The reality of a further slowing as the season wound down, forced Barnet to retreat to his office again. Maybe it was time to focus on Internet sales. Online competitors were biting into his sales, and going on the offense would bring orders in. He thought the idea of putting together a campaign highlighting his unusual store had merit.
Logging on to Winesearch.com he scanned rows of offers. How the hell were these guys making any money? The margins he saw were minuscule. Barnet believed the business was about suggestions, introducing and convincing clients to experience new regions and varietals. Staying away from the commodity side of things sold in huge numbers by big players was not only far more interesting, it provided a chance to make a decent return on each bottle.
He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Red Juice Press. As he twisted the cap off, he spied an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux from 2000. Recalling the dark-blue and red fruit present in the trophy wine, it hit him. He took a guzzle of juice and pressed the intercom button.
“Bridgette, can I see you for a moment?”
Before he finished another swallow of the deep-red drink, the store’s general manager came in.
“What’s up?”
Barnet was disgusted at the roll of fat around her waist. “Sit. I’d like to make a real push into the futures business.”
“Bordeaux, right?”
“Naturally. It’ll help us ride out the summer.”
“It’s a good idea. There’s a lot of collectors down here, and if we do it right, we’ll grab a nice slice of the market.”
“As far as I know, Jacques from Bleu Provence has the strongest futures program, but you’ve been down here a lot longer than I have.”
She nodded. “Yeah, Bleu Cellar has been at it for a while, and they have most of the Port Royal buyers.”
“Thought so. Look, you know me, I never want to give anything away, but for this, let’s position our prices under all the major players. At this point, it’s about working our way into the collector market, and the cash flow won’t hurt either.”
“We’ve got a decent email list we can market off of.”
“That’s a great tool. We should have a couple of banners made for the store, and I’d like to do some Facebook ads targeting wine drinkers and especially Francophiles. Also, we’ll do a couple of ads in the Daily News.”
“It’s a good idea, but are we going be able to get Margaux, Haut-Brion, and Petrus?”
Barnet nodded. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“We had a . . . uh . . . an issue last year, if you remember.”
“Everything got settled, but if they don’t want to play ball, screw ’em. We don’t need them anyway.”
“I don’t know about that, John. We’ve got to be careful. Many buyers place all their futures with the same retailer.”
Barnet knew not having those wineries would eliminate a fat slice of potential buyers, but said, “How quickly can you get a campaign together?”
“Fast. Graphics aren’t an issue. Say, within a week. But we’ll need to nail down the producers and what we’re going to price things at.”
“Find out what Bleu Cellar, ABC, and Total Wine are selling at and come in five percent below the lowest of them.”
“That will get some attention for sure, but I really need to know about Margaux, Brion, and Petrus. Are you going to see if they’ll sell to us this season?”
“Assume they will. If they give us any hassles, I’ll wave the pile of orders we get at them.”
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent. Now, get cracking.”
Barnet knew the storied wineries would never sell to him, but he needed the cash flow the futures would provide. The eighteen months until the wine would arrive would give him time to explore other ways to increase sales and reduce costs. As for any disgruntled futures buyers, he’d deal with them when the time came.
***
Leaving his store, Barnet made a left, past the dancing fountains and lululemon and into the corridor that housed the offices of the Forbes Company. He knew the meeting with the owners of Waterside Shops would be difficult. Before opening the gold-lettered door, he reminded himself to curb his pride.
The management offices were perfunctory, providing a stark contrast with the opulent feel of the outdoor mall. He stood waiting until Albert Chesny, the managing director, was ready.
In keeping with providing as much retail space as possible, Chesny’s office was smaller than the size of most Port Royal kitchen islands.
They shook hands over a steel desk piled with files.
“It’s good to see you, John.”
“Same here, Al.”
“Hey, thanks for that recommendation you gave me on that cabernet.”
“My pleasure, I’m glad you liked it. We’ve got a couple of nice new ones from Washington State you should try.”
“My wife’s throwing a dinner party next week. I’ll stop in and pick up a few bottles.”
“I can take care of it for you. It’s what we do at Barnet’s.”
“Thanks, but we’re keeping it low-key, so nothing fancy. What can I do for you?”
Barnet shifted in his chair. “Things are really slowing down early this year. I’m sure everybody in here feels the drop-off.”
“Actually, foot traffic is up almost six and a half percent this month.”
“Really? Everyone in town seems to be complaining.”
“We don’t focus on the rest of town, John. Waterside is a unique shopping experience.”
“It’s special, that’s why I took the chance in locating my store here.”
“And we appreciate the vote of confidence. You made the right decision.”
“I hope so. It’s an unusual location for a beverage store.”
Chesny said, “Barnet’s is more than a beverage store. You’re selling an experience. That’s why we were excited to have you as part of the Waterside family.”
“I still believe Waterside has the right traffic and cachet we need, but I’m not going to beat around the bush, Al; the operating costs are sky-high.”
“We believe our pricing structure is commensurate with the exposure and traffic our tenants receive. You know we’re the best game in town, John.”
