by Reinke, Sara
John blinked at her in undisguised amazement. “You called the club?”
“Nope. But like Gracie said, Hugh Hefner still sends her Christmas cards. He’s in the naked girl business. Boyd Wilder’s in the naked girl business. It makes sense that they’d sort of know one another, by name if nothing else. It’s like that game, six degrees of Kevin Bacon, where you can tie any celebrity in the known universe together. Only this time, it’s six degrees of Hugh Hefner.”
John’s mouth felt all tacky again, only this time, not because he was thirsty. “Your mom called Hugh Hefner?”
Sandy nodded.
“At the Playboy Mansion?”
“Sure.” Sandy shrugged. “I guess so. His cell phone, at any rate.”
“Gracie has Hugh Hefner’s cell phone number?” he asked and Sandy nodded. “What did he say when she called?”
“He said, ‘hi, Gracie,’” she said, rolling her eyes, awarding another of her Duh! looks. “Jeez, what do you think?”
***
He changed his clothes, shrugging his way into a fresh shirt, and when he returned to the bed, he checked his laptop for any new messages. In the bottom corner, in his menu bar, he saw a small envelope icon. In the immortal words of America Online, he had mail.
Dear Mr. Harker, Michael Gough had written in reply. Thanks so much for your email. Yes, I know Lucy Weston. I think she may be in serious trouble and am very concerned for her. I don’t really know how to explain it in an email so it doesn’t sound crazy.
Try me, John thought.
May I call you sometime tomorrow, talk to you about it? I live in California, Pacific zone, 3 hours behind your time.
Sure, John typed back in reply. Call my cell phone when you get the chance. 12 noon your time, 3:00 mine? I’ll talk to you then.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he murmured, hitting Send.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Okay.” John sat at a bar topped with colorful Spanish tiles that bisected Sandy’s kitchen at Little Pink. He had his laptop with him, a notebook and a pen tucked behind his ear. “What do we know about Boyd Wilder?”
He hadn’t been able to take more than a bite of the spinach salad she’d prepared. Something in it had burned his mouth like raw jalapenos and he’d scrambled to the nearest sink, spitting furiously, then rinsing his mouth out straight from the tap.
“What are you trying to do?” he’d panted, glaring at her. “Kill me?”
“There’s nothing spicy in there, I promise,” Sandy had said, bewildered. “It’s just regular old Caesar dressing.” She’d read from the bottle: “Mayonnaise, Worcestershire sauce, minced garlic, monosodium glutamate. Maybe you’re allergic.”
She was about to try a second course on him: grilled salmon, asparagus and something she’d called quinoa.
“Keen-what?” he’d asked.
“Quinoa,” she’d repeated. “It’s an ancient Meso-American pseudocereal, a species semi-annual flowering plant called goosefoot. The Incas considered their dietary staple. You’ll like it.”
He could hardly wait.
As she deposited a plate in front of him, Sandy said, “I’ve read several features about Wilder online, none of them flattering. He’s got an attitude problem as big as his bank account.”
The strong odor of the salmon was enough to make his stomach warble unhappily, and he pushed it aside as he set his computer up. Hers was already out and open, sitting across from him and she leaned over it now, munching on a stalk of asparagus held in one hand, tapping on the keyboard with the other.
“Speaking of which, while you were down in South Shore and I was running his background check, I swung by the library,” she said. “There’s a lady who works there, Abigail Nesting. She’s pretty much a one-woman Sister Islands Preservation Committee and Historical Society.”
“Can you technically have a committee or society if it’s only one person?” John asked.
Sandy frowned. “I was being facetious. You know, joking.”
“Blithe and waggish,” he agreed and when she laughed, delighted, he added, “See? You and Gracie aren’t the only ones good at Scrabble.”
“Anyway, I started talking yesterday to Miss Nesting and she was telling me about some of the islands’ history. Did you ever hear about how Boyd Wilder’s great-great-grandfather, Duvall, came to own them?”
While she was distracted, John pushed the plate of salmon away again. “No.”
