The Iron Tiara: A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel

by Beth Flynn

  “Oh my!” Evelyn exclaimed, giving Anthony an admiring once-over. “I haven’t seen you with a man before. I guess you were holding out for the right one.”

  Or keeping her older lover a secret, Anthony thought to himself.

  Ignoring the comment, Christy told her, “I need my spare key.”

  “Got it right here,” she said, pulling a little keyring that was clipped to her belt loop.

  Christy thanked her and snatched the key from Evelyn’s hand a little too roughly. Anthony started to follow her when Evelyn told him, “I’ll be right back. Christy got a delivery yesterday afternoon.”

  “We’ll be inside,” he told the woman.

  He stood in the doorway and surveyed the small but clean apartment. Everything was white. White furniture, white walls, white throw rugs on a white tile floor. He started to walk toward the white kitchen when Evelyn called from behind him. “Yoo hoo!! I’m back.”

  She click-clacked past Anthony and laid a bouquet of flowers on the white kitchen table. “Your flowers came yesterday, Christy. I didn’t want to leave them outside in the heat, so I brought them next door and watered them for you,” she called out.

  She then turned to Anthony and said, “She is so wonderful. I don’t know what she does with all these flowers she gets. Every Tuesday a new bouquet shows up, and I see her get in her car and drive off with them. I think she must be taking them to a nursing home or hospital.”

  Or she has a secret admirer, Anthony thought. And she's trying to get rid of the evidence before her older lover finds out.

  Unexpectedly, Christy came out of the tiny hallway carrying a small suitcase. “Thanks, Evelyn,” she told the woman sincerely. “I’m going on a short trip.” She eyed Anthony. “I’ll call the florist and ask them not to make any future deliveries until I get back so you don’t need to look out for them. You know my pager number if anything pressing comes up.”

  Anthony could tell that the woman was dying of curiosity about not just him but Christy’s short trip. She looked like she was going to ask a question when something occurred to her.

  “You had some visitors. Do you want me to page you if they come back?” she asked, looking from Christy to Anthony.

  “If who comes back?” Christy asked.

  “The men that were looking for you yesterday. Two handsome men in suits. They didn’t say who they were, but they looked important.”

  Without giving Christy a chance to answer, Anthony asked, “What’s wrong with the phone? Why was there a repairman here?”

  This caught both Christy and Evelyn by surprise.

  “Oh, nothing’s wrong with our phones,” Evelyn said, waving him off. “When I asked the man working, he said he was doing a routine check for faulty lines in our complex."

  Anthony looked hard at Christy and grabbed the bag from her hand. “It’s time to go.”

  Christy seemed stunned at his sense of urgency. She just stared.

  “Now,” Anthony said.

  Christy headed toward a small cabinet and grabbed a plastic bag from one of the shelves. She walked toward Evelyn, and, shoving the bag at her said, "Please do me a favor and put this seed out every morning." Without giving Evelyn a chance to reply she scooped up her flowers from the kitchen table and headed for the front door. She was almost outside when she heard Anthony say to Evelyn, “You haven’t seen or heard from Christy. As far as you know, she took a little vacation. And you definitely don’t mention to anyone that I was here.” He headed for the door.

  “Why? Is something wrong?” Evelyn asked. Her voice sounded more curious than concerned.

  Anthony turned around and started to approach her. He was only inches from her when he stopped and looked down. She was instantly trapped in his stare. She slowly placed her right hand over her chest and gasping, took a step back from him.

  "Of cour...of course," she gulped. "Christy's on vacation and I've never seen you before in my life."

  Anthony slowly nodded at her. "You're a smart lady, Evelyn. And you don't ever want to let me think otherwise."

  And then he and Christy were gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Naples, Florida 1978

  “I think you’re in danger,” Anthony stated as they sped out of the development.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know. You did kidnap me from Vivian’s bedroom yesterday,” she said, eyeing him warily.

