Vacation to Die For

by Josie Brown

  Reason #3: You need your daily dose of Vitamin D. Remember, thirty minutes of sun, each and every day, keeps the doctor away! (Or close at hand, depending on how you look in that suit. If it has his temperature rising, expect him to offer you Vitamin F injections, too.)

  And remember, the perfect itty bitty for you is the Bond Girl bikini. You know the one: it has a thick belt worn low on your hips—where you’ll carry your assassin’s knife.

  “Welcome to Fantasy Island!” Mr. Boarke’s voice booms out from the far reaches of the gently sloping lawn, which ends at the edge of the resort’s private runway. As he approaches, his gait is more of a glide: leisurely in pace, but with purpose.

  On the other hand Battoo is practically beside himself with joy at seeing us. He shouts, “The plane! The plane—” as he yanks a cord that pulls the large bell hanging from an enormous wooden tower.

  Both men are dressed in their iconic white linen suits, as are the three drivers who stand beside the trams marked with the logos of the island’s three resorts: Kamp KidStuff, the Hunt Club, and of course Eden Key.

  Everyone coming off the plane gets a photo op with Boarke. After all, he is the island’s celebrity. The flight crew stands behind them, straight as soldiers and beaming from ear to ear. They’ve arranged it so that the first guests off the plane are those heading for Kamp KidStuff. Boarke gives the parents hearty handshakes. His warnings, to slather on lots of sunscreen, leave parents just as giddy as their children as they rush to grab seats on their tram.

  Many of those whose final destination is Eden Key are still primping and scoping out potential partners, not to mention the competition. This includes Dominic. He must think the pickings are slim because he has the nerve to give me a smile and a wink.

  If he thinks I want to kiss and make up, he’s got another thing coming. My frown warns him to keep his distance. If I hadn’t needed to hold Jack back, I would have smacked him myself.

  Nah, he would have liked it too much.

  I’m standing by three women. One, a frowzy fifty-something whose hair is too dark to be her real color, blows a perfect smoke ring over my head as she gives me the once-over. She jerks her head in Dominic’s direction. “Hey Red, Handsome over there thinks you’re adorable. What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”

  I shrug. “Been there, done that.”

  “Good, then he’s up for grabs.” She waves him down, as if he’s a taxi on Madison Avenue during rush hour.

  He pretends he is one and ignores her completely. I guess he feels I’ve got her covered. Or for the first time in his life, he’s scared of a woman. My guess is the latter.

  She brushes off his snub with a smile. “His loss. The contortions I can get into would blow his mind. I used to be an aerial acrobat with Cirque du Soleil.”

  I cock my head in disbelief. “Get outta here.”

  She shrugs. “Okay, so I’m lying. But he wouldn’t know it.”

  I’m tempted to say, until you ended up in traction, but I’m here to win friends and influence frenemies, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “Let me guess, you’re going to Eden Key too, right?” Cougar asks.

  I give her a thumbs-up.

  “My motto is ‘If you can’t beat’em, join’em,’ so let’s be each others’ wing girls. My name is Merritt Andrews. This is Tuggle Carpenter, and that’s Angie Dill, over there.”

  The two other women—a buxom brunette, and a willowy blonde—give me tepid waves. Obviously unlike Dominic their mottos aren’t, the more the merrier.

  Merritt lowers her sunglasses in order to scrutinize Mr. Boarke. Her consensus is a disappointed frown. “Not at all like his picture in the brochure. He’s a bit long in the tooth.” Like tractor beams, her eyes move right to left as she scans those male passengers who are still departing the plane. “Now, thatone’s a real cutie—and certainly young enough for some of the bedroom acrobatics I have in mind.”

  She’s pointing to Jack.

  Just at that moment he glances in our direction. I can’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses. He is grinning, though, so that’s a good sign.

  But apparently he’s not smiling at me because just then a woman brushes past me, on her way to his side. She is a slim blonde in a tight white suit that hugs every curve. She has a drink in hand—something in a martini glass. His thank-you earns him a flirtatious toss of her long, lush mane.

  She takes his arm in hers and walks him over to Mr. Boarke, who smiles broadly and pumps his hand like a long lost pal as he walks Jack to the Hunt Club tram.