“It’s really fascinating.” Not as distracted as he’d thought, Sandy reached over and pushed it back to him. “All three islands were originally deeded to someone named…”
She flipped through a pocket-sized spiral-bound notebook, speed-reading through notes she’d apparently taken during her conversation at the library. Yet another of her many talents he didn’t remember seeing listed on her resume, but she insisted had been included there. “…Juan Estevez Torres by the Spanish governor in Havana in 1815. In 1817, a ship called the Patriola sailing from St. Jago de Cuba for America wrecked on the reefs north of Big Sister during a hurricane. All of the cargo was found aboard and intact, but the crew was gone. According to the ship’s log, they’d abandoned it before the hurricane had struck because of strange occurrences onboard.”
John raised a dubious eyebrow, using his elbow to surreptitiously ease his dinner plate further away from him. “Strange occurrences?”
Sandy nodded, leaning far enough across the bar to scoot the plate back beside him. “Some of the sailors started turning up missing several days into their voyage. One by one, they vanished into thin air, and the rest were reportedly so frightened, they were threatening to mutiny.”
“So did they?” John asked.
“No one knows.” Sandy took great glee in telling these sorts of spooky stories. He could tell by the animated tone of her voice, the mischievous gleam in her eyes. “The log never said. All anyone knows is that the ship was absolutely deserted when it ran aground. Shortly after the shipwreck, Miss Nesting said that farmers on the island had started finding livestock slaughtered in the fields and seeing an enormous dog-like animal. They called it a demon and said it had come to Big Sister on board the Patriola during the hurricane, that it must have been what caused the disappearance of the crew. Rumors were so rampant about the islands being cursed that Juan Estevez Torres, the guy who’d been appointed by the Cuban governor to oversee them, sold them dirt cheap in 1820, all three to Duvall Wilder.”
John blinked. “Am I missing something here?”
“I’m getting to that. I read that the account of the Patriola was one of the inspirations behind Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The book opens describing a shipwreck pretty similar. And Miss Nesting said that in the late 1800s, Stoker in fact visited America frequently. He was a guest of William Pardon Wilder, Duvall’s son, at the family mansion on Duvall Island in 1892. That’s where he must have heard stories of the Patriola.”
John raised an expectant brow. “And this is relevant to our investigation because?”
“Lucy Weston bit you,” Sandy said. “Bram Stoker might have gotten the idea for Dracula from a shipwreck that happened on Big Sister Island. Dracula.” She cocked her head, staring at him in that Duh! sort of way again. “Biting. Hello?”
John could feel another headache coming on and slid his plate away once more. “Can we please get back to Boyd Wilder now?”
“Fine.” Sandy rolled her eyes, biting off another piece of asparagus. “Whatever. But there’s not much else to tell you. He’s ducked around at least a dozen lawsuits stemming from his Show Me! videos and girls claiming they were coerced into participating. He’s had a couple of minor infractions involving delinquency of a minor, mostly alcohol-related. No jail time. No criminal charges or civil settlements against him or pending. No known aliases. He was legally excused from jury duty two years ago. He’s registered as a Democrat. Oh, and he was a judge in the Miss Nude USA Pageant last year.”
“Sign me up for that gig,” John murmured.
&
nbsp; “Sure thing.” Sandy scooted his plate in front of him. “Right after you eat your salmon.”
***
“I have to say this is a real treat,” Boyd Wilder told John upon their introduction.
Wearing a T-shirt, black jeans and a pair of weathered Chuck Taylor sneakers, he looked for all the world like a teen-aged kid visiting his dad’s office, not the founder and CEO of a multimillion-dollar worldwide empire. His blond hair stuck out in a tousled disarray atop his head, like he’d raked gel through it to get it standing on end. He had a round face that lent him an air of boyish charm, pale skin that seemed unnaturally out of place for a born-and-bred native of the Florida Keys and ice-blue eyes that struck John as odd, nearly insectile.
He’d met John and Sandy in the outer foyer of the Show Me! club, which stood in brightly lit contrast to the dark showroom beyond. Here, a buxom blonde receptionist stood behind a sleek glass countertop, charging admission to patrons and selling a variety of souvenir Show Me! T-shirts, DVDs and novelty items.
