We made it through our first set with no mishaps. However, when Ava’s producer friend hadn’t shown up by the time we started the second set, I thought Ava was going to unravel. He still hadn’t arrived by our second break. She spent all of it laughing too loud at the unfunny jokes of her bar-side admirers and watching the door.
He finally showed up halfway through the third set. I knew he was there when Ava did a massive hair toss and the sultry in her deep voice kicked into turbo. The only people entering the bar were a middle-aged white guy whose belly was too big for his low-slung skinny jeans and a Slavic woman a head taller and fifteen years younger than him.
I’d seen him somewhere before. He had hair that was only slightly more black than gray, and thinning, which his swoop of wavy bangs didn’t do much to hide. He wore black from head to toe and shoulder to wrist. If I’d have worn that outfit, you could have filled a bucket by wringing the sweat out of it. He headed straight for a barstool, where he got busy with his Blackberry.
“That’s him,” Ava said through her Julia-Roberts smile, like a ventriloquist.
“What’s his name?”
“Trevor Weingart. He produce for Slither, you know, the band with that lead singer who carry around a big snake, good-looking guy?”
I knew who she meant. And he was good-looking, in a malnourished, heroin-addicted, overly-tattooed sort of way. “Joe Slither.”
“Yeah, him.”
I squinted to see Trevor in the glare of the lights. I would probably tower over him. Short guys usually put on a show for me, but we’d see.
I thought he’d make me nervous, but we launched into our next song, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me,” and I felt solid. I even kept in sync with the drop-beat rhythm of our reggae version of “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” that a friend of Ava’s had mixed for her.
When our set ended, Ava sank a death claw into my upper arm and dragged me to the bar. Before we could get there, Bart materialized. His blue eyes were flat and navy, his mouth set. He was holding a beer in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other.
“Hooooh no, mister. She have business with me,” Ava told him, not relinquishing me. A microgram more pressure and my arm would erupt.
“This will only take a minute,” he said.
Ava put her finger up, close to Bart’s face. “One minute, Bart, and I mean it. This important.”
I considered protesting, but I wanted to get it over with. “One minute, Bart. That’s all.”
Ava released me and I walked straight to the bartender with Bart behind me.
“Soda water and lime, please,” I said.
I didn’t look at Bart, and he didn’t say a word. He was staring at me, though, and his eyes were heavy on me. The bartender handed me my clear plastic cup.
“Thank you,” I said.
I pointed at a table and we sat down. Bart wore black, like Trevor, but different. A black t-shirt, black-and-white plaid shorts with a red stripe, and black laceless tennis shoes. A counterpoint to my white, and a totally different look than his usual blues and yellows.
“How’s the investigator?” he asked. Angry red lines spiderwebbed the whites of his blue eyes.
“Fine,” I said.
“Is he gone?” He took a sip of his beer. Grolsch. My brother used to collect the nifty green bottles for their permanently attached ceramic stoppers.
“Yes.” I should have said “none of your business.”
“Good. I forgive you. Just don’t let it happen again.”
I tried to be gentle. “Bart, I don’t want to get back together.”
“You think you don’t. But I know better. A woman like you shouldn’t be alone. Especially on this island.”
I raised my eyebrows so high it gave my forehead a nice stretch. “I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to mean.”
He drained his beer and set it down. Hard. “It means that if you are my woman, I will protect you. And you are my woman.”
In my mind, I saw a red rose with a white ribbon on the seat of my truck. I shook my head, looking down. “I’m not.” And I didn’t need protection. I had a jumbie house, a guard dog, a machete, and Rashidi had given me a flare gun. He’d tried to make me take an unmarked gun, warning me that it was every man and woman for themselves on an island where the cops were often the bad guys and continentals like me got even less help. But his admonishment that I should shoot to kill and lose the body was just too much. The flare gun was enough for me.
“You may not understand it yet, but you are. You’ll see.”
He was creeping me out. I stood up. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for us. I really am. But it wasn’t just because of the investigator. Whose name is Nick, by the way.”
