Halfway into the row he swung around so quickly to look at Clara, that his laptop case arced into the air and smacked into Molly’s cheek with a loud thwap. Pressing a palm against her smarting skin, Molly stepped aside and cast her mother a woeful look as their new neighbor thrust his bulk forward to the window seat. “Save me,” she whispered mournfully to Clara.
Once everyone was finally seated, Molly immediately opened her book and pretended to be completely absorbed, though it was difficult to concentrate on Poirot’s sleuthing when her row mate was shifting about so dramatically in his seat. In fact, the entire left side of his body had invaded Molly’s space. As a result, she drifted into her mother’s space.
“Now where is that seat belt?” the man laughed. “Those rascally things are always hiding from me. You don’t have it, do you?” he asked flirtatiously.
Molly wordlessly pointed to where the belt hung from the side of his seat. He laughed again. As if it had been waiting for him to be safely belted in, the plane gave a sudden lurch and began to pull back from the gate. Molly, finally feeling that they might actually make it to Nashville somewhat on schedule, once again opened her book, but her neighbor roughly jammed her shoulder while digging around in his back pocket for something. Molly caught a whiff of beer breath. Pressing her body farther against her mother, who was giggling in silent mirth, Molly whispered, “I am taking the aisle on the way home, I’ll have you know.” Once the plane had reached cruising altitude, Molly’s neighbor cleared his throat and prepared to ruin the hour of bliss in which she had planned to keep her nose rooted in her book.
“Do you live in Nashville?” he asked, reclining his seat back until it practically rested on the knees of the tall man seated behind him.
“No, just visiting,” Molly answered tersely without looking up.
“Nice time of year for vacation. There some country music concert or something you’re seeing?” he persisted.
“An antique show, actually,” Molly replied, rereading the same sentence for the third time. She braced herself for his next question.
“Antiques, hey?” He chuckled. “You’re flying out to Nashville just for an antique show. Must be mighty special.” Molly sighed and closed her book. “Actually, I’m a reporter. I’m covering the show for my paper, Collector’s Weekly.”
“Ah, a working vacation!” He puffed out his chest importantly. “Now, that’s something I can relate to ’cause that’s what I’m doing. Going to a convention at the Opryland Hotel. I’m an insurance man. Do you have life insurance, young lady?” Clara’s shoulders jiggled again as she laughed noiselessly. Molly dug her elbow into her mother’s ribs. “Yes, lots,” she quickly lied. “My job has great benefits.”
“Hope so,” the man answered gravely. “My name’s Al.
Short name, long on character.”
“Nice to meet you.” Molly cast him a polite grin and then averted her eyes.
Undeterred, Al launched into a monologue about the cities he had recently visited, the awards he had won over the course of his career, and his list of best and worst barbeque restaurants east of the Mississippi.
“That your older sister next to you?” Al asked during a brief pause in which Molly dared to reopen her book. He winked dramatically in Clara’s direction. “I think I can spot a family resemblance.”
Molly groaned inwardly and looked over at her mother.
Everywhere they went together people always said that. Of course it was a compliment for her mother, but how old did they think Molly was if her mother looked like her sister?
Thirty years old, that’s how I look, Molly thought glumly. Yet, if she aged as well as her mother had, she could count herself lucky. Clara sat in an upright, imperial posture, flicking purposefully through Sky Mall, the airplane’s catalogue of superfluous luxury merchandise. She had a thick crown of dark hair styled into an angled bob, an aquiline nose, and an expressive mouth that often displayed signs of impatience. Her intelligent eyes gazed upon the world with confidence. At fifty-five, Clara was a regally tall and trim woman radiating good health. She still managed to capture the stares of men of all ages.
Molly had inherited Clara’s facial features, but she wore her chocolate-colored hair long and straight; it fell in a shiny cascade to her shoulders. She was tall as well, but slightly shorter than Clara and much, much rounder. A size fourteen, Molly had a deep love of sweets and rarely denied herself a daily treat. With a full bosom, a fairly narrow waist, and wide hips, Molly had all the curves of Marilyn Monroe back when she was brunette Norma Jean.