  Apparently Jack has been assigned a personal escort, because the blonde sidles next to him in the tram.

  Well, la-dee-dah.

  “Aw heck, he’s going to the gun club. I guess it was too good to be true.” Merritt sighs. “That’s okay. I’ve got it from an impeccable source that if you buy the midget a pint of scotch, he’ll personally introduce you to the men with the longest schlongs. I guess he should know. Being knee-high to a grasshopper has to have some benefits—especially in the men’s locker room, right?”

  I’d rather find out if he knows Mandrake’s whereabouts. But hey, since he’s plugged in, it’s certainly worth picking his brain.

  Or pickling it. First stop: the Duty Free shop, for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.

  As I follow my new besties to the Eden Key tram, my iPhone chimes with its fairy dust tone. It’s a red letter day. Trisha has sent her very first text:

  LOVE YOU, MOMMY. THE PLANE TOOK A LONG TIME, BUT NOW WE ARE ON A PRETTY BEACH. I STILL MISS YOU. KISS, TRISHA

  I should be there with her, not here with the lonely and the anxious.

  “Yummy! Look at the cute guy in the Atlanta Braves tee-shirt, out on the deck!” Tuggle is practically salivating over Tony Ebersol, a stockbroker who just made a killing on the latest Apple stock boom—something I learned after I lifted Tony’s fingerprint, which he left on my vinyl bikini top as he copped a feel during this afternoon’s co-ed beachside volleyball pick-up game.

  I scanned Tony’s print with my iPhone, then sent it to Emma, who ran it through the NSA’s fingerprint database. Because Tony is a member of the Securities and Exchange Commission, Acme was able to confirm that (a) he is definitely an avid Braves fan, having held onto season tickets for years, even during the team’s disastrous 2008 season; (b) that he is a partner in the Peachtree Street-Atlanta office of Merrill Lynch; and (c) that he also happens to be married.

  Not that he’ll divulge this interesting tidbit to Tuggle when she picks up his room card during tonight’s Key party.

  Key swaps are just one of the dozens of activities offered. In any given hour, the resort’s activities directors herd guests into games of all sorts. Eden Key’s top picks are Strip Poker, Truth or Dare, Scavenger Hunt, and the Dating Game.

  More strenuous activities include nude yoga, nude sunbathing, and nude hiking. Do you see a pattern here? The operative word is nude.

  It’s been a slow and grueling process. In the past forty hours I’ve eliminated only six of Eden Key’s fifty-five male guests. That means a lot of flirtations and bar pick-ups, scanning the faces of possible suspects in the hope that Acme’s facial recognition software will make a match with the fuzzy photo we have of Dr. Mandrake. The process of elimination is helped by anyone whose fingerprints are registered elsewhere. But other than that, we don’t have much to go on—

  Except for gossip. In this hotbed of hunks, tarts and hotties, the oddest of sexual peccadilloes is grist for the mill.

  Tuggle, Merritt and Angie have also kept busy. Their close encounters of the male kind have reaped reconnaissance on at least another fifteen or so male guests, some who could easily be prime suspects except for the fact that they’re missing the mushroom cloud tattoo.

  The more my band of sistahs reveals, the more revealing they become. Turns out that Tuggle is recently divorced from the man who was her high school sweetheart. She is now looking to make up for lost time. On the other hand, Merritt,
the raven-haired cougar, is thrice divorced and proud of it. One of her several mottoes—“the younger, the better”—is something she declares loudly and proudly.

  The last of our clique, Angie, is a gorgeous ex-model who has never been married because (as she puts it) “men only look skin deep.” To make it easy for them to do so, she adheres to the club’s Nude Is Good policy as often as possible. I’m beginning to wonder if her wardrobe consists of anything other than a belly button ring collection.

  “What about the guy over there, in the golf shirt?” I try to sound nonchalant as I point out a fifty-something dark-haired golfer who has just come off the back nine with three other middle-aged men—brothers from St. Louis whose wives think they’re on their annual fishing trip at their grandpa’s old cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks.

  “Haven’t met him.” Merritt shrugs. “And I’ve got no plans to do so. He’s too old for me.”