“I’m not disputing the uniqueness of Waterside, but it’s taking us more time to build our business. I’d like you to consider a reduction in our rent. It would be temporary, just to get us over the hump.”
Chesny shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we’re unable to accommodate your request, John.”
Barnet leaned forward. “We could really use a little help here, Al. You know what the summer is like.”
“I’m sure you understand that it’s not that easy to adjust leases. I understand your situation and have an idea I can probably get everyone on board with.”
Barnet moved to the edge of his seat. “I really appreciate your help here.”
“Presently, you occupy three southern storefronts. Why don’t you give some consideration to giving one or even two stores back to us? I’m sure we’d be able to work a waiver for altering the lease, and you could cut your expenses by a third or even two-thirds.”
Barnet fell back in his chair. “I can’t do that. It’d be the kiss of death.”
“Rightsizing is smart, John. I think you should give it some thought.”
Chapter 6
Gideon Brighthouse
I squeezed my eyes shut, gently massaging my eyeballs and brows before returning to the screen. A couple of interesting ideas had surfaced during the three hours of hunting, giving me plenty to debate. The most intriguing concept involved a poisonous fish. It was crazy that people would even consider eating a blowfish, but to the Japanese it was a delicacy. Marilyn enjoyed sushi, so plausibly she would try it, especially since it was so expensive and came with bragging rights.
A bunch of deaths, mainly in Japan, occurred each year from the poison in blowfish. It sounded perfect, because unless y
ou had a highly qualified chef who knew how to properly fillet a blowfish, you’d die. It only took a tiny bit of the poison to kill a human, and there wasn’t a known antidote. Death comes quickly via respiratory failure. I shook out of my head an image of Marilyn gasping, and resumed my research.
A Google search of Japanese restaurants populated a small list. Most were the Thai sushi places that dotted Naples, but none of them offered blowfish. There wasn’t a place in either Collier or Lee County that did. The closest was in Miami, and that wouldn’t work. Maybe there was a way for cross contamination. Boy that would throw the police off.
Noting the poison in a blowfish was tetrodotoxin, I continued researching and found that blue-ringed octopuses also contained it. Marilyn ate grilled octopus all the time; said it was super low in calories and had a lot of nutrients in it. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
I typed “deadly poison” into the search bar and was surprised by the long list that appeared. Polonium? What the heck is that? It’s 250,000 times deadlier than hydrogen cyanide? I pulled my hands away from the keyboard. It’s some radioactive substance. The next couple were gases that needed to be inhaled, making them unacceptable. What about this hydrogen cyanide? Oh, it’s another gas.
Here’s the blowfish poison again. It was good to see it ranking sixth on the list, but I already knew it was a good one. Then there was amatoxin, a poison found in mushrooms. It sounded perfect and I envisioned slipping the mushrooms into her juicer. After she ingested it, Marilyn would become dizzy, short of breath, and have a headache. Then her liver and kidneys would shut down and she’d lapse into a coma, dying a few days later. Originally, I believed I was looking for something immediate. But as I rolled it around, taking a few days, the coma, organs shutting down, I realized it provided some cover.
When someone dies unexpectedly, everyone starts asking questions, and that’s dangerous. If Marilyn experienced symptoms and lingered a few days, things would cloud up. It would be interesting to discover if the poison would dissipate as she was in a coma. It normally did, didn’t it? Her body would still be functioning, processing the poison. It would provide a measure of camouflage in case of an autopsy. I sat back—this could be it.
***
I read it again. How could it be this easy? Everything you needed to know about killing someone was available with a Google search. This was dangerous. And there was all kinds of information about how to hide the fact you did it. I did another search and stared at the screen in shock. I counted: there were eleven sources to buy the poisonous mushrooms.
The first listing was Xiamen Enterprises, and they had a bazaar-like website offering an eBay assortment of swag items for sale. The last thing I needed was fake poison, so I bounced off and scrolled halfway down to a link for the innocuous-sounding Beatrice Solutions. A skimpy web page in Russian popped up. I hit the British flag icon and it converted the text to English. The headline touted their confidentiality and featured a picture of Edward Snowden. They offered a long list of chemicals for sale, and I hunted through them.
Bingo. They offered amatoxin by the tenth of a milligram at five hundred dollars per tenth. That seemed expensive. Opening another window, I checked the lethal amount I needed, which was .7 milligrams. That’s tiny—the smallest pill I took for my anxiety was 10 mg, and this was fifteen times smaller. Could that be all that was needed?
Chapter 7
Gideon Brighthouse
It was a bit past five when I headed for a walk on the beach. It was one of my favorite times of the day; the sun was hanging halfway up and its intensity had dwindled. I watched a pair of pelicans glide just offshore, studying the glistening water for dinner opportunities. One of them suddenly swooped down and dove below the surface. After it resurfaced, I began thinking the entire situation through.
I had to be rock-certain sure there was no other way. As much as I despised Marilyn, killing her was considerably outside the norm. You need advice on contemporary art? I’m your counselor. Political advice? Well, Florida’s Democratic Party used to call me their go-to guy, but that was before Senator White was defeated by a virtual unknown.