He didn’t stand, didn’t look at me, just stared down into his empty beer bottle. “Oh, I know his name.”
I lifted my shoulders and chin high and walked away, careful not to betray my anxiety. What the hell was that about, anyway? I’d always found him a bit controlling, but he was taking it to a whole new level. A delusional level.
I reached Ava, Trevor, and the Eastern European siren in the bar. I tightened my lips into a smile.
Ava didn’t hesitate. “Trevor, this is Katie Connell. Katie, Trevor Weingart.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered. “Just a moment.” He stuck his Blackberry to his ear and walked away from us.
Ava turned away from Trevor’s date. “So?” she asked me.
“Don’t look at Bart. We need to stay away from him. Both of us. Please.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “I not looking. You OK?”
“Yeah, he didn’t touch me, he just, well, said weird stuff. I’ll be fine. Let’s fake it and sing pretty.”
“We good at that,” she said.
I smiled, and tried to mean it. “Yes, we are.”
We turned back to Trevor’s date to make small talk. “So, tell us about you,” I said.
She looked down her nose. “I’m from Romania. I work as a gymnast in our national circus.”
“Wow, that’s interesting.”
“Yes,” she said, “and usually men show me good time. Trevor promise me fun, but so far we not find it. Where is Mr. Slithers? I expect to party with him, instead we here babysitting chef from Trevor’s restaurant. So much for blingdaddy dot com.”
Ava and I looked at each other.
“Katie?” Bart’s voice said behind me.
Ugh. I rolled my eyes at Ava, then turned around to face him.
“You forgot your drink.”
“No, I have it right here,” I said.
And he splashed the entire contents of his Bloody Mary onto my pristine white dress.
Chapter Fourteen
Weeks passed and June came. The official start of hurricane season was June first. The trickle of tourist business dried up then, and the whole island population went on vacation. With little to no work going on up at Annalise, I spent my days there, doing dribs and drabs from my own to-do list and trying to discourage unwanted visitors by my presence.
The day I was supposed to meet my tile contractor, I passed the time by staining the mahogany stair treads. Pumpy had said he’d be there “early-ish,” but I’d already finished and was scrubbing my hands and knees with turpentine and a soft-bristled brush by noon. I felt very much the DIY goddess, a St. Marcos version of Ty Pennington, if Ty was a redheaded, green-eyed woman.
I used my forearm to brush a strand of hair that had strayed from my ponytail out of my mouth. I hoped Nick wouldn’t pick that moment to call, or I’d ruin my phone. Ever since I found it under my pillow the night of the Bloody Mary fiasco I’d been keeping closer tabs on it. It was my only connection to Nick.
He was back in Dallas with Taylor—in a new condo and new office, with new passwords, codes, and whatnot—and Teresa was visiting them from California as often as she could. The police hadn’t been able to make a case for breaking and entering ag
ainst Derek, so he roamed free. Derek had no legal claim to Taylor since he’d never married Teresa or filed for visitation, but that didn’t give Nick any peace. He installed top-of-the-line video security at home and at Stingray.
I heard a vehicle outside on the drive and froze. I recognized the sound of that engine, and it wasn’t Pumpy. I snapped my fingers and whistled for Oso. I heard his nails clicking across the main floor to me. “Let’s go, boy,” I said. We exited the side door onto the driveway and my eyes confirmed what my ears had told me. Bart. “Heel, Oso.” He sat beside me.
I hadn’t seen Bart since he drenched me with a Scarlet A at Trudy’s. By the time Trevor returned from his phone call that night, I was in the bathroom, where I discovered that while water made my white dress see-through, it did not remove the tomato juice or make me stage-worthy for anything but the soft-porn version of Carrie. I had slunk to my truck wearing a ratty sweatshirt the bartender found in the storeroom, with Ava as my bodyguard. She was spitting mad about the blown tryout.
“I can’t fix this with Trevor,” she had fumed. “I not even his type.”