  “If no one else has dibbs on him, I’d take him, any day,” Tuggle pipes up.

  “Trust me, you can do better than that creep,” Angie assures her. “He’s a biter! See?” She flips over onto her back, where an obvious set of teeth marks can be made out on her right butt cheek. “He picked me up before lunch. Said we could order room service in my suite. Oh, well, that’s what I get for telling some dude I’m ‘into rough stuff.’ I thought he meant a little slap and tickle, not covering me in barbecue sauce and having me for lunch. I screamed so loud that he took off like a thief.”

  Merritt scrutinizes the manicure on her left hand. “You know my motto—”

  Angie sighs. “Which one? You have so many.”

  Merritt folds all her fingers down, except for the middle one. In her position Angie is oblivious of the gesture. “The most obvious one, my ignorant little friend: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’”

  “I wasn’t interested in his heart. And the part of his anatomy that piqued my interest turned out to be a tiny bit disappointing.” She holds up a finger of her own—a pinky.

  “Ouch, never mind.” Tuggle frowns. Suddenly she notices something about Angie’s bitten backside that brings her up close and personal to it. “Looks like the guy is missing one of his incisors!”

  What the…? In unison, Merritt and I turn to stare at her.

  Tuggle smiles proudly. “I’m a dental assistant. Then again, the tooth might have been broken above the bite line. I guess we’d need a second opinion to know for sure.”

  Not a bad idea. Would it be too obvious if I snapped an iPhoto of it with my cell so that Acme can match the indentations to Doctor Mandrake’s most recent dental records? Like all of the Federal government, the NSA has the best medical coverage our taxes can buy.

  For that reason alone, we should all work for the NSA.

  Or get elected to Congress.

  I doubt Angie would bat an eye if I asked. “I’ll take that bet,” I say nonchalantly. “I’ve got a dentist buddy. Mind if I shoot off a picture and text it to him?”

  Just as I thought, Angie is eager to accommodate. She lifts her butt into a porn-worthy pose.

  The St. Louis trio slam into each other when the first brother stops to gawk.

  I hope Emma isn’t around when Arnie opens this jpeg, or there will be hell to pay.

  Angie stays on her belly, but she turns her head so that she’s facing me. “You’re a sex therapist, right? So, why must some guys bite in order to get it up?”

  Good question. And I’m sure if I really were a real sex therapist, I’d have the answer to that. Instead I have to fake it. “Because they're sick sons of bitches,” I tell her matter-of-factly.

  “Ah! Makes sense.” As she stretches out on the chaise, her bangles clink and tinkle, like Tibetan chimes in a windstorm.

  Two of the brothers nudge each other and wink.

  The smile on Master Biter’s face disappears when he sees the object of their lust.

  Is he Dr. Mandrake? Only his dentist knows for sure. I’ll get Arnie to scope out the good doctor’s employee dental claims. Maybe we’ll hit a match.

  And then Jack and I can take some real time off, together.

  Chapter 6

  Missed Connections

  Travel can go right. It can also go terribly wrong.

  It is particularly irksome when one misses one’s plane and has landed too late to make the connection needed to get to one’s final destination.

  If you are that one, here’s how to play catch-up:

  First, throw down the VIP card. And guess what? You don’t have to be a VIP to play! All you have to do is act like one. That means (a) proclaiming loudly that you’ve been inconvenienced in the worst possible way; (b) breaking into the front of the ticketing queue for those getting re-routed; and (c) haranguing the ticket agent for the best seat available. Don’t hesitate to point out that your inconvenience should be mitigated by the provision of a free first-class ticket.

  Next, insist on a golf cart to take you to the gate of your new flight. It doesn’t matter that all the carts are in use. Nor does it matter that you’re not infirm or just plain old. And it certainly doesn’t matter that you’ll be inconveniencing some who are too far from their gates or infirm, or old as Methuselah. What matters is that you make your point—whatever that is. (You’ll have plenty of time to figure that out on your five-mile-an-hour cart ride.)

