Sex in a Sidecar

by Phyllis Smallman

  I looked over my shoulder at Peter and asked, “Does it get any better than this?”

  “If it does, I don’t need it,” Peter replied.

  A waitress appeared carrying drinks and a basket of fried shrimp. I went to join them at the table. “I’ll have a Chardonnay,” I told the waitress.

  The cute little blond waitress, no older than a high school senior, seemed troubled at my request. “That’s wine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  She smiled in obvious relief and asked, “Would you like red or white?”

  We lost Brian in a fit of coughing.

  “Make mine white,” I told her.

  “Okay,” she said with a big smile. Delighted we’d cleared everything up, she bounced away.

  Peter groaned and leaned forward to pound his forehead on the table while Brian and I howled with laughter.

  “Peter, you’ve got to start interviewing with the lights on,” Brian said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Wise asses,” Peter growled.

  I asked, “So how is your new love, Peter?” There was always a new love. I didn’t have to meet her to know she existed.

  “Going nicely,” he said. Transient and temporary, passionate but passing, that was the story of Peter’s love life. Like my mother’s. I vowed it wouldn’t be mine.

  “Looks like Myrna didn’t hurt Big Daddy’s at all,” I said and helped myself to the shrimp.

  “Couple of trees down in the parking lot and it flooded but other than that we’re just fine.”

  We caught up on hurricane war stories and more shrimp disappeared. I said, “Tell me about your little jaunt in Risky Business.”

  “A hellish trip,” Brian offered. “Ten-foot waves and swells the size of canyons.”

  “Next hurricane you might want to consider leaving just a tad earlier,” I suggested.

  “Your turn,” Brian said and pulled the shrimp basket away from me. “Stop eating all my shrimp and tell us about your hurricane.” Brian and I are the big eaters of the group. War is always being declared over the carcasses of dead crustaceans.

  “One thing I know for sure, next hurricane it will be runners all the way. No high heels for me and definitely no clogs. Do you know how hard it is to jog in high-heeled sandals that have two little ribbons crossed over the top and tied around the ankle to hold them on?” Apparently they didn’t.

  The rest of my story was even harder for them to grasp. “I was terrified. Being alone was the worst. In a way I can understand Gina wanting someone to go out there with her but why she picked on me and why she went back is anyone’s guess. I’ve been over it from every direction. The only thing I can think of is because Jimmy was murdered and her sister was murdered, well she maybe thought I’d understand but I don’t.”

  “Maybe you were the only one she could trick into going with her,” Peter said.

  “So basically you’re saying I’m stupid?” He grinned at me but didn’t push his luck.

  Brian pushed the basket back to me and asked, “Do you think she left something behind at her house?”

  “Like what? What would be worth going back for and risking her life? She was no thrill seeker who wanted to see a hurricane up close and personal, besides she said she had everything in the car. No, it was something tied to her sister’s murder. I’m sure of it. And I’m pretty sure she thought she knew who killed Sam and it was someone on the island.”

  “Do you think he’s still there?” Peter asked.

  “Absolutely.” I took a sip of my wine. “And Gina said he’d kill again.”

  “Shit,” Brian said. “You’re saying there’s a killer out there on the loose?”

  “Seems like it.” I worried a hang nail and then added, “I think it may be someone who comes into the Sunset.”

  They looked at each other and something passed between them I didn’t get.

  “What?” I asked. “Do you guys know something about this?”

  “Absolutely not,” Brian said. “Don’t get yourself all worked up and start imagining things.”

  I started to argue but Peter cut in, “Have you talked to Styles?”

  “Yeah, left him a message on my way over actually, they’re doing all they can. If they find the private detective, they’ll know who killed her.” I turned to Brian. “ Couldn’t they look at her cancelled checks, find the detective that way?”

  “Well, yes.” Brian scratched the side of his head and thought it through. “They’d probably need a court order even though it’s a police investigation. I do real estate law not criminal law so I’m not sure how it works. They’d need the police in her home city to go to her house and search for her cancelled checks.” He sipped his beer, thinking about it. “Did she live in the same place as her sister? If she did the police there would already be familiar with her circumstances.”

  “Nope, Gina was from Pittsburgh.” I circled the lip of my wineglass with my index finger, making it sing. “What did Gina say to you?” I asked Peter. “I know you talked to her at the Sunset and you had dinner.”

  His eyes went to Brian before he answered. “She was interested in the B&T.” The proper name was the Jacaranda Bath and Tennis Club, but islanders called it the B&T…or the Butt and Tits Club. It was a private club out on the beach where only the filthy rich need apply for membership.

  “She asked me about it too,” Brian said. The corners of his mouth turned down. “Not that I could tell her anything. I only get there when a client is feeling generous. Membership fees are probably more than I make in a year.” He looked glum. More and more Brian was starting to talk about himself as a loser, feeling sorry for himself and becoming depressed in the face of anyone else’s success. He’d been married to a younger woman with a better lawyer and after the divorce he’d taken his share of the settlement and put it into tech stocks that tanked, so at fifty-two he was pretty much starting over.

