by Cleo Coyle
As the limousine took off for South Beach, we passed the poor unfortunates forced to jockey for a taxi. My eyes went wide when I spied a familiar face in the crowd.
“Is that Minnow?”
“The little fish you were trying to catch?” Tuck craned his neck, but it was too late. Minnow—if it was Minnow—was already out of sight.
*
ADJOINING suites had been reserved for us at the Ocean Meridian, a pretty, pastel pink jewel in Grayson Braddock’s chain of tropical luxury hotels.
We’d just checked in when I spotted Braddock in the hotel bar. In golf togs, another pair of designer sunglasses on his head, and a cold beer in hand, he held noisy court with a group of middle-aged men dressed for eighteen holes.
I sent Tucker upstairs with my luggage and headed to the retro ocean-themed bar, where I immediately confronted Braddock beside a neon-lit aquarium where lovely mermaids and strapping mermen gracefully swam.
“Okay, I’m here,” I said, ignoring the living wallpaper. “When are you and I going to talk?”
“Crikey, darlin’, you just arrived! You’re in Florida now, not Manhattan. Ease up on the throttle.” He paused and leaned close. “Get yourself comfortable, Clare, and I’ll pick you up in an hour. We’ll visit Chef Harvey at the festival. On the way, we’ll talk.”
*
OF COURSE, we didn’t talk. Not about Eric. Not about anything. He insisted there were too many amazing things we simply couldn’t miss eating and drinking under the Wine and Food Festival’s massive circus tent.
His eyes were masked by yet another pair of sunglasses. These looked space-age, something akin to Google Glass, and he hid behind them, taking a series of eyewear phone calls as he plied me with gourmet samples prepared especially for the VIP foodies in attendance.
Tasmanian Shrimp Glazed with Ginger and Garlic; Mini Croque Monsieur with Smoked Salmon and Caviar; Pan-Seared Wagyu Steak on Rosemary Ciabatta; Roasted Lobster and Gruyere Croquettes; Pancetta-Wrapped Smoked Cherries; and Sea Scallops with Seaweed Butter—a dish as fresh and tangy as the salty ocean breezes—all accompanied by sample-sized portions of delectably dry, sweet, fruity, and buttery red and white wines.
When we finally found Chef Harvey, he hurried out from behind his booth to greet us.
“Clare Cosi, how good of you to come,” he said, pumping my hand. “You must try my take on America’s obsession with ‘surf and turf.’ Mine features yuzu-braised lamb and tarragon prawns.”
When I emerged from my food trance, Chef Harvey invited me to a party held in his honor aboard Grayson Braddock’s yacht, Made in the Shade. I was wary, but he absolutely insisted I come.
“Can I bring my friends?” I asked, pointing out Punch and Tuck.
“Of course, but make sure you bring yourself!” Chef Harvey replied.
“What happened to Braddock?” I asked Tuck a moment later. “He disappeared on us.”
Punch and Tuck scanned the tent.
“I don’t see him,” Punch said. “And Braddock is hard to miss with those space-age shades.”
Tuck agreed. “Did you notice? He’s worn a different pair every time we’ve seen him. I wonder how many shades he has?”
Punch and Tuck exchanged glances. Knowing Gray Braddock’s womanizing ways, the pair blurted out the same answer: “Fifty!”
“Wait here,” I told my chortling chaperones. “I’ll see if I can locate Gray, the billionaire with fifty shades.” They burst out laughing again; I rolled my eyes. “I’ll come back for you.”
After negotiating the large crowd, I finally reached the exit. Blinking against the sun, I wished I’d remembered to pack my own shades!
As my vision cleared, one of the people-moving carts breezed past me. In the back row, between a pair of Bermuda shorts–clad retirees, I saw Wilhelmina Tork in jeans and a shapeless tee.
“Minnow!” I yelled.
If she heard me, the girl didn’t react, and the cart went by too fast for me to chase it down.
What is Minnow doing in South Beach? I wondered. She sure didn’t strike me as a foodie. Does she have business with Braddock? Is she part of the mystery Gray used to lure me down here?
