Onyx Webb 8

by Diandra Archer

  “It won’t be that bad,” Stan Lee said, being careful not to trip on a tree root.

  “Bullshit, Stan,” Kara said behind him. “You’re going to go through hell.”

  “How do you know?” Stan Lee asked. “You’ve never gone cold turkey before.”

  “I’ve read up on it,” Kara said. “Nausea, dizziness, diarrhea—you’re in for one hell of a ride. How soon is the Mulvaney event? I’ll bet you can’t wait to finally have free reign of the place.”

  “I’ve been in the mansion before,” Stan Lee said.

  Kara snorted. “Sitting in Declan’s chair in the art room? Big whoop. Did you get the knife you saw on eBay?”

  Stan Lee nodded. “Yeah, it got here yesterday. I’m thinking I might take up whittling—you know, to calm my nerves after I go off the K.”

  Stan Lee pulled open the door to the kill room, switched on the light, and jumped back.

  There, in the middle of the room, was the silver table from the van—with the girl from the bar strapped to it.

  And she was alive.

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  DECEMBER 18, 2010

  Bruce entered his office on the twenty-seventh floor of the SunTrust Building and turned on the light. It looked like a bomb had exploded and a sea of pink phone messages had fallen from the sky and covered every square inch of his desk.

  Taking time off had its drawbacks.

  Bruce had been out of the office for most of the week and hadn’t intended to come back to work until after Christmas, but he needed to tackle the backlog before it got any worse.

  Besides, the house was full of people—most of them connected to Koda in some way. Staying the night at the penthouse by himself almost sounded like a vacation.

  By noon, Bruce felt caught up enough to walk down the hall and invite his new vice president to lunch and then remembered it was a Saturday. He was the only person in the place.

  In truth, Bruce did not want to hire a new vice president—he wanted Koda to fill the role, but Koda had shown little interest. But as disappointed as he was over his son’s unwillingness to embrace his role in the family business, Bruce admired him for his courage and desire to go his own way.

  Twenty-five years earlier, when Bruce had blown out his knee and his dreams of a career in the NFL evaporated, he took the job because he felt obligated to do so. That’s what sons do, right? They do whatever their fathers ask.

  Not that Bruce had a bad life. He knew he was blessed to have been born a Mulvaney. But working in real estate? That was never his dream. If he could do it over again, Bruce would have stayed in football. He couldn’t play, but he could have gone into coaching. Or broadcasting.

  Imagine that, Bruce thought.

  He was actually jealous of his son.

  Bruce leaned back in his chair and stretched. He moved his head in circles to loosen the muscles in his neck and then glanced at his cell phone to see he had five messages—four of which were from Mika. Dear God, what did Mika want now?

  Bruce slid the phone in his pocket.

  Whatever Mika wanted, it could wait.

  Bruce got up and walked to the window. It was dark out now, and he could see the the neon sign from DJ’s Kres Chophouse neon sign glowing red on Church Street below him. Bruce glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after elevenbefore ten—they’d still be serving dinner.

  Robyn finished running through her mental closing checklist, first making sure that all perishables were placed in the refrigerators. Next, she planned to tackle restocking the disposables—toothpicks, drink stirrers, straws, napkins, and the like—each of which needed to be replenished for the next day.

  One thing that did not need to be replenished were parasols—the small paper umbrellas commonly found in other restaurants. DJ’sKres was a chophouse, not some kind of tiki bar—though the pressure to start serving craft cocktails was growing all the time.

  Robyn bent down and tugged on the door handle of each refrigerator to make sure they were closed tight. When she stood up, she saw Bruce coming through the front door and her heart skipped a beat.

  He was alone.

  “Howdy, stranger,” Robyn said as Bruce took a seat in front of her at the bar.

  “Speaking of being a stranger, I haven’t seen you around the house for a while,” Bruce said.