  “Don’t be a snot,” he told her. “Do you have any idea who those men might be?”

  “No. Not a clue,” she answered honestly.

  “The telephone repair truck was a knock-off. It looked like the real deal, but it wasn’t. I’m pretty sure someone is tapping your phone.”

  “But…why? Who?” she stammered.

  “You tell me,” he said. “I guess Van already knows you hate his guts. Have you been stirring a pot that shouldn’t be stirred?” He already knew who the men were. They obviously worked for the other sharks that Van owed, but Anthony wanted to see what Christy had to say. He didn't want to admit it, but he was curious as to what she'd been looking for in Vivian's bedroom.

  “Yes, but it’s not like I announced it,” she exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I’ve been working on something. It’s why I was at their house yesterday. That is, before you came along and ruined it,” she added, accusingly.

  “What were you there for?” he repeated.

  “I told you this morning, it’s none of your concern.” She paused then and asked, “And why do you care so much anyway?”

  “I don’t,” he answered a little too quickly. “I consider you an investment. I protect my investments.”

  “That’s bull, Anthony Bear!” she yelled, challenging him.

  He shot her a look.

  “I offered to pay Van’s debt." She reached into her back pocket and waved her checkbook at him. She'd apparently retrieved it from her apartment. "This is more than that for you. What is it? You tell me why you refused my offer and I’ll tell you what I was looking for.”

  He didn’t say anything. How could he tell her what he couldn’t understand himself? She was right. He could’ve received a nice fat check this morning and sent her on her merry way. He’d be done and lying between Shasta’s legs right now. Shasta was one of the women who regularly spent time at the camp. She was a favorite of Anthony’s because she knew what she was. A whore. A lay. Someone he could work off his pent-up energy with. She had no expectations, and that’s how he liked his women. She never asked questions. She never challenged him or his authority. It was one of the reasons he got tired of Veronique. She wanted more from him, and he wasn't interested in giving. Why was he putting up with this tiny blonde shrew? The little witch who had in less than twenty-four hours somehow managed to crawl under his skin and attempt to set up permanent residence there. Shaking his head as if to ward off the outrageous thought, he changed the subject.

  “Are the flowers from your boyfriend? The older man Richard said you ran off with a few years ago? He still hanging around? You keeping him a secret from your parents?” He cast her a sidelong glance.

  He knew he must have hit a nerve because she stiffened and he thought he saw a shimmer of tears start to form in her eyes before she turned her head to look out the passenger window.

  “Take a right, and I’ll show you,” she said, her voice sounding sad as if the fight had gone out of her.

  After several more one-syllable directions, Anthony drove up to the entrance of Forest Lawn Cemetery. Ah, he thought. Flowers for her grandmother.

  Christy told him where to stop and wordlessly climbed out of the truck. He stayed put and watched her approach a large oak tree, kneeling nearby in front of a small gravestone. She picked up some dying flowers and set them aside, replacing them with the fresh bouquet she held. Surely, Roberta “Bobbi” Bowen would’ve had an elaborate headstone. His curiosity got the better of him, and he quietly left the truck. His long shadow cast a darkness over the modest headstone. She knew
he was behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Who is Abigail Ramirez?” he asked.

  The dates indicated that Abigail hadn’t made it to her second birthday. Thus, the small headstone. A tiny monument to a tiny life.

  Without turning around, Christy answered quietly, “Abby was Litzy’s little girl. Litzy was our live-in nanny. She practically raised me.”

  “What happened to Abby?” he asked. He mentally kicked himself. Why does that matter to me? he wondered and immediately convinced himself that it didn't.

  “She had a rare disease. The doctors did everything they could.” She stood then and without looking at Anthony she carried the wilted old flowers back to his truck.