  “Do many people who come into the Sunset also belong to the B&T?” I asked.

  “Quite a few,” Brian said. “That’s not to say that either place has anything to do with the killer.”

  “The B&T was more than a passing interest with Gina,” Peter said. “I heard her talking to Bunny Lehre about it. Bunny was a seasonal member. Gina was asking about someone on the staff.”

  Excitement nearly brought me out of my chair. “Who?”

  Chapter 37

  Peter made a face. “Can’t remember, not sure I even heard who they were talking about. I wouldn’t remember it at all but Gina got pretty excited, real animated. That’s what stands out in my memory. Not a name.”

  I thought about it while Peter ordered more drinks and some fried clams. A memory stirred in me, late in the evening two heads together in laughter when I delivered a gin and tonic. “You dated Bunny Lehre a few times, didn’t you Peter?” He grimaced. “Dinner once that’s all.”

  His face said it hadn’t been a real great time. I let it go but I was curious about what he wasn’t telling me.

  “Who do you know out at the B&T?” I asked Peter.

  “Only Terry Wainwright, he’s head of bar services out there.”

  I sat up. “I worked with him at the Sunset a few years ago.” “And so, need a job bad do you?” Peter tilted onto the back legs of his chair. “C’mon, what are you up to?”

  “A job,” I told him. He grimaced, not buying it. He knew Jimmy’s insurance settlement was sitting there in the Cypress Island Bank gathering interest while I decided what to do with it. Clay gave all kinds of good advice, advice I would have taken had it been anyone else giving it; instead I let the funds sit in a money market account and waffled. No, I didn’t need the money, but if Gina had been interested in the B&T — well, so was I.

  “Don’t do it,” Brian said. “If there’s someone out there killing people it’s the last place you should be. Seriously,
I mean it. Murder is nothing to play around with. It isn’t some goddamn reality show that only lasts a half-hour. This is for keeps.”

  Peter’s chair came down hard on the deck. “For once I agree with Brian. Stay away from the B&T. Besides, you should get your tail up to Cedar Key and Clay.” He pointed a finger at me. “That’s the only thing you should be interested in, the two of you getting back together.”

  It was a jolt. Had Clay and I broken up and I hadn’t noticed? I didn’t think of us being over but maybe like normal I was the last to figure things out. “Great! Now I’m getting romance advice from the relationship impaired.”

  Out in the car, in the rosy glow of chili lights, I called Terry Wainwright at the B&T. My luck was in. He was short a bartender and I could start at once. “Come by first thing in the morning and I’ll sign you up and show you the ropes.”

  Clay called about nine and soothed all my fears. The ice was definitely melting, soft words, sexual innuendo and wicked little suggestions were having a warming affect on interesting parts of my body.

  “Is this phone sex?” I asked.

  “Depends, what are you wearing?” The buzzer went. “Hold that thought.”

  “It’s Styles,” I told Clay.

  “What does he want?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll call you back when I do.” I went down and got Detective Styles. The Tradewinds was a high-security building. You needed a key to work the elevator and even then it only gave you access to your own floor. Staff either brought guests up or you went down yourself to get them. Outsiders weren’t allowed to wander around unaccompanied.

  There are only four units on each of the first ten floors and only three on the penthouse floor. Clay’s unit was double-sized at about five thousand square feet. I watched Styles as he entered the circular marble foyer of the penthouse. Soft light from the cove moldings at the ceiling cast a rich glow down on works of art. “Holy shit!”

  They were the first swearwords I’d ever heard out of his mouth and I whooped in delight. “Just about what I said the first time I saw it. Come on. I’ll give you the gilt and gold tour.”

  When we finished he repeated his first words. “Holy shit! I wish my wife could see this.”

  “Bring her by sometime. I enjoy showing it off.”

  “It’s not like you at all.”

  “Yeah, I know. I so don’t belong here. I’m more Hog Heaven Barbeque than Louis XIV.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “I didn’t mean that.”

  I waved his words aside. “Don’t explain. Just let it lie before you get your foot in past the knee. Let’s get a beer and go out to the balcony, it’s the best.”

  The sun had set and it was dark out over the gulf but there was a tropical breeze blowing that made you want to sigh with the joy of it. The soft air was filled with the smell of flowers, some fresh cut in crystal vases and some growing in huge stone pots. Even when Clay was away fresh flowers arrived every other day, not for me you understand, but for his home, his shrine to success.

  Styles took a long pull on his beer and then fumbled in his jacket for sheets of paper. “You never saw this.” He handed them over. “It’s a report on her sister’s murder. See if anything jumps out at you, anything that Ms. Ross might have told you that isn’t here.”

  “Do any of the names of suspects show up here in Florida?” I asked as I unfolded the paper.

  “Nope.”

  “That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” While he drank his beer, I read every line but it was just what Gina had said. “Nothing. Yet there must be something. I feel there’s something I should remember. Something I wanted to tell you.”

  He set his empty bottle down on a glass and cane table and rose to his feet. “Call me when you remember it. And do not, I re peat, do not act on anything you think you know until you talk to me.”

  “What’s with you?” I asked. “Just what do you expect me to do?”