  Finally, when you actually get onto that other plane, toss a hissy fit about your seat. This lets the flight attendants know you’re not to be messed with again. It also signals your flight’s air marshal that he should have his taser gun ready to stun, the moment one of the flight attendants give him the high sign.

  Should you get tossed from this flight as well, be honest about it with the person picking you up at the other end:

  Just say you missed your connection.

  “Despite the fact that Jack’s not here, shouldn’t we start this shindig?” Abu looks down at his watch. “I’ve got to be back in less than thirty minutes in order to clean guns for a bunch of lazy rich dudes who couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bazooka.”

  I nod. “Time is of the essence. As of today there are one hundred and sixty-four men within the confines of Fantasy Island, and we’ve only positively cleared seventy-three of them. At this rate, we won’t find Mandrake until it’s too late. I’ve got no problem with starting sans Jack Craig.”

  In truth, I’m angry as hell that Jack has no respect for my turn as mission leader, but I certainly don’t want the others to see it. Everyone else—Emma, Abu, and Arnie—showed up promptly, so why should they be punished?

  Even Dominic is with us—sort of. He’s preoccupied with posting selfies of himself and some of the comely lasses of Eden Key—eight and counting—onto his Facebook fan page. Obviously he’s taking the term “undercover” quite literally.

  Which begs my question to him: “Dominic, tell me—has even one of your conquests divulged the tiniest hint of Mandrake’s whereabouts?”

  He doesn’t bother to look up, merely waves his hand at me, as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “I don’t know about you, Donna, but at the peak of my partners’ physical pleasure, I’m the only man they’re thinking about. I know this, because it is my name, and only mine, that they shout out while in the throes of passion.”

  “Pity. Defeats our purpose, wouldn’t you agree? Tell you what, considering our time restraints, forego your usual modus operandi. Instead, set up shop in the men’s steam room. The sooner that mushroom cloud tat reveals itself, the better.”

  “Aye, aye, my mistress and commander.” He is disappointed. Nonetheless, he honors me with an RAF salute.

  I turn to Abu. “I know it’s early, but any potential suspects among the hunters, fishers, or gamblers?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re a chummy lot. For the most part they hang in cliques, based on their preferred pastimes. When not out playing, they’re in the bar or the club’s restaurant, telling tall tales. In my capacity as an ‘arms facilitator,’ most of
my exposure is with the hunters. They break into two groups—those into tracking deer, which are allowed to roam in the woods just beyond the lodge.” He hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “Then there are the ‘big game’ hunters.”

  That certainly gets my attention. “Big game? Like what?”

  “Funny you should ask. I can’t get a straight answer from any of the employees. Some think bison. Others say lions. Whatever the species, its habitat—enclosed securely, I presume—is far from the lodge. I’ve listened for big game sounds, but I never hear any. Each morning, these particular hunters—there is only a handful of them—are driven to the reserve in a special van. Sometimes these hunts take place in the evenings. I know this, because I’m called to the arsenal room as late as eight at night, and told to hand out infrared goggles along with the hunter’s gun of choice.”

  “Can you tell by the ammo what they may be shooting at?”

  Abu thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “It’s certainly not the kind of clip that will take down a bull elephant. More in the big cat range.”

  Whatever is out there, I just hope it stays within its confines. I can only imagine the carnage that would ensue if some dangerous animal got loose, and made its way into the other resorts.

  I turn to Emma, who’s still dressed in her youth counselor uniform costume—Little Red Riding Hood. “Why don’t you and Arnie fill us in on the comings and goings at Kamp KidStuff?”

  She rolls her eyes. “There are no single men, just dads who have come with their wives. And most of the counselors are right at Arnie’s and my age, so I don’t think Dr. Mandrake is on our side of the island.”

  “Great. Then you’ll have more time to field and assess the reconnaissance collected by the rest of us.”

  Emma sighs. “I’ll do what I can, and as soon as possible. But sometimes it’s hard to get away from my assigned group. I’m in charge of four high-school bound girls who are so boy crazy! All they want to do is hang around the pool and stare at the jocks. I mean, come on already! If they cared half as much about math and science as they do their tans, their nails, and their hair, they wouldn’t need to worry about whether or not they impress a bunch of deadbeat testosterone-crazy dudes.”