned out says power.” Interesting thought, but maybe she was on her way to somewhere else.
Her eyes were anxious and drawn and she wasn’t her normal relaxed self. “I ordered for you,” she said, following my glance.
“Thank you.” No use telling her I never drank when I worked. That road led in a direction I knew well, straight to Disasterville. “Nice to see you,” I told her and I meant it.
It took a while, several trips ’round the mulberry bush, before she said, “So, have you heard anything new about the murder?”
“Not a thing and I’ve been so busy I haven’t even had time to read the paper. What’s happening?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know anything but rumors. The Preserves is full of them. Everyone is waiting for the next shoe to drop as they pass along the gossip, cruel tittle-tattle and idle speculation, while looking at their neighbor with suspicion and worrying about what the police know that they don’t.”
“Tell me about the rumors.”
Her shrug was artful; her eyes were on her glass. “Stories of sex parties up at the clubhouse late at night involving RJ and one of the other guards.”
“With residents or outsiders?”
“Residents.”
“Do you know who was involved?”
She uncrossed her long slender legs. “What’s the point of adding to the rumors, I don’t know anything for sure.” She leaned forward, knees together and elbows resting on her knees, and she looked down at her long slim fingers turning her engagement ring around and around. “I thought when he died it would be over, that I could forget about him.” Around and around went the ring.
I waited.
“It hasn’t gotten any better for anyone. Everyone in the Preserves seems to be on edge. Even golf games have been cancelled. It’s like we’ve become afraid of each other and don’t want to be standing too close in case we get splattered by mud thrown at someone else.” She raised her eyes. “Will it ever end?”
“Sooner or later. The cops will discover who did it or something else will come along to take everyone’s mind off Ray John. People really have a short attention span for drama. They always want the new and fresh sensation.”
“I just want it to be over. I thought it was when that bastard died.”
“Have the police interviewed you?”
Panic, raw and naked, raked her face. “No.” She straightened, rigid with fear. “Why would they?”
“No reason, I just figure they’ll be talking to everyone sooner or later.”
Her body relaxed slightly. She licked her lips. We were coming to the reason for her visit now. “Do you know…?” she hesitated, searching for a path through a minefield. “Did RJ’s stepdaughter say if he left anything behind, records or journals, anything like that?”
This was a new and interesting idea. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you think you could ask?”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
Her voice, normally rich and low, was tight with anxiety. “Maybe files on a computer. He didn’t have a computer at the clubhouse. Do you think he’d keep files on people, you know the ones he talked to about graffiti and drinking? Wouldn’t he keep a record of things like that on a computer at home?”
“Sounds like a possibility.”
“That girl who is staying with you, can you ask her?”
“If something like that exists, don’t you think the police already have it?”
“Oh shit,” she said and closed her eyes.
“Try not to worry, Sheila. If the police had Ray John’s records and you were in there, they would have been out to talk to you by now.”
She opened her eyes, swimming in tears and said, “Do you really think so?” “For sure.”
She pursed her lips and nodded and then she set her jaw. The tough competitor wasn’t about to give up the game.
“So where are you and the doctor guy going tonight?” I asked to change the subject.
“I’m not seeing him tonight. He’s at a meeting.”
“Well, you look great, too good to waste on a night of TV. Call someone and go out for dinner or a movie.” “How about you? Are you busy, Sherri?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I took last night off. Now I have to pay for it.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes looking at something in the past only she could see. “Yes, paying for it — that’s the hard part.” Her smile was thin and sad, saying the bill would likely be more than she could bear.
Every table along the windows was full long before sunset and every seat in the bar was taken up by people waiting with their little square electronic pagers sitting in front of them. Isaak’s fame was spreading. Every night he came up with a new culinary sensation and if I didn’t go broke on his extreme use of exotic foodstuffs, he’d make me rich. He’d worked at the Bath and Tennis Club before coming to the Sunset and many of the diners from the B&T had followed him to the Sunset. Tonight he had a pot roast, mundane-sounding, but the meat had been marinating for three days in pickle juice and it had simmered in wine and bay leaf for hours. Heavenly nectar, like nothing I’d ever tasted. With it he was serving a French-Canadian dish of root vegetables — rutabaga, parsnips, carrots and potatoes whipped with cream and butter. Even the golden color made the dish special, while the taste had me moaning like an orgasmic Meg Ryan.
Isaak had been going to throw out the mound of pickles left over from marinating the roasts when Miguel had stepped in and started putting the sweet pickles on the sandwich plates. Simple, simple but it had been a great hit on the luncheon menu. Now if I could just keep the crazy Israelite from killing the pugnacious Mayan or vice versa, I was golden. Isaak’s talent and creativity were balanced by Miguel’s practicality and understanding of the thin line between profit and loss in the kitchen, something I could never get through to Isaak. I needed them both and hoped I could hang onto them both. Yes, I was pretty happy until the first bad news of the night walked in.