“Thanks for seeing me,” John said, accepting the amiable handshake Wilder offered.
Much to his chagrin, Sandy had insisted on driving him to the club for the meeting. In fact, she hadn’t insisted as much as she’d simply grabbed his keys before he could get to them, then refused to return them.
“You’re not supposed to be driving,” she’d said. “Doctor’s orders.”
Then, upon their arrival at the club, she’d surprised him by killing the engine and opening her door.
“Hey,” he’d said. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside,” she’d replied. “With you.” Before he could argue, she’d rubbed her hands against the steering wheel of his Galaxie as if petting a cat. “I guess I could stay out here. Drop the top, cruise around the block a couple of times while you—”
“Like hell,” he’d growled. The car, as his ex-wife, Bevi, had been fond to point out, was one of the few things in the world to which he had deep-seeded emotional attachment. That he’d been letting Sandy drive it in his company was nothing short of an apocalyptical omen.
“It’s not every day I’m asked to take an audience as a personal favor to Hugh Hefner,” Wilder told John with a smile. “What was I supposed to say, ‘uh, no, Hef? Cram it up your ass?’” He laughed then glanced over his shoulder as Jame Covey, the bar manager, approached from the main showroom. “I thought Jame could keep your friend…Miss Dodd, did you say it was?...entertained while we went upstairs to talk business.”
“Sounds good,” John replied, glancing over at Sandy. “No dancing.”
She waggled her foot demonstratively, indicating her bum ankle. “Don’t worry about that.”
Wilder ushered John through a locked and unmarked doorway, up a narrow staircase to his private administrative suite. The steps were steep and rubber-treaded, the cinderblock walls whitewashed with satin-finished paint. Even the overlapping cadence of their footsteps on the risers seemed to reverberate in the stairwell, and John could have sworn over and above this, he could hear voices all at once, a chorus of indistinct but discernable whispering.
He paused halfway up, head cocked, trying to make out where that peculiar sound might have been coming from, lots of little voices, hissing and tangling together like a nest of snakes hidden behind the mortar in the walls.
No, he thought with a frown. Not snakes. Women. It sounds like women whispering.
Strangely, the sound didn’t seem to be coming from above them and he tried to decide if it was coming from the first floor below. Sound quality in the stairwell was awful, rendering everything disembodied, echoing and haunting, but nutty as it sounded—and he had to admit, it sounded pretty batshit—it seemed like those whispers were coming from inside his own head.
“You alright, John?” Wilder asked, stopping as well, if only long enough to award a bemused glance over his shoulder.
Abruptly the whispering silenced. John could have sworn he heard a muffled, distant “Ssssssssssssshhhhh” followed by a fluttering chorus of giggles, and then it was all gone.
“Uh, yeah.” John nodded once, resuming his ascent. “Fine.”
By day, the room would have been flooded with sunshine, as almost the entire perimeter was floor-to-ceiling windows. By night, they awarded a panoramic view of the waterfront and South Shore skyline surrounding them.
“Nice place you have here,” John remarked. The office was spacious and sparsely furnished. Its primary decorations seemed to be a bevy of voluptuous, scantily clad women, presumably dancers from the club downstairs, who lounged around on the chaises and sofas, sipping cocktails and watching John and Wilder through hooded eyes and with enigmatic smiles. John wondered if they had been the ones he’d overheard whispering and giggling from the stairs. Catching sight of one in particular, a lush red-head, he added, “It’s got a hell of a view.”
Wilder looked around speculatively, seeming to pay neither attention nor mind to the beautiful women. “Ennhh, I’m thinking about changing it all, branching out, exploring some new business lines, going more mainstream. You know, like Show Me! sports-bars. A Show Me! clothing line, maybe lingerie boutiques, the upscale sort, like Victoria’s Secret.”
“Strip and soft-core porn businesses getting old?” John asked.
