Was there any valid reason why she should?
Other than pride. Self-respect. And her personal determination never to be hurt again.
“Look, Mandy,” Peter suggested, “why don’t you go see Claire now? I know you. You’re not going to be satisfied until you’ve solved your little mystery. Claire can find out if there’s a house over there on Wade’s land and, if so, who’s in it. She’ll have an answer for you in nothing flat.”
“Sounds good.” Mandy’s hormones were screaming. Telling Peter about her mystery woman had deteriorated to this? At the moment not even a nine-room house was big enough for the both of them. Grabbing her purse, she bolted for the door.
She didn’t look back.
Chapter Eight
Mandy paused at the foot of the sweeping staircase leading up to the Amber Run Model Center. Though not quite as large as Peter’s sprawling tree house, the style was classic Key West, a stilt house with a broad wraparound deck and a cupola room centered on the roof like the bride and groom on a wedding cake. But, unlike Peter’s house, the Amber Run model home boasted a pool and, somewhere, a waterfall. Mandy craned her head around the stair railing, trying to find the source of the sound, but it was hidden behind the latticed ground-level storage area.
Enough procrastination. She never found meeting people easy, and she pictured Claire Blue as a sleek professional saleswoman, some kind of cross between Phil Whitlaw and Eleanor. Someone who gave the impression that customers should buy a home in her husband’s development or risk being thought hopelessly bourgeois. Yet Phil hadn’t been so bad, Mandy told herself, a real help in fact. So it was time to summon the Armitage courage and beard Brad Blue’s wife in her elegant den.
Mandy sucked in a deep breath, climbed the stairs. Obeying the sign that said, “Welcome, come on in,” she opened the door and paused just inside, gaping.
A woman was rising from a desk set along the far wall of the central greatroom. A lovely and seemingly genuine smile highlighted a girl-next-door face, framed in shoulder-length brown hair. Her slacks and embroidered cotton shirt qualified as no more than casual professional, not the least bit intimidating. But Mandy gave her only a passing glance, her attention riveted on the playpen sitting on the tile floor next to the desk.
“Oo-h!” she breathed,“you have a baby.” Mandy shot across the room to peer over the vinyl-padded top of the pen at a baby in blue shorts and T-shirt, who was frowning in concentration as he made a determined effort to pull himself up the white mesh on the side of the playpen.
“It won’t be long,” Claire Blue said cheerfully. “He’s almost got it. The next thing I know he’ll be off and running with mom panting after like a hound chasing a rabbit.”
“What’s his name?” Mandy asked, never taking her eyes off the baby, who’d plopped down hard onto his diaper-padded bottom and was already reaching for the mesh again.
After a noticeable pause, Claire said, “Well . . . he’s named Bradley after his father, but somehow—though I’m still trying to find an alternative—he seems to answer best to Bubba.”
Mandy’s eyes snapped around to meet Claire’s. “Bubba?” she asked, not quite suppressing a grin.
“Bubba,” Claire Blue confirmed with an artful roll of her long-lashed azure eyes.
Mandy straightened up. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t get much opportunity to see a baby up close. I’m afraid I’m not a customer.” She held out her hand. “I’m Mandy Armitage, Peter Pennington’s research assistant.” She liked the firmness of Claire Blue’s handshake, the warmth of her smile. Peter was right. She was going to like Brad Blue’s wife.
Mandy settled herself in one of the white wicker chairs in front of Claire’s desk, and the two displaced New Englanders settled down to an orgy of reminiscences and comparing notes. Cape Cod, lobster, stone fences, white frame churches. Granite, gurgling streams, granite, sand dunes, and more granite. Claire admitted to missing dogwood, daffodils and tulips even more than the brilliant display of leaves in the Fall. In the sun-lit normalcy of the Amber Run Model Center, chatting with a new friend while keeping an eye on the marvel of Bubba’s struggle to stand on his own two feet, Mandy could see the absurdity of making a mystery out of a young Russian woman sitting on a palm trunk. Claire was going to think she was crazy.
Yet she had to know. She couldn’t let it go.