But that wasn’t my fault, and the media missed the fact that a revolution was taking place. People were tired of the same old faces who talked great plans but were so self-interested that nothing ever got done. White never had a chance, not that he deserved it. After two terms, he didn’t even have one piece of legislation to call his own. A dozen years of so-called public service and he never even sponsored a parking ordinance. Then came the pay-for-play charges, and both of our careers were over.
To be honest, I didn’t miss it, but Marilyn sure did. She relished being close to the powerful, and if there was a power center in America, Washington, DC was it. Her family’s profile was already elevated, so the combo we formed as a couple opened a lot of doors, and we were invited to numerous events at the White House. The family spread its money around, and that kept Marilyn in the social scene for a while after White lost, but the winds were blowing against the financial industry, and politicians avoided their donors in public.
It was tough to accept that she’d been so superficial, but looking back there didn’t seem to be any doubt. When I suffered the heart attack a week after the new senator was sworn in, Marilyn rallied, staying overnight with me at NCH. I had four blockages that were serious, and Marilyn demanded that the head of cardiology be brought in for the angioplasty.
The physical recovery was quick, but I was a mental mess. The doctors said that depression was common with heart attacks. I was not only down but scared out of my mind. I don’t know why, but I was suddenly afraid of being with people, especially in crowded places. Receiving visitors at the hospital and then at the Port Royal home made me sweat. It was impossible to talk, other than to parrot that I was feeling okay.
The anxiety I was experiencing subsided dramatically when we decamped to Keewaydin Island. When I explained to Marilyn that I was feeling peaceful because of Keewaydin, she dismissed it, saying it was the medication that made me relaxed. Her theory was tested less than two weeks later when we flew to Boston for a shareholder meeting.
Attending the annual meeting was another requirement that her father had dictated into the trust, so into the boat we had climbed. Once off the mainland, we got into a car with heavily tinted windows, and as soon as the door closed I felt the need to open a window.
“Close the window, Gideon,” Marilyn said.
“I need to get some air.”
“The air conditioning is on. Close it before the wind ruins my hair.”
I raised the window with one hand and adjusted the vent with the other, directing the airflow at my face. As I leaned forward, Marilyn said, “What’s the matter now?”
“I don’t know. Just felt a little something; maybe I’m just a little hot.”
I closed my eyes, begging myself to settle down.
Ten minutes later we swung into Naples Airport and made our way to the hanger where our Flexjet plane was waiting. The silver Learjet had its stairway down, and as we walked over to board I said, “This jet seems smaller than usual.”
“I guess Robert arranged it since it’s only the two of us.”
I had to bend down to pass through the door, and as soon as I did, my heart raced and I froze for a second before backing out onto the stairs. I tried to control my panting as Marilyn said, “Gideon! What the hell is going on?”
“Uh, hold on a minute.”
“Get on! We’re taking off.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Hurry up, damn it! We’re running tight as it is.”
I took three deep breaths, and eyes on my feet, shuffled on board. I fumbled in my bag for headphones as I eased into a seat.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just a little claustrophobic.”
“What? Now you’re claustrophobic?”
“I don’t know what’s happening, Marilyn. It just came on, out of nowhere.”
“
You’re pathetic.”
How could she say something like that? “You’re cruel, you know that?”
Marilyn sighed heavily and went back to her Cosmopolitan magazine as the cabin door closed. Eyes shut, I concentrated on trying to hear each individual violin playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, but as we sat waiting for clearance, fear crept up my belly into my throat. I was about to rip off my seat belt when the jet lurched forward and we headed toward the runway. My anxiety lessened as the engine roar got louder. It wasn’t until I was pushed back into my seat by the g-force that I opened my eyes.
After landing, a tightness in my chest sprouted as we climbed the stairs into the gate area. My “excuse mes” got harsher as we weaved our way to Logan’s pick-up area. Though it was dark and depressing, it felt good to get outside and into a waiting car. Two minutes later, Marilyn got in the car, saying, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Gideon, but you’ve got to calm down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? You ran through the terminal like it was on fire.”
“I─I needed some air.”
“You need to get this under control, and fast. You better not embarrass me tonight.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay tonight and tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow you can stay at the hotel. Say you’re sick or whatever, but you know tonight is important.”
I might take her up on it. Tomorrow would be a zoo, with hundreds of shareholders and gobs of media all day long. And boy, was it a long day. Tonight’s soiree at the Intercontinental was for the family, a couple of major shareholders, and the trustees who oversaw the Boggs trust, which controlled a good hunk of the company stock. It amounted to a chance for the family to do a pulse check on each other and was another one of the old man’s ways of keeping an eye on things from the cemetery.
I understood what he tried to do, and maybe I would do the same but for a couple of things, like not allowing my wife to adopt my last name, which was silly. Even the generally accepted combo of Boggs and Brighthouse was prohibited, unless you wanted to forgo some income, and Marilyn said it was silly to be penalized. I should have fought that and a lot of other so-called guidelines and maybe we wouldn’t be where we were today.
Luca Mystery Series Box Set Page 42