  “I had to get back to work,” Robyn said without elaborating. She had no intention of discussing what had gone down between her and Koda—something she was still struggling to understand.

  Robyn made Bruce his drink and placed it on the bar. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Robyn said.

  “What?”

  Robyn motioned toward the front door of the restaurant.

  It was Mika.

  Mika slid into the empty chair at the bar next to Bruce without bothering to ask if it was okay to join him. “I left a slew of messages for you,” Mika said.

  “How did you know I was here?” Bruce asked.

  “I have great news,” Mika said, laying a piece of paper on the bar in front of Bruce. “I got a call from the detective bureau at the Savannah PD. I have been completely cleared of all charges in that nasty little limo driver thing. Isn’t that great? I think this calls for champagne. Don’t you?”

  “What is it, Mika?” Bruce asked. “I know you well enough to know you didn’t come all the way to Orlando for champagne.”

  “Me? I don’t want anything—except for a damn drink maybe,” Mika said, raising her voice.

  As much as Robyn wanted to ignore Mika, her professional standards wouldn’t allow it. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to be in a bar where I didn’t have to see you,” Mika said. “But, alas, here I am. I’ll have a cosmopolitan and stay where I can watch you make it.”

  “Give me a break,” Robyn muttered under her breath.

  Mika waited until Robyn finished the drink and set the martini glass on the bar. “Okay, scurry along please,” Mika said. “Go clean something, or do whatever bartenders do when they’re not eavesdropping.”

  Robyn rolled her eyes and walked to the far end of the bar.

  “Okay, you got me, Bruce,” Mika said finally. “There is something I want.”

  “There always is,” Bruce said. “What is it this time?”

  “I heard through the grapevine the Restoring Savannah Foundation is having the charity event at your house—which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever,” Mika said. “But in any case, I’d like back in.”

  “Back in? Back in what?”

  “As the event chair,” Mika said. “The foundation got their money back, and I’m not getting charged with murder.”

  “Well, there’s something to put on your resume,” Bruce said, downing the last of the scotch from his glass.

  “So, you’re saying no?”

  “I paid your bail and kept you from getting indicted for embezzlement, Mika. I’m also letting you live rent-free in my multi-million-dollar house in Savannah. That’s it. That’s all I’m doing.” Bruce stood up. “Now, I’m going to the restroom. I expect you to be gone by the time I get back.”

  Robyn watched as Bruce turned his back on Mika and walked toward the restrooms at the rear of the restaurant and then walked over. “I know what you did,” Robyn said.

  “Know what?” Mika said sipping her cocktail.

  “The items on eBay,” Robyn said. “You took them from Koda’s penthouse at 55 West. I still don’t know how you made it look like the account was mine, but I’ll figure it out.”

  It was well after midnight before Bruce finished his steak and ordered one last drink. “Sorry for holding you up,” Bruce said. “Tell the kitchen I apologize for keeping them late.”

  “No problem,” Robyn said. “I’d just be home with the dogs, doing a lot of nothing, and Snuffy will be glad I brought home a bone.”

  “You know, I just thought of something,” Bruce said. “Can you get off for the night of December 20?”

  “What is that?
A Tuesday?”

  “No, it’s a Monday,” Bruce said. “We’re having a big event at the house.”

  For the second time in two hours, Robyn felt her heart skip a beat. “Yeah, sure I’d love to.”

  “Great,” Bruce said. “The base pay is $250 for the night, plus I’d be shocked if you didn’t walk away with at least another $250 in tips for the night. We can never have enough good bartenders.”

  Bruce rode the elevator to the thirty-first-floor penthouse at 55 West and placed the key in the door. He was exhausted and couldn’t wait to drop into bed.

  But there was no bed.

  Nor any sofas or chairs.

  The walls were bare.

  Someone had stripped the place to the bone.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  AUGUST 10, 2010

  The saleswoman at the jewelry store waited patiently as Noah peered through the glass at the diamond rings neatly displayed on rows of velvet fingers in the case below.