Nonetheless, Mandy stumbled over her opening line. “I saw . . . there’s a young . . .” Silently, she recited the researcher’s mantra, Jack Webb’s famous line in Dragnet that had become a permanent part of the nation’s vocabulary. Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.
Mandy tried again. “Peter thought you might be able to help me with a little mystery. It’s probably nothing,” she added with a deprecating shrug of her shoulders, “but, you see, I’m living at Calusa Campground and . . .” Mandy gave Claire a full account of her encounters with the woman on the far bank of the river.
To her surprise, by the time she’d finished her story, Claire looked grim. “You’re right,” she said, “it is strange. I’m going to call Garrett Whitlaw, my husband’s uncle. As far as I know, his father owns all the land over there and Garrett manages it, so if anyone knows what’s going on, he should.”
As Claire reached for the phone, Mandy peeked at the baby. Having worn himself out, young Bubba Blue had fallen asleep. Mandy’s heart ached. His serene cherubic profile pressed into the padded vinyl among the scattered figures of Winnie-the-Pooh and Friends was one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever seen. Damn Peter! She’d once wondered if he’d left her because she’d started eyeing babies with great longing. Had he been running scared? Worried she might stop popping her pills?
He’d wanted to be free and footloose.
So why had he asked her, badgered her, to go with him?
Because he was so sure she’d say no? Or maybe he actually loved her, but wasn’t ready to settle down to diapers, midnight feedings, and a minivan. He certainly knew she was hooked on babies—though he couldn’t begin to guess how the thought of never having one had torn at her heart these past five years.
Mandy groaned. He’d played her beautifully. Go see Claire. You’re both New Englanders. You’ll like her. Ha! She could see the smug smile Peter must have displayed behind her back as he shooed her off to visit Claire Blue. And baby Bubba.
A few minutes later Claire hung up the phone, eyebrows raised in a puzzled frown. “Garrett says there’s a line camp, an old cracker house, near the area you’re talking about. Wade—that’s his father—let his former foreman have it on a long-term lease when he retired. Living there cut about fifteen miles off the old man’s drive to town. The foreman died last year with several years still to run on the lease, so his heirs have control of the house at the moment. Garrett says they asked for permission to make renovations and additions, and it’s certainly possible they’ve rented it out. Rentals are a big business here.”
“But he doesn’t know to whom,” Mandy stated.
“No,” Claire admitted. “The heirs have rights to the house for five more years, and they did all the remodeling at their own expense.”
Deflated, Mandy nodded. A basic portion of the mystery had just been explained. The remainder was probably just as simple. And innocuous. But she wasn’t willing to give in that easily. “Peter says your husband speaks Russian?” At Claire’s swift affirmation, Mandy added, “Peter suggested I get the girl to record her story. Do you think your husband would be willing to listen to translate?”
“Of course,” Claire replied with an enthusiasm Mandy found gratifying, as her faith in her own intuition was definitely wavering. “Brad’s always complaining he doesn’t get enough practice any more.”
“Great,” Mandy proclaimed as she stood up. “I really appreciate your help.” She took one last longing look at Bradley “Bubba” Blue, who was still sleeping peacefully.
Maybe next time she came, Claire would let her hold him.
“Mandy!
Oh, Maan-dy.” As Mandy struggled from her car to the RV with three plastic bags of groceries in each hand, Glenda Garrison erupted from the expansive fifth-wheel trailer next door. She had, Mandy feared, been lying in wait.
What was it this time? she wondered. Although Glenda’s husband had retired the previous year, his wife had not. Glenda—a rotund but spry fiftyish, her short straight hair more salt than pepper—considered the move from Illinois to Florida an opportunity for new and better challenges. She had quickly become the aging Ed Cramer’s right arm, organizer of the organizers, the volunteer executive officer of Calusa Campground.
Glenda had also decided Mandy Armitage was a total innocent in the ways of the world—which was not, Mandy conceded, all that inaccurate—and had constituted herself chief guardian and informant for the campground’s youngest resident. Whether it was which supermarket had the best produce department, how to cook on a propane stove, or which beach had the best shells, Glenda was sure to offer advice. She was also a veritable town crier on some of the campground’s less obvious activities. Mandy was frequently amazed at the soap opera nature of some of the unscheduled events in this hotbed of senior citizens.