Wilder smiled at him, as smooth as oil. “No, but I am. Hey, this shit was fun when I was twenty-something. Back then, I could take my camera, a couple of guys, head out to the mainland, hit the spring break circuit. Girls were different back then. It was an ingénue thing—that’s what gave the Show Me! videos their appeal. You had your normal, everyday girls-next-door getting giggly on Jell-O shots and flashing their tits.”
He glanced almost contemptuously around the room at the dancers now, nodding once in indication. “Now, ask any of them. They think showing up on my videos or dancing in one of my clubs is going to make them the next big thing. A super star. I go out, and the girls are lined up to meet me.”
“Must suck to be you,” John remarked. The girls all giggled at this, the soft, muted fluttering of doves cooing in overlapping unison.
Wilder chuckled. “More than you know. But hey, enough about me. You want something to drink? It’s on the house.”
As if reading John’s mind and sensing his preference, he waggled his finger in beckon at the red-headed dancer. Her long legs uncrossed and unfurled, her stiletto heels settling on the granite-tiled floor as she rose to her feet, her hair spilling over her shoulders in glossy auburn waves. “Phoebe, run down and get Mr. Harker a…?” He glanced at John, expectant.
“No, thanks,” John said.
“You sure?” Wilder raised his brow. “No offense, but you’re looking a little rough.”
John managed a smile. “Yeah. I’ve got a stomach bug or something.” He nodded to indicate Wilder’s hand, the one he’d shaken earlier. “You might want to wash that or something. Just in case.”
Wilder laughed again. “Covey told me you were a funny guy.” For the first time, his smile faded. “He also said Lucy Weston’s gone missing. I’m real sorry to hear that.”
“You know her, then?”
“Sure.” Wilder nodded. “Come on over here. Let’s sit down.”
John followed him across the room to a glass-topped desk. While Wilder settled himself into the large, black leather chair behind it, John sank into one of the smaller chairs facing him.
“Lucy’s a good kid. Beautiful girl. Smart as hell, too,” Wilder said.
“Her mother thinks you talked her into coming here to work.”
“I did, yes,” Wilder replied, surprising John with his candor. “When I met her, she was plating Grand Slams at Denny’s for chump change. I told her with those looks, that ass, those tits, she could be making a fortune.”
“And that worked for you?” John raised a brow. “Man, I’ll have to try that line some time.”
Again the girls behind them tittered together, and a smile stretched the lower qua
drant of Wilder’s face, Cheshire-Cat-like. “I was right. Her first night here, she made close to fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Of which you got, what?” John’s brow arched higher. “Twenty-five percent? Thirty?”
“Thirty-five,” Wilder replied evenly. “Look, I’m not going to say I don’t make any money off these girls.” He nodded, indicating their audience. “I do. But I’m not taking advantage of them or exploiting them or whatever line of bullshit the right-wing conservatives are spewing at the moment. I take good care of all the people in my employ, especially my girls.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of his desk. “The little blonde downstairs, Miss Dodd. She works for you, doesn’t she? I thought so. Good choice. Who could blame you for keeping a little eye candy like that around the office?”
John bristled inwardly, feeling weirdly, inexplicably protective of Sandy all of a sudden. He didn’t like the idea of Wilder looking at her, thinking about her like that. Never mind that he himself had both looked and thought like that plenty of times.
Wilder dropped him a wink. “That aside, you probably pay her, what? Ten bucks an hour? Twelve, tops? In one night here with me, she’d be making two hundred dollars an hour. At least. So where do you think she’s better off?”
Lacing his fingers together, planting them behind his head, Wilder reclined in his seat again. “Lucy wanted to get off this island. Her mom was a maid or something at one of the resorts and Lucy didn’t want to end up like her. She saw dancing here as a means to an end. I was trying to help her out.”
“Yeah, you’re a real hero,” John said. “Were you sleeping with her, too?”
“There wasn’t a lot of sleeping involved,” Wilder said, then laughed. “We fucked a couple of times, sure. It’s not like I was doing anything illegal.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Last week.”
“Where?”
“Here at the club. She gave me her notice.”
John blinked. “She quit?”
Wilder snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