Since Ava is every man’s type, I had a feeling she could overcome his blonde-giant fetish, but I didn’t approve of that method anyway. She’d been itching for Bart to show up again so she could “kick he ass between he teeth,” but he hadn’t.
Until now. I stayed by the door and took a few centering breaths. I thought through self-defense. My machete was in the truck and my flare gun in my nightstand. Not good. I’d have to rely on Oso and the gang for protection. Unfortunately, they knew Bart as a friend.
Bart turned off his engine and got out. As he walked toward me, he passed the front of his car and I noticed that the driver’s side headlight was busted out and the bumper was scratched and dented. Bart loved that Pathfinder and he took obsessively good care of it. I couldn’t imagine him driving it with an imperfection, which meant he was highly motivated to see me, although I couldn’t imagine why, or what I was going to say to get rid of him. I decided to meet him halfway to keep him outside.
“I’m here to apologize,” he said.
I stopped. Far enough. “Really?”
He looked tired in his white L’École Culinaire Academy t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. I wondered where his trademark plaid was.
“Yes. I was jealous, and I’m over it. I’d like to start again, as friends.”
“So you’re apologizing for. . .” I prompted. I heard a new vehicle turn into the entrance lane. I turned to look and saw the tile contractor’s truck. I rejoiced. Safety in numbers.
“How I acted last time I saw you in Town. At Trudy’s. I shouldn’t have. Things haven’t been going very well for me lately, at the restaurant, I mean. Locals haven’t come in as much since the thing with Tarah. I’m under a lot of pressure.”
A few other things he could be sorry for came to mind, like following Nick and me, like making Ava speak for him, for leaving spooky flowers in my truck. Well, I wasn’t sure if he had really followed us, and my only proof that he was behind the rose was circumstantial. I stood there, my brain’s processor busy but my face blue-screen.
“Katie?”
I stroked Oso’s head. His fur was standing on end. “I appreciate the apology.”
Pumpy pulled to a stop beside Bart’s Pathfinder and got out. The tile man came forward and I greeted him with a lot more cheer than usual.
“Pumpy, it’s so good to see you. This is Bart, the chef and owner of Fortuna’s.”
“Ms. Connell, always a pleasure. Mr. Bart, a pleasant good afternoon to you.”
“Good afternoon,” Bart replied.
“So, I here to measure your floors and plan out the rest of the tiling. I see myself in and come find you when I done?”
“Yes, fine. Thank you.”
I watched Pumpy waddle into my house with a yellow pad in one hand and a tape measure in the other, thinking, Don’t leave me.
“I brought you something,” Bart said, “as a friendship gesture.” He walked back to his Pathfinder and retrieved a plastic bag. Instantly, Oso’s hair lay down. The traitor smelled food. Within seconds, the rest of the dogs had abandoned their lounging stations around the side yard and were crowding Bart. He held the bag high. “Back,” he said to them. “Lunch,” he said to me.
I didn’t want to eat. I wanted him to leave. But I was raised a Southerner. Telling Bart to take his food and his creepy self away felt like bad manners. Thanks a lot, Mom. I took comfort in knowing that Pumpy was there, and that his departure would make a good excuse to wrap things up with Bart.
I motioned for Bart to follow me into the kitchen, where I pointed at the breakfast bar. He set down the bag beside a package of sussies (my mother’s word for “just because” surprises) for Nick. Oso stationed himself as close as he could get to the luscious smell. Bart lifted two Styrofoam containers and a six-pack of Heineken from the bag. I watched his eyes as he read the address on the package.
“Something for your boyfriend?” he asked.
I ignored his question and grabbed the package. I balanced it on my hip. “Smells good,” I said. “Let me go wash up and I’ll be right back.”
While I had no power yet, I did have hose water in the laundry room from a temporary tank. I set Nick’s box in the corner and washed my hands in the floor basin.
“Looks like a good idea,” Bart said from behind me.
“Excuse me,” I said, and he pivoted away, giving me just enough room to pass. He kept his eyes averted, but I couldn’t help but brush against him. My skin crawled.