Glenda also had strong advice for Mandy about her boss. “The world may be full of wolves,” the older woman had once declared, “but there are times when a girl needs to stop holding them off. There isn’t a woman in the park who doesn’t envy you your job, you know. We’ve all read his books,” she’d confided. “Now that’s a man worth latching onto, girl. Take advantage. Play him for all he’s worth.”
Mandy, swallowing hard, had informed Mrs. Garrison that she and Peter Pennington had a strictly professional relationship.
“That’s exactly what I mean, child,” the older woman said. “Don’t be stupid. Go for it.”
A remembered remark that had Mandy wincing when she heard the older woman’s loud hail. She should be accustomed to Glenda by now, but she was, in fact, in daily expectation of Glenda demanding a progress report on her love life. Which was not only humiliating, but downright depressing.
“I hear you crossed the river,” Glenda panted, following Mandy as she juggled her way up the RV’s steep steps, determined to get all the groceries inside before she dropped them.
The bags clinked and thunked as Mandy dumped them onto the small dinette table. “That’s right,” she admitted. Wary.
“That’s Wade Whitlaw’s land,” Glenda persisted, sinking down onto a corner of the dinette’s bench seat. “You may have heard about him. Cantankerous old goat owns half the county. Carries a shotgun and doesn’t hesitate to use it. We warn everybody away from going over there.”
“Oh.” Mandy couldn’t think of a more articulate response. She supposed Glenda was exaggerating, but Peter, too, had said something about a shotgun. Perhaps this was one of the times she should take the older woman seriously. After all, the supermarket Glenda recommended really did have the best produce department in Golden Beach.
“You met Wade’s older grandson yet?” Glenda asked, the sharp look in her eyes at odds with the good-natured roundness of her face. “Brad Blue?”
“I’ve only seen him from a distance,” Mandy said, “but I’ve met his wife and baby. A handsome family. I’ve fallen for young Bubba.”
“Handsome,” Glenda scoffed. “Let me tell you, hon’, Big Boy Blue is a hunk!”
Grinning, Mandy started to unload the bag with the frozen food. “I have to admit, even from a distance . . .” she murmured.
“Well . . .,” Glenda announced, inserting a pregnant pause, her dark brows moving up toward her salt and pepper hairline, “Bill and I got here just after all the fuss a year or so ago. Missed the whole thing. But the way I heard it,”—Glenda leaned forward, eyes bright with the opportunity to pass along such a choice bit of gossip—“the day after he was married Brad Blue was taken in for questioning in the death of his mistress.”
Mandy stared.
“Surprise, huh?” Glenda chortled. “’Course nothing came of it.” The older woman looked as sly as old Wiley Coyote himself. “And guess who was the only person who heard the alleged killer confess before he died?”
“A priest?” Mandy ventured.
“Claire Blue. Brad’s wife,” Glenda hissed. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
While Mandy was still speechless, Glenda heaved herself to her feet. “I didn’t mean to scare you, hon’,” she apologized, “but I just thought you ought to know. About Wade Whitlaw, that is. The jungle out there’s bad enough, what with the snakes and gators and all. No sense running into a shotgun. They say Wade’s nearly ninety and still running things the way they did in his grandfather’s day. The man’s a menace.”
Glenda Garrison patted Mandy kindly on the arm before descending the steps and crossing the grass to her trailer. Behind her Mandy was still staring blankly at the six plastic bags of groceries, a container of frozen peas and onions turning her fingers pink with cold.
Brad Blue. Who spoke Russian. Claire’s husband. Sweet Bubba’s father. A mistress, a killer, a wealthy old curmudgeon with a shotgun. A Russian girl on a log in the middle of nowhere, murmuring, “Bad. Very Bad.” Three young women in Manatee Bay with the deck stacked, possibly irretrievably, against them. A best-selling author-adventurer attempting to lure his mouse of a wife into a trap as gilded as the cage she’d left behind.
Golden Beach was no quiet resort community. She’d fallen into the midst of a real life soap opera.