  The ride back to his house was a silent one. He’d had to bite his tongue to keep the nasty remarks at bay. He wanted so badly to lash out, but found that he couldn’t. He wanted to jab her with unkind comments about how she apparently couldn’t buy everything. It was obvious that Christy hadn't been able to purchase a cure for Abigail and after seeing how much she cared for Nadine, who had only been a part of Christy’s life for a year or so, he didn’t have to ask to know that Christy had probably done everything she could financially to help the family’s longtime nanny keep her child alive.

  For the first time in their very short acquaintance, he saw her as more than a spoiled, rich brat. He saw her as a human being. He saw her as someone who cared beyond her bank balance and her fancy car dealership and family mansion. The duplex was a surprise. She certainly could’ve lived in a nicer place. There was nothing wrong with her apartment, he just hadn’t expected it. He was going to ask her about it when they rounded the turn and his house came into view.

  He squinted to see who was parked in the driveway.

  “I wonder who’s here?” he asked out loud. He was concerned. He didn’t get visitors and his cleaning lady, who came twice a month and wasn’t due for a couple days, drove a light blue Honda.

  “Looks like Alexander is back,” she said, her voice quiet.

  “No. X was supposed to pick up your car. That can’t be your car,” he told her.

  “Why can’t it be my car?” she asked.

  “You told me it was a white convertible.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a white convertible,” she countered, gesturing to the car in front of them.

  He pulled up behind it and noted the Bobbi Bowen decal situated right above the bumper.

  “It’s a Volkswagen,” he said dryly. “It’s a VW Rabbit. You drive a Rabbit?” he asked. His tone reeked of skepticism.

  “Yes, I drive a Rabbit. And why are you so shocked?” she asked him.

  “You can drive anything you want, and you drive a Volkswagen?”

  She looked over at him, her eyes serious. “You have a real hang-up over my money, don’t you? You think you know me because of my family and my grandmother’s legacy. You don’t know me at all.”

  He was speechless. She was right. If he was certain he had someone pegged, it had been her. The silver spoon dangling from her mouth was so big it swung like a pendulum. And yet, she blew every preconceived notion he'd thought about her out of the water. She was nothing like what he assumed her to be.

  “So, I guess you get a new Rabbit every year, then?” he asked, trying to somehow still peg her, no matter how little, as the overprivileged child of wealth he'd assumed her to be.

  “Why would I do that when this one runs perfectly? It's two years old and in excellent condition.”

  “You could be driving a Lamborghini, and you drive a Rabbit?” he asked, not expecting her to answer. "By choice?"

  “I don't want to drive a Lamborghini. My car is fun to drive,” she replied, her voice rising a little as she tried to convince him.

  “I can’t imagine a Rabbit being fun to drive,” he told her evenly. “Even if I was driving around with a bunch of clowns, there's no way I can see that being fun.” He nodded toward her car.

  “Well, I guess you’ve been driving around with the wrong people then, Anthony Bear,” she told him as she got out of his truck and headed for the front door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Naples, Florida 1978

  After they were inside, Christy glanced around the large space, noting the masculine yet tasteful furnishings for the first time. The walls of the great room were painted a deep maroon, and he’d filled up the living space with chocolate brown leather sofas that faced each other. Dark green, maroon and tan woven quilts were draped over the back of each couch which were separated by a low coffee table that had been crafted from an old barn door. The dark hardwood floors contrasted nicely with the framed artwork that was displayed. He walked up behind her as she stood and stared at a unique piece of art that hung above the fireplace.

  He cleared his throat noisily, and she swung around. Catching a tantalizing whiff of his skin, she blurted out, “Is Alexander here?”

  "His bike is gone. Why?" Anthony asked.

  "No reason." Christy shrugged. She started to look uneasy, and Anthony asked her what was wrong.

  "I didn't eat at Nadine's. Just picked. And I guess that little bit of toast I had this morning has worn off."

  Anthony gestured toward the kitchen and told her to help herself.

  He left Christy and went to his office to page X. He wanted Alexander back at the house to discuss his recent suspicions concerning those men that had been looking for Christy and to make a plan. She appeared in his doorway before he had a chance to pick up the phone.