Before I jumped to too many wrong conclusions, I had to make certain I’d actually seen Minnow, and not some lookalike. Fortunately, I knew who to ask.
*
BACK in the privacy of my hotel suite, I placed a call to Eric’s sister, Eden Thorner.
“I need your help,” I said. “Do you know where Wilhelmina Tork is?”
“She’s working at home today, sick with a winter flu.”
“Well, I’m in South Beach, and I need to know if Minnow is down here, too.”
“What would she be doing in—”
“Look, Eden, I know your THORN phones have GPS tracking chips in them. You’re a company officer. If you have access to the tracking, please check to see if Minnow’s phone is in Florida!”
“All right, Clare, calm down. I’ll call up the tracking.” A minute passed. “No, Clare. The GPS chip in Minnow’s phone shows that she’s right here in New York. Darren Engle lives in the same building. He feeds her fish when she’s in California so he has an extra key to her place. I can have him check on her if you like.”
“That’s a relief, thanks,” I said. But it wasn’t entirely. Am I that paranoid? I was either going crazy or the stress of this case was truly getting to me.
“Clare, what’s going on?”
“I can’t explain now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. You’ll just have to trust me, okay?”
I hung up before Eden had a chance to turn Quiz Master.
I was suddenly exhausted. It couldn’t have anything to do with the wine I’d consumed, right?
The yacht party started at eight this evening, still a few hours away, so I decided to take a nap. Getting into bed, I heard the muffled voices of Tuck and Punch laughing and talking in the adjacent suite.
I wanted Mike, but he was far away now, in so many ways.
Eyes welling up, I reached for my THORN phone and sent him a text, just three words—
I MISS YOU.
I waited. And waited. But nothing came back, and I drifted off, letting the big, feather pillow catch my tears.
Sixty-five
“CLARE, this is your programmed alert. You have received a text message from Michael Quinn. Clare, this is your programmed alert . . .”
I yawned, blinked, and reached for the phone to shut off the uber-annoying fembot voice. Finally, I saw the screen.
MISS YOU 2.
“Oh, Mike . . .”
I wanted to write back, tell him where I was and why, but I was already running late.
Within the hour, I was showered and dressed and went looking for Tuck and Punch, but they weren’t in their suite. Down in the lobby, the chauffeur from the airport approached me.
“Have you seen my two friends?” I asked him.
“Mr. Burton and Mr. Santiago have already left for the party, Ms. Cosi. Shall we go?”
It was such a short drive to Gray’s yacht that I could have walked. As I crossed the gangplank, I realized two things: the party was already in full swing, and I was overdressed.
Lights blazed and music blared aboard the 150-foot mega-yacht. And the sundeck on top was crowded with men in beachwear and sweet young things in string bikinis and platform flip-flops.
In my tasteful sundress and wedged sandals, I might as well have worn a nun’s habit.
Oh, Lord. What kind of party is this?
When Chef Harvey invited me, I assumed I was attending an elegant function with food industry professionals. The loud music, half-dressed girls, and half-drunk “dudes” had me ready to turn around then and there, but Grayson spotted me and called out from the deck. In a polo shirt and shorts, he waved me forward with one hand (a cocktail occupied the other).
Well, Clare, you came this far, I thought. There are plenty of people around. And you do still have two chaperones, speaking of w
hich—
“Where are my friends?” I asked the moment I stepped aboard.
“Dunno,” Grayson replied. “Probably in the salon with Chef Harvey. That’s where you’ll find the bundy and champers.”
“Excuse me?”
“The booze, darlin’!” He grinned. “You Yanks need to learn the King’s English.”
When I first encountered Gray at the hotel bar, he was drinking beer. At the festival, he’d switched to wine. Now he thrust his glass under my nose; I smelled juniper berries and tonic water.
I considered the billionaire’s inebriated condition and concluded it might actually help my cause. In vino veritas, and Gray had already had plenty of vino.
“Want me to skull it?” he asked, shaking the glass until the ice clinked.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Aussie.”
Grayson drained the glass, presumably to demonstrate a “skull.”