Too much the product of her upbringing to let a mystery go unexplored, Mandy maintained her sunrise vigils, but Nadya no longer graced the log above the river. A whole week had gone by without a glimpse of her. Perhaps she was gone. After all, people from all over the world vacationed in Florida. No reason a girl from Russia couldn’t be among them.
And the strikingly handsome ramrod stiff soldier? Husband, lover? Merely a fellow guest? Twice, Mandy had ventured back to the front gate, and not a sign of him. The only mystery, Sensible Mandy told Curious Mandy, was how foreign visitors ever heard of the relatively small town of Golden Beach, Florida.
Internet, Mouse. Real estate agents. Peter’s mocking voice was so clear Mandy scanned the path behind her.
Plahoy. Ochen plahoy. Bad. Very bad. That, too, echoed clearly in her head.
And on the seventh morning of her unrewarded vigil, Mandy’s vision was playing tricks as well. The mist rising from the mahogany-colored river seemed to coalesce into a street scene. Delilah standing on a sidewalk, wearing the lime green spandex and white thigh-high boots. And there was Jade in her kitchen with her two little girls. Decorating a cake . . . while a shadow loomed in the doorway.
The mists swirled, erasing one vision, revealing another.
Fawn, her delicate body sinuous, bare, blatantly exposed to a ring of leering male faces. Mandy could almost feel the beat. Arch the back. Thrust out the boobs. Bump. Grind. Slide. Shimmy. Pause long enough for an old man’s shaking fingers to pull down her G-string, tuck in a hundred dollar bill. Lift the leg, hug the pole. Arch the back, thrust out the boobs.
Mandy winced, squeezing her eyes shut. A waking dream, but where had it come from? And why? From Nadya to Delilah, Jade, and Fawn. A strange leap, even for Amanda Armitage’s fertile imagination.
Or was it? Plahoy . . . ochen plahoy. The whispered words drifted on the mist. Was it possible there was a reason her mind connected Nadya to the other three . . . ?
Sure. Too much imagination. The mystery in Claire’s mind was just as ephemeral as the mists that were dissipating, presaging another bright sunny day in paradise. Nadya was gone. It was over. Time to enjoy the beauty of the day. Think of her new friend Claire, with whom she now had lunch almost every day.
Mandy allowed herself a secret smile. Unknown to Peter, Bubba Blue and his older half-brother Jamie were winning Peter’s argument for him. And she’d had a chance to observe Claire and Brad Blue together and seen a love that, in spite of few public words or overt gestures, was so incandescent it
outshone the Florida sun. They had survived their problems and were basking in a personal joy Mandy admired and envied.
As much as she absolutely hated to admit it, perhaps some of what Peter said had merit. Maybe it was time to switch her loyalty to the family that hadn’t happened yet.
Once again, Mandy peered upriver. No Nadya. With a small sigh she picked up Peter’s recorder from the seat beside her, and headed home.
Nadya drooped disconsolately on her log. For one whole week she had not dared come to the river. Four days trapped inside by the man from Miami. The Boss. The one even Karim feared. And three days cowering inside after he’d left, too frightened to break the rules, even though the Boss had gone away seemingly satisfied after sampling his merchandise, all eight girls living in the old house along the river.
Seven days without leaving the house. Her cowardice had ruined everything. Mandy had grown tired of waiting. She would not come again.
Hope gone, Nadya plunged deeper into despair. Before her lay only endless nights of degradation, and mornings that brought promise of more of the same.
Nadezhda. Her name meant hope. Yet there was none.
Nadya shifted on the trunk of the fallen palm, looking behind her toward the east. The heavens were so glorious she felt as if God himself had rebuffed her despair. The diamond bright morning star had not yet begun to fade. It glimmered in the center of a sky streaked with pink, rose, and palest blue over a wash of gray. Even the low-lying clouds were as pink as they were fluffy. Dawn was almost upon the world, and surely . . . surely out there somewhere was a flicker of hope for something better than the nightmare life she was leading. There had to be. Mandy would come back. She would make her understand.
Paradise Burning Page 11