  "Did I imagine it or did I smell chicken soup?" She stood with her hand on her stomach, her big blue eyes appearing almost childlike.

  Anthony squinted in concentration. "My sister stayed with me for a few days, and she made some the first day she was here. There's some in the refrigerator and you're welcome to it."

  She nodded her thanks and headed back toward the kitchen, not realizing that Anthony had followed her in.

  "That was days ago, and my house still smells like soup?" he asked her. "I don't smell it."

  Without looking at him she retrieved the container from his refrigerator and poured it into a small pot. "Weird fact. And not that you'd be interested, but I have a heightened sense of smell. I can tell you what kind of dish soap they use in the kitchen the minute I walk into a restaurant." She started to open his cabinets, obviously looking for a bowl. When she found them, she stood with her hands on her hips looking up. Glancing around and not seeing a stepstool she turned to him. "Can you get a bowl for me, please?" she asked as she nodded toward the top shelf. "Two if you're eating."

  He effortlessly reached over her head for a bowl and handed it to her. "Same with my hearing," she continued. Snatching a spoon from a drawer, she stood with her back to him and stirred the soup. She turned to him and said, "I can hear the proverbial pin drop. Kind of like The Bionic Woman." She started to smile and stopped herself, her face going slack. "My hearing has only failed me once," she told him, turning away again. She stared down into the pot of soup.

  "When was that?" he asked, studying her profile. Her smooth, flawless cheek, slightly upturned nose and the prominent bump that protruded from her forehead.

  Without looking at him, she replied, "Yesterday. When you snuck up the stairs at Van and Vivian's."

  The question was out before he could stop it. "Any other strange and weird facts I should know about you?" he asked. This was wrong. This was more than wrong. Chatting it up with an abduction victim? He didn't usually want to know these things. And worse yet, he couldn't understand why he wanted to know these things about her.

  "I have double-jointed thumbs," she answered, interrupting his thoughts. "They look kind of weird when I bend them backward. And they make it hard for me to squeeze certain things. Like those doorknobs that aren't round, but the kind that are like a handle that requires you to press down with your thumb. I have a hard time with those."

  She'd already seated herself at his kitchen table. Taking a delicate sip of soup, she looked up at h
im. He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across his chest.

  "What about you?" she asked, before taking another sip from her spoon.

  "My thumbs are fine," he told her.

  She smiled and said, "No, I'm not asking about your thumbs. I'm sure they're fine. I meant are there any strange or weird facts about you?" She placed her spoon in her bowl and added, "Other than the fact that for someone your size, you're as quiet as a mouse."

  Fireworks were suddenly going off in his head. A million points of light exploding at the same time. No. Not exploding. Misfiring. He was engaging a woman in small talk. And not just any woman. Van Chapman's stepdaughter. His kidnapping victim. The woman he was holding for ransom, but refused to let go when she offered to pay it herself.

  "There must be something," she said. The comment was gentle and soothing. Like an invitation to a warm shower after standing in the freezing rain.

  "I'm color blind," he blurted out.

  "I already knew that," she replied and went back to stirring and looking at her soup.

  "How could you possibly know that?" he challenged, stepping away from the counter and walking toward the table.

  "I noticed it when we first met. In Van's driveway," she answered.

  "Impossible. No way," he told her, his lip starting to curl.

  "Yes way," she replied. "You can only see black and white and nothing else." She stood then and took her bowl to the sink.

  "Ah," he said, his tone a bit calmer. "You mean your white car. Your Rabbit?" It was the only time he could remember mentioning a color, any color, in front of her and it was in his driveway, not Van's. He thought back to when she'd first pulled up in the red Corvette. He was certain he hadn't mentioned the car's color in front of her and even if he had, red wasn't one of the colors he had difficulty discerning.

  With her back to him, she washed her bowl and spoon, and then the soup pot, placing them in the dish rack to drain.