I grabbed one of the Styrofoam containers and a fork and retreated as far as possible from the beer. I leaned against the cabinets beside the partially installed stove and opened the lid to find roasted chicken falling off the bone, homemade barbecue sauce, Caribbean rice, and peas. A deep-fried johnnycake the size of a paperback book. My stomach growled.
“Not Fortuna’s fare,” I said.
Bart smiled. “Our new kitchen manager recommended it. It’s from a barbecue shack near my place.”
I chewed very thoroughly and studied my food. I’d only made it through three bites when Pumpy—God bless him—showed up again.
“I ready, Ms. Connell.”
“Excuse me, Bart. I have to go with Pumpy. Thanks again for the lunch. And for the apology.” I snapped my container closed.
Bart’s mouth turned down.
“Why don’t you see yourself out,” I continued as I backed out of the room. Pumpy had already disappeared down the stairs to the lower level. I gave a little wave and ducked into the stairwell behind him.
I tried not to breathe as I waited to hear the sound of Bart’s engine. The silent seconds ticked by. I reached the ground floor where Pumpy was waiting for me. Still no engine.
Pumpy called for my attention. “Well, I measure the rooms, and I calculate it up real good, three times. You got enough tile for half the rooms left. You need to get more.” He thrust a piece of paper from his yellow pad at me.
I glanced down, but didn’t read the numbers. “What? That’s impossible,” I said. I’d ordered twenty percent too much tile. We couldn’t have run out.
“Yah mon, so sorry. I finish what you got. Maybe it come in quick.”
“Let me see your tape measure,” I said.
He handed it over. I re-measured the rooms, confirming dimensions I already knew by heart. I went outside and inspected the remaining pallets of tile. I counted them up. I calculated square feet. I compared it to the footage of the rooms, and a headache formed behind my left eye. We didn’t have enough, but what I didn’t know was why. I was furious.
Finally, I heard Bart’s Pathfinder start, then the sound of his tires on the dirt lane. That at least was good.
I ushered Pumpy’s plump figure back to his car. On our way through the bottom floor, I saw a sight that filled me with dread. Another hole, this time in the back of the living room wall. Concrete dust and crumblings littered the floor below it. It look
ed just like the other: five inches square and three inches deep.
“Did you see this?” I asked Pumpy.
He squinted in the dim light. “No, miss. Why you got a hole in the wall?”
I ignored him and showed him out, then stood in the driveway watching him go. When he had turned out of the gate, I dropped my face into my hands. If every day was this hard, I would need to grow an armadillo shell.
I walked back into the kitchen, fretting, and almost didn’t realize what I was looking at until I was a few feet away from it. A giant bush rat was sitting in the middle of my kitchen island, eating my leftover chicken, rice, and beans. I screamed as loud and long as I could.
He hesitated for a moment over his Styrofoam treasure chest, then lifted his tail and ran toward the great room. I ran after him. He scurried up the interior of my unused chimney, and my heart sank. If there was one rat in that chimney, there was probably a whole family of little ratlings.
Gross.
I’m allergic to cats, but it was clear I needed to acquire a few of them, and fast.
My phone buzzed with a text. I picked it up.
“Smile: Nagyon Seretlek,” Nick’s text said.
Ever since he returned to Dallas, Nick had been sending me daily “Smile” messages. Sometimes they were serious, and sometimes just silly.
I replied. “Nanu nanu?”
“Wrong.”
“Live long and prosper?”
“Nope.”
“May the force be with you?”
“Wrong again.”
“I give up, what does it mean?”
“You’re a smart woman. Figure it out.”
I googled it on my phone. In seconds, I did smile. It meant “I love you” in Hungarian. My clever gypsy lover.
I texted back, “Taim i’ ngra leat.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Thanks. I needed that.”
My phone rang. It was the real McCoy.
“What’s wrong?” Nick asked.
“I have just had an incredibly crappy day, and to top it all off, the granddaddy of all bush rats just helped himself to my lunch in my kitchen.”
Leaving Annalise (Katie & Annalise Book 2) Page 8