“Ready to find your friends now?”
“Yes, please.”
He took my arm. “Follow me.”
We entered the big ship’s interior, made a couple of turns, and walked down a short staircase.
More steps and more doors, and we arrived in a long, carpeted, empty corridor with cabins on either side. It was quiet down here. Too quiet. And we were completely alone.
“Where are we going? Where are Tuck and Punch?”
“Truth, Clare? Your friends are across town, at a big cosplay bash.”
“What!”
“My assistant texted them earlier about the change in plans. They think you’re there, too, in costume, but you’re not—because I wanted us to have some privacy.”
“This is not what I agreed to—”
“Ah, but it’s what’s you wanted, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to get me alone ‘to talk’ since you got to South Beach.”
He tugged my arm, but I dug in, refusing to go any farther with the man. “That’s it, Gray. I’m out of patience. Tell me why I’m here, right now, or I’m leaving.”
The deck lurched under my sandals, and I realized the ship was casting off—a nanosecond later I found myself fighting off a giant, bald, Australian octopus!
“I think you’re awesome, girlie! Crazy wicked—”
“Stop it!”
“And that hard-to-get act’s a corker. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day—”
“Get your drunken hands off me!”
Braddock released me all right, so he could tear off his polo shirt. “Time for a lesson in Gray’s Anatomy!”
I took off down the corridor. Gray misunderstood my intentions.
“Lookin’ for a private bedroom, darlin’? Try the door on your right.”
What I wanted was an exit, so I opened the door on my left—and stopped cold.
The room was hung with red, velvet curtains. A medieval stock loomed beside a whipping post complete with handcuffs, and mirrors lined the ceiling.
Holy cow! I slammed the door.
“Not your speed?” Gray called. “No worries, darlin’! Try a door on your right, your right!”
I lunged for a door on my left, and gasped again.
The décor was more mundane, but in the middle of a posh, leather couch I found Minnow locked in an embrace with an inebriated Donny Chu—the young programmer I saw having dinner with Braddock at the Source Club. Donny had worked for THORN, Inc., but was now helping Braddock launch his mobile gaming division.
I sputtered, staring.
This was the proof. Clear as day. Minnow was the traitor in Eric’s organization.
She must have left her phone in New York to fool Eden and Eric and everyone!
Hearing the shirtless billionaire approach, I continued down the hall. There was some kind of commotion in Minnow’s cabin, but I kept running.
I found a flight of steps and climbed them. A moment later, I burst onto an open lower deck, startling partygoers.
Made in the Shade was just getting under way. The yacht was about fifty yards from shore, and I knew all those hours swimming laps at the Y were about to pay off.
I kicked off my sandals and approached the ship’s rail.
Minnow burst onto the deck a few seconds before Grayson, with Donny Chu close behind.
I climbed over the rail, took a deep breath, and dived. It was a big drop, but no higher than the diving board at the Y. I cut through the surface and came up again, blowing water.
“Girl overboard!” a woman yelled.
“Clare!” Minnow shouted.
Then I heard Donny Chu. “Minnow, where are you going? Don’t do it!”
A body splashed into the water nearby. It’s Minnow, I realized. She’s coming after me!
The girl broke the surface right beside me. As I took off swimming, I heard Braddock’s voice from the deck above—“Forget about Minnow, Donny. There are a lot more fish in the sea!”
I kicked my legs and pumped my arms, but it was no use. The spiteful girl was splashing after me, and she was getting closer!
Minnow killed Bianca Hyde and blew up Charley Polaski, I thought in terror. And now she’s going to drown me!
Then everything went black.
Sixty-six
I FELT the tide lapping at my bare feet, and I opened my eyes. I lay flat on my back on the beach, soaking wet, staring up at Wilhelmina Tork silhouetted by a tropical moon.
I tried to speak but choked instead. Minnow removed her hands so I could roll over and empty my stomach. At some point during the retching, I realized Minnow had administered CPR.
“Did you just save my life?” I gasped between breaths
Minnow nodded. “I learned CPR in the Girl Scouts.”