  “You know what’s weird, Clay?” Noah said. “Being able to look at something so expensive and actually be able to afford it.”

  “What about that one right there?” Clay said, pointing to one of the more unique rings in the case. “That looks like something Onyx would wear.”

  The saleswoman pulled the ring from the case and laid it on a velvet pad. “This particular ring is a classic Edwardian, which was extremely popular during the art deco period of the ‘20s and ‘30s. It is set with—”

  “No,” Noah said without elaborating. The last thing Noah wanted was to give Onyx a ring that reminded her of the past—especially the years she spent with Ulrich back in the Roaring Twenties. “How about that one there?”

  “Yes, a lovely choice,” the saleswoman said, pulling the ring from the case. “This beautiful piece features two baguette-cut diamonds on each shoulder of a vivid green Colombian emerald held in platinum claw prongs—a total 1.35 carat weight. Richard Burton gave Elizabeth Taylor a ring very much like this one in the early ‘60s. It also has—”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Noah said.

  “He means he wants to think about it,” Clay said.

  “No,” Noah said, waving Clay off. “I’ll take it.”

  Clay steered the cruiser out of the jewelry store parking lot and merged on the frontage road that ran parallel to the highway.

  “You never just say I’ll take it, you dope,” Clay said. “It makes it harder to negotiate.”

  “I didn’t want to negotiate,” Noah said. “I wanted the ring.”

  “Yeah, well, you could have still gotten the ring without having to overpay. How much did it set you back?”

  “$12,000,” Noah said.

  Clay shook his head. “The restaurant must be making more money than I thought.”

  “You have no idea,” Noah said.

  Since the very first day Noah’s B&G opened, the place had been mobbed every night. It was as if people out on the coast had never eaten upscale food before. The restaurant was even attracting foodies from Portland, which was flattering but increased the pressure to meet such high expectations.

  Noah knew it was a bad idea to share the restaurant’s sales and profit numbers with Clay. As much as he liked the man, Clay had proven he could not keep a secret. The last thing Noah wanted was for his sous chef to find out how much money Noah was making. If he did, Carlos would likely demand a significant increase in pay.

  “Noah, I know you’re crazy about Onyx. And I can see why. But have you thought this through? You know, about your life with—?”

  “With what? A ghost?” Noah asked. “I appreciate your concern, Clay, but I’m not naïve. I know what I’m getting myself into. Besides, all relationships have their challenges.”

  “Challenges?” Clay laughed. “One of you is alive, Noah, and the other one is dead.”

  “How far is the cabin?” Noah asked, changing the subject.

  Clay shook his head. “About 180 miles, give or take.”

  Going quail hunting with Clay and his friends was the last thing Noah wanted to do right then.

  He wanted to ask Onyx to marry him.

  HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY

  DECEMBER 18, 2010

  If Olympia was going to be ready for the solstice eclipse charity event, she had a lot of shopping to do. Fortunately, next to sex, shopping was the thing she enjoyed most.

  Olympia followed the directions on the advertising brochure she’d taken from the front desk until she located the Newport Plaza mall on Marin Boulevard near the Holland Tunnel. She lit a cigarette and smoked it as she walked from her rental car to the door and then crushed it out and went inside.

  Olympia found the store directory and planned her agenda, which included:

  Macy’s (a variety of clothing needs).

  Victoria’s Secret (bras, panties, sleepwear, perfume).

  Starbucks (venti iced skinny, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip, hazelnut macchiato).

  CVS (toothbrush, Advil, hair care products, disposable razors, shaving cream, and—while she was there—her birth control prescription since she’d missed several days already).

  Sephora (mascara, concealer, eyebrow pencil, eye shadow, foundation, lash curler, makeup remover, and ten other things she probably needed).

  Chick-fil-Aa (lunch—unless the line was horrendous like it usually was, in which case she’d go to Burger King).