  “I know you. We’ve been through this before. Leave this to the police.”

  This didn’t seem like a good time to tell him I was working at the B&T. Come to that, I hadn’t told Clay either. “There is one thing,” I said. “What’s that?

  “Samantha was strangled with her own belt. Bunny Lehre was also strangled with an article of her clothing. They were the same age and they were the same type of women, both rich and spoiled. Both had been married more than once and both of them lived alone. Gina talked about that, about being murdered because you were a certain kind of person. The same guy could have murdered them both.” He smiled. “Have you ever thought of police work?” I made a face at him. “Of course you already saw all the similarities, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I give you points for noticing.”

  In the elevator, as we watched the numbers diminish, I said, “You came here and showed me that report because you wanted inside this building, didn’t you?”

  I looked at Styles.

  “It was the only way you could get in.”

  He gave me a pleased little smile.

  “You could have just called and asked me what I wanted, but you have to see in every nook and cranny of the island and this is just about as private as it gets.” “Barbeque you may be, but smart Barbeque.” I may be smart but not as smart as Styles. Like I told Gina, I figure he could find fly specks in pepper and if he thought they might be there he’d keep looking ’til he found them. Which made me wonder, did he know about Dr. Travis and Bunny Lehre? I surprised myself by keeping my mouth shut.

  Chapter 38

  The B&T is Fantasyland for adults. The initiation fee to the private club is fifty thousand dollars, fifty thousand dollars just to swim, play tennis and eat…all the things that can be had at public facilities. The rich will do anything to get away from the rest of us, won’t they? They must think poverty is catching.

  As well as swimming in a pool or swimming in the gulf and playing tennis, the members can have a massage, a pedicure or manicure and get their hair done. This year it was all artfully wind-blown hair for women who had names like Babs or Billy or Barbie, cute little names like that, anorexic women with cute little names and long red nails, women who came out of the beauty salon looking exactly the same.

  The entrance to the B&T is very understated. Just a small white sign with dark green lettering you could easily miss that says Jacaranda Bath and Tennis Club. Underneath it says Private. Like the Tradewinds, this is a hard place to get into without an invitation.

  I stopped at an itty-bitty guardhouse that looked like it was out of a movie set in a country where people yodeled. A guard in a navy-blue uniform came out of his shelter and leaned over to look in the car. The tag on his shirt said his name was Karl-Heinz Brott. It gave me a smile.

  The man took his job seriously. After assuring himself I wasn’t sneaking in a carload of terrorists or illegal a liens, he checked my name off a list on his clipboard and pushed a button in the guardhouse. The red-and-white-striped barrier went up. I noticed a camera on the guardhouse and two more in the trees along the drive, better security than at the Cypress Island Bank where all my worldly wealth resided.

  The tree-lined drive climbed up to the man-made hill and came out in front of a grand Italianate building. Broad white steps led up to double glass doors. Clay’s little Miata seemed to sigh gently as I turned off the key. At last I’d taken her somewhere worthwhile. She was home.

  Inside, the marbled foyer was bigger than my apartment out by the airport, with a curvy ornate wrought-iron stairway going down to the beach level. There was also a glass and wrought-iron elevator discreetly off to the right and straight ahead I could see a formal dining room with a view of the gulf beyond. A polite woman, sitting at an elaborately carved desk with only a phone to occupy her, pushed a button and spoke softly into the phone.

  Terry Wainwright raced up the stairs to meet me. He was as thin as a whip
pet and just as quick in his movements. We’d worked together at the Sunset and always got along but his easygoing manner hid a firecracker temper. He did not suffer fools gladly and I wondered how he was dealing with the spoiled customers at the B&T.

  Terry said, “Hi,” and jogged back down the stairs without waiting to see if I followed. At the bottom of the stairs he pointed to glass doors, curtained in sheer white material, at the end of the hall. “Hair and nails,” he said and then opened a door on his right. He stepped aside for me to enter a beautiful library, its walls paneled in books and old botanical prints. The faint odor of perfume lingered in the air. A half-dozen bridge tables were set up in the center of the room. “If you ever have to close, always check this room well at the end of the night. This is where the customers sneak away to for a bit of the naughty or to sleep off the last brandy.” He was out the door again.

  We entered an informal dining room with a bar along the back wall furthest from the beach. A pretty room, furnished in natural wicker with bright green and yellow cushions, it held about twenty glass-topped tables with fresh orchids in bud vases.

  “This is where you’ll spend most of your time,” Terry told me. “The bar serves the dining room, the pool and the beach out there. No one ever has to stay sober at the B&T. Booze enough for all and easily accessible.” “My kind of place,” I said.

  The west wall had three large open arches. He pointed to them. “At night or on chilly days walls of glass slide across in front of the arches.” At the moment the room was comfortably cool and dim, in contrast to the bright tropical sunshine outside. “I’ll show you how they work.”

  A little bird flew in the open doors and sat on a palm peering around in as much amazement as me. Terry shooed the bird back out towards the sun and I stepped forward to see the infinity pool blending into the turquoise of the gulf.