I propped myself on my elbows, my back sticky with sand. “Me too.”
She smiled at me, a genuine smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Clare. You really freaked me out.”
“So you didn’t try to drown me?”
“Of course not! Some bikini bimbo on the top deck threw you a life saver and it smacked your head. You were knocked out cold, so I hauled your butt ashore.”
“What were you doing aboard Braddock’s yacht? Eden thinks you’re in New York.”
Minnow hugged her knees and told me everything.
That scheme Esther and I had rigged to entrap her at Driftwood Coffee had spooked her enough to start looking into Charley’s death herself. She’d asked the Metis Man to help her, but her request only angered him. Soon Minnow came to the same conclusion I did—Braddock had a mole in Eric’s company.
To flush the traitor out, Minnow went undercover; she contacted Donny Chu and pretended she was ready to defect, to leave Eric’s company for Braddock’s.
While I waltzed around the Wine and Food Festival with Gray, Minnow had spent the day with Donny, and she managed to get the skinny on Braddock’s mobile gaming division.
“They’ve got nothing!” Minnow declared. “Braddock realized early that there was no competing with THORN, Inc., so he switched tactics. Instead of trying to fight Eric, Braddock decided to buy Eric’s company right out from under him—by poaching the talent.”
I nodded, familiar with that scenario in my own business.
Minnow explained how Braddock figured he could have it all: hot properties to exploit through his publishing division, and the talent to make the games people would buy.
“Donny kept saying how I was the jewel in the crown and that Gray would pay me millions. Then he got drunk and got fresh. I tried to fight Donny off, but he was just too big. When you opened the door and distracted him, I got away.”
“What about the Witch/Bitch file?” I asked. “Darren found hundreds of pictures of Bianca Hyde in your archives—”
“For Enchantress, a mobile app game Eric asked me to develop.” Minnow shook her head. “That was back when he was enchanted with Bianca. When she died, Eric killed the game, too. Six months of work down the crapper.”
We sat in silence for a bit. A couple of guys passed us, saw Minnow’s slicked wet T-shirt, and wo
lf whistled.
“And the mole?”
“There is no mole, Clare.”
But someone killed Charley, I thought, and Bianca, too.
Minnow said the Metis Man became angry when she asked for his help. Could he be guilty?
And then there was Anton.
Eric Thorner’s manservant said he “would do anything” to protect his man. What about murder? First Bianca, then Charley.
Or maybe Eric had killed Bianca himself, and Anton stepped in, eliminating Charley to protect “his man.”
I outlined those scenarios to Minnow.
“Eric’s not a killer,” she said firmly. “I know him, Clare. I love him—”
“You love him?”
Minnow lowered her eyes. “Since college,” she whispered. “Since the day we met . . .”
“Have you ever told him?”
“Of course not. You’ve seen the kind of women he dates: starlets and models. They’re beautiful and glamorous. When he looks at me, all Eric sees is the little tomboy friend he met when I was a freshman and he was a junior.”
Minnow shook the sand from her hair. It was still wet, and she slicked it back. With her wild mop tamed, Wilhelmina Tork was stunning. Another wolf whistle confirmed that she had a body to match her face, one she always hid behind baggy, comfortable clothes.
“What do we do now?” Minnow asked.
“Let’s give Eric a call. He has a plane. I’m sure he’ll pick us up. Then you can tell him everything.”
It was a good plan. When we reached Eric, he had just taken off. There was only one problem. He was on his way to São Paulo with Matt.
If we wanted to hitch a ride home, we’d have to go by way of Brazil.
Sixty-seven
ONCE again, I was aboard Thorner’s private jet.
Waking up after a full night of sleep, I left the Gulfstream’s master bedroom to find Minnow already up and huddled with Eric over coffee and muffins at a corner table. No doubt she was continuing to fill her boss in on Braddock’s grand plan to undermine Eric’s mobile gaming division.
Rather than interrupt, I poured morning coffee for myself and joined Matt. Like Eric, he’d spent the night in one of the plane’s half-dozen giant recliner chairs.