C H A P T E R 4 2
It was a sight I’d hoped never to see, the elevator opene
d and out stepped Dr. Travis and his wife, Bernice, my god-awful husband’s god-awful parents. My shock and outrage must have showed on my face because Bernice actually smiled, a gloating winner’s smile. I guess she thought if I could walk into the Royal Palms and turn her world upside-down she should return the favor.
Beside me, Gwen smiled and said, “Good evening.” They ignored her. “Dr. Travis, Mrs. Travis,” I said, and I swear I even gave a little bow of my head. What in the freaking world would ever possess me to do that? “How nice to see you.” This proved that all Clay’s gentlemanly manners were finally rubbing off on me — but I didn’t kid myself, I knew my festering emotions might turn septic, gangrenous and nasty, at any second.
“We thought we’d drop in for dinner,” Dr. Travis said. In his late fifties, Dr. Travis was still handsome. There was only a wisp of grey at his temples and his fine square jaw was still firm. “We’ve missed your chef’s wonderful cooking.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that.” Right after I told him to lace their dinners with arsenic. For the nine years I’d been married to Jimmy, these two people had gone out of their way to make my life miserable. “Give the Travises the next window table to come up, Gwen.”
“But…” she started to say and quickly changed it to, “of course.” She picked up a pager. I took it from her before she could hand it to them.
“Would you like to wait in the bar?” I asked and led the way. Back at the hostess station Gwen asked, “Are we comping them?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “In fact, charge them double so they don’t make a habit of it.”
Before I could even curse them out good and tell Gwen my tale of woe, the elevator opened and out stepped Tully Jenkins — just to keep life from getting boring.
“Is Uncle Ziggy okay?” I asked, sure his being there meant new and possibly fatal disaster had struck.
“Far as I know.”
“You haven’t killed anyone, have you?” I inquired, and held my breath while I waited for his answer.
He pushed the black straw cowboy hat off his forehead with his thumb, giving it some thought. “Don’t think so.”
“So, why are you here?”
Beside me, Gwen gasped, but then she’s always been nicer than I am.
“Why, I just got to missing you, sugar.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed. “Wasn’t it you that left messages all over town telling me you needed to see me?”
“Oh right, I forgot.” I’d called all his favorite bars and most of his friends, trying to find him before he did anything foolish, “Unless you have another daughter, that was definitely me.”
“Nope, you’re the only pretty thing I recollect that occasionally calls me Daddy.”
A wonderful brilliant idea hit me. “Come with me,” I said, heading for the bar. “I’ll buy you a brewski.” I took him to where the Travises were huddled together at a round table. Bernice looked up and saw Tully, denim from shoulders to ankles, with his straw cowboy hat pushed to the back of his head, and started gasping for air.
I turned to Tully. He was grinning, enjoying this way too much. “You sit,” I ordered. “I’ll grab you a beer.” “Anything you say, honeybunch.”
The conversation was stilted when I got back with Tully’s beer. I left them to it and went to tell Gwen I didn’t think the Travis party would be waiting for their table. I was wrong. Forty minutes later when their electronic pager went off they came out of the bar together, Bernice hanging onto Tully’s arm and talking earnestly to him. They didn’t see me as Gwen led the three of them to the window where the sun was slowly setting over the gulf.
And then, while I was lending a hand behind the bar, the Charters family, Thia and Anita, came in. Thia was dressed in tight blue jeans and a startling white tee-shirt with a small Nautica label over the left breast. She was wearing red high-heeled sandals that matched a shiny red bag from Dooney & Bourke. Simple right? Nothing to get excited about, right? Except this was Thia. Conversation halted in the bar and everyone, man and woman alike, stared. Her lavender eyes coolly assessed the room.
Beside her, Anita looked like a sack of potatoes. How could a beer keg give birth to a six-foot glass of champagne? Anita teetered on stilettos with her feet puffing over the sides, painful to see, her black leather skirt, sitting below her hips, was too short and the leopard-print top was so tight her belly button showed. I felt embarrassed for her, wanted to run over and wrap a blanket around her. That woman just wasn’t doing herself any favors, trying to compete with her daughter.
Thia saw me and headed for the bar, while her mother reached for her arm and pointed to an empty table. Thia jerked her arm away and then ignored her mother as she floated to the bar. You could hear men sighing all over the room. Behind Thia clomped Anita.
Thia pulled out a stool and said, “I’ll have Scotch on the rocks.”
“How ’bout a soda?” I replied.