  The Cupcake Salon (Duh).

  Sunglass Hut (sunglasses—the only pair she owned had been left in the house and were now buried under six tons of rubble).

  Then, after all that was completed, Olympia would tackle the tasks of buying a decent laptop and two microphones for the interview with Gerylyn Stoller.

  Lastly, Olympia needed a costume for the charity event—otherwise she’d be going as a sexy, black, homeless, washed-up TV show host with big hair.

  Coming up with a costume turned out to be easy. Olympia decided to go as herself.

  Well, not herself exactly but as the person she looked like and admired most in the world—Pam Grier—the actress who served as one of Olympia’s inspirations for continuing to wear her trademark afro.

  One of the biggest stars of the “Blaxploitation” era, during which black women appeared half-naked in music videos and the film industry forced most black actors into stereotypical roles as pimps and hoes, Pam Grier stood as the exception to the rule. At least as far as Olympia was concerned.

  The movie industry didn’t own Pam Grier.

  She owned it.

  Marvelous, mysterious, magnificent, and majestic, Pam Grier was black and beautiful—her shoulders pulled back and held high, and her hair piled even higher.

  That’s it, Olympia thought. All she I needed to do wasis tease her my hair and find a second-hand store to get some skintight clothes from the ‘60s, and she’d be I’m done.

  Olympia pulled out her cell phone and typed in “cheap retro clothes” and hit enter. There was a place on Washington. Perfect.

  Nathaniel Cryer stood amongst a group of parents in the children’s play area at the center of the mall, surrounded by a sea of screaming toddlers, watching Olympia look at her phone.

  A young boy ran up and yelled, “Boo!”

  Nathaniel looked down but said nothing. The young boy pulled his leg back and kicked Nathaniel directly in the shin.

  Nathaniel didn’t flinch nor did he yelp.

  The boy pulled his leg back and kicked Nathaniel again, harder.

  “If you do it again, I’ll eat you for dinner,” Nathaniel said calmly. The boy’s eyes widened, and he turned and darted off.

  Nathaniel knew he didn’t look very scary in his tan khakis and red snowflake wool sweater. But he could be scary if he wanted to be—.

  Iif he had a reason, and .

  When he had a score to settle.

  Hopefully Olympia understood that now.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  AUGUST 12, 2010

  Oh, my God, I can’t believe I j
ust told you that,” Tara said, placing her hand over her mouth. “Clay is going to kill me.”

  The day before, Clay let it slip while talking to Tara over the phone that Noah planned to ask Onyx to marry him. “Under no circumstances are you to say a word about this to Onyx,” Clay had said.

  Now Tara just had.

  “I see,” Onyx said, a thousand thoughts suddenly racing through her mind. “And when did you say Noah’s planning to do this?”

  “I’ve said enough already,” Tara said. “I mean, there should be at least a bit of a surprise.”

  Onyx remained silent.

  “Oh, the cat’s out of the bag anyway, right?” Tara said. “He’s planning to do it Friday night.”

  Onyx’s mind began racing once again. “What day is it today?”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  Once Tara left with the canvases she’d come for, Onyx got busy cleaning the lighthouse and generally putting things in order. Onyx had never thought of herself as a messy person—and she wasn’t. Not really. But years of living alone with no one looking over her shoulder had made her rather relaxed in terms of where she left things.

  This was not to suggest that Noah ever said a word about her housekeeping habits. He didn’t have to. Merely having him around made her more aware, as had been the case when her father lived with her. The difference was her father spent his nights in the caretaker’s house, as Noah had done for so long.

  Now, Noah spent his days—and nights—in the lighthouse.

  With her.

  Onyx glanced at the clock on the wall, which was another thing that had changed since Noah’s arrival. Until they’d begun living together, Onyx had no need for a clock. Now, mostly due to Noah’s work schedule, the clock seemed indispensable.