She made a face but didn’t argue. Anita struggled to climb onto the stool and said, “Why are barstools always so high?” “Why are you so fat?” Thia shot back.
“My theory is, barstools are designed by men,” I told Anita.
“They like to see us struggle, makes them feel all macho. Or maybe they just like the view. What would you like to drink?”
Anita’s first vodka martini disappeared and the second one was mostly gone before Thia was halfway through her soda, and the kid’s nasty streak got worse with each sip her mother took.
“Have you heard any news about the murder?” I asked as I came back to set a red wine on a coaster in front of Anita. I wasn’t sure her plan of changing drinks was going to slow down her growing inebriation but hell, it was her choice, and her hangover, not mine.
“Has there been any more news about his shooting?” Anita leaned across the bar. Her grin was lopsided. “Shot three times.” She struggled to flip up three fingers to show the number just in case I couldn’t count. “Must have been someone who knew him well.” She giggled, amused by death.
“I heard that the police were talking to all sorts of people out at the Preserves. Have they interviewed you yet?” I was looking at Thia when I said it but Anita answered.
“Uh huh, told them I barely knew him, just the hired help.” Anita smiled, pleased to be clever, then abruptly changed the subject. “Say, why we have to talk about him.” She added an exaggerated wave, dismissing Ray John. “Thia’s going to New York. She’s got a contract to model for a big New York agency. She was supposed to go before but she wouldn’t leave, wanted to finish high school. But she can do that in New York and still model. She’s going to be famous, be on the cover of Vogue and Elle, television even. Goin’ straight to the top.” She set the empty wineglass down carefully on the bar. “I gotta go,” she said and tried to slide off the stool, taking it with her. The guy standing next to her grabbed the stool and righted both it and Anita. “Thank you,” she slurred, patting the man’s chest. He moved quickly away and she tottered off to the ladies room.
“New York sounds pretty exciting,” I said to Thia.
“Nothing to stay here for now, is there?” Thia said. Her beautiful features were blank. Hard to tell how much she was missing Ray John.
“Were you staying because of him?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow, “I would have got bored eventually and moved on, but I was having a blast.”
Were the fun and games restricted to Ray John or had other people been involved as Sheila had hinted. Prurient curiosity made me want to ask for details. “I hope you didn’t start your modeling career out at the Preserves. Pictures have a way of coming back to haunt us.”
“You sound like the voice of experience,” she made a guess that hit too close to home.
“Where are the pictures?” I asked.
“I’ve got them.”
“All of them?”
A small shrug said she really didn’t care. “I think so.” “Didn’t happen to retrieve them the night Ray John di
ed, did you?”
“Are you accusing me of killing him?” Her lavender eyes had turned into ice but her voice didn’t change.
Was I accusing her of killing Ray John? I was sure of one thing: this was a young woman who was capable of just about anything. “Can you use a gun?” I asked.
“Sure, but not as well as my mother. She’s the family sharpshooter. Grandpa was a diamond merchant and made all the family learn to shoot. They all carry.”
I laughed. “That could make family get-togethers real interesting.”
She smiled. “Mainly we just snipe at each other with words. We save the bullets for outsiders.”
Ray John would have been the perfect outsider for target practice.
C H A P T E R 4 3
Two hours later Gwen said, “I wish your family would quit with the yack yack and free up that table.”
With all the fun I’d been having in the bar I hadn’t realized that the Travis party was still going on in the dining room. They’d been there longer than they’d ever spent together through all the miserable years of my marriage, including the wedding. What on earth were they finding to talk about and why hadn’t my red-necked old man given Bernice a cerebral hemorrhage like I’d hoped? I went in to have a look. They were laughing. Bernice was hugging herself and rocking back and forth with laughter. Had I ever seen her laugh before? Not that I could remember. Against my better judgment I sidled over within sniper range.
“We were just talking about a fishing trip Jimmy and I took,” Tully said when he saw me. Of course they were talking about Jimmy, the one thing they all had in common. Jimmy had been everything Tully had ever wanted in a son and sometimes it seemed he loved Jimmy better than he loved me. Jimmy and Tully had fished and hunted and gone diving together, two sides of the same coin.
I smiled at the happiness on their faces and nodded in understanding.
Tully went right on with his Jimmy story. “We fished all day and didn’t catch anything. Cold as a witch’s tit out there and enough wind to give us a chop all day so you never really got comfortable, rocking back and forth for hours. After three hours of that misery Jimmy reeled in and declared the whole goddam Gulf of Mexico was fished out. Blamed it on the tourists, said there was nothing left and someone should do something about it, stop them from overfishing.” Tully wheezed with laughter. “Just as he made this little speech a lady fish jumped right out of the water and landed in the middle of the boat.”
3 A Brewski for the Old Man Page 20