“That’s my mother,” Molly replied huffily and then looked up in relief as the flight attendant neared their row.
She was more than ready to embrace any sort of distraction.
“I don’t see her handing out any food,” Clara grumbled.
“You don’t get food on planes anymore, Ma. That’s why I packed us turkey sandwiches.”
Clara grunted. “For the price of tickets these days, we should all be getting filet mignon.”
Al shouted, “Here, here!” and was still roaring with raucous laughter when the flight attendant handed them each a bag of pretzels, her overly-tweezed eyebrows arched in curiosity.
“Anything to drink?” she mechanically asked Al while deftly reaching across Molly and Clara with a cocktail napkin.
“Got any beer to go with this bit of starch, darlin’?” he inquired eagerly.
A flicker of disapproval appeared in the flight attendant’s eyes. “I’m not sure. On a flight this short . . .” Her insinuation was lost on Al. “I’ll check. Ladies? What can I get for you?”
Clara requested a bottled water for herself and a Diet Coke for Molly. She then counted out the eight minuscule pretzels in her bag, Molly unrolled the turkey sandwiches and took a grateful bite, hoping to resume her reading while Al crunched noisily on his pretzels.
“These would go much better with the King of Beers,” he said to no one in particular. Molly ignored him and, for the fourth time, read the sentence she had begun reading before Al sat down. Hercule Poirot was standing in front of a mirror and once again relishing the splendor of his moustache when Al tapped Molly on the shoulder.
“Do you see that stewardess anywhere? I think she forgot about me.”
“Hit the call button on your seat,” Molly suggested, pitying the flight attendant but willing to sacrifice the woman in favor of Agatha Christie.
At that moment, the captain announced their initial descent into Nashville and the flight attendant came back up the aisle to check for reclined seats, unfastened safety belts, or tray tables that were not in their full upright and locked position. Al was in violation of all three and the flight attendant admonished him in a cold, yet carefully gracious manner.
“I never did get my beer,” he mumbled petulantly to her retreating figure and then fell silent for the first time since takeoff.
“I’m sure they have a bar at the hotel,” Molly said, feeling charitable as Nashville’s airport came into view below a layer of sporadic clouds.
Al brightened at the thought. “They have a whole bunch of bars. One of ’em even turns in a circle while you’re sitting there. A few too many brewskis and you might just fall off the side into the waterfall.”
“Your hotel has a waterfall?” Molly asked in surprise, thinking that Al must have been taking nips from a flask hidden in the depths of his trench coat.
“Oh, they’ve got a whole river in that place. You can really get lost there. Gaylord Opryland is famous all over the world!” Al exclaimed proudly, as if he had built the five-star hotel with his own bare hands. “Where are you two staying, by the way?”
“Just some chain hotel,” Molly fibbed hastily, fearing that Al would want to meet for drinks if he learned they were both staying at the same place.
“Too bad.” Al clucked his tongue. “You’re really missing out. Me and a few of my buddies really know how to close down a bar. Hey, you single?” he inquired slyly.
“Spoken fo
r,” Molly answered happily and gazed into the rippled clouds beyond Al’s head. She allowed herself to reminisce once again about the candlelit anniversary dinner she had just celebrated with coworker-turned boyfriend, Mark Harrison. They had officially been dating for one glorious year. She touched the heart locket he had given her and tried for the hundredth time not to wish that it would magically transform into a sparkly engagement ring. Even back when she had opened the locket at the pricey restaurant Mark had taken her to, she had quietly prayed that it would contain a message inside, but instead, it held miniature portraits of her two cats, Merlin and Griffin. No tiny slip reading “Will you marry me?” came fluttering out, much to Molly’s (and Clara’s) great disappointment.
“No ring yet, though, I see,” Al teased, honing in on Molly’s last thought like a malicious psychic. “A pretty thing like you, and your man lets you run around the country by yourself?” He snorted. “He’s sure a trusting fellow.” He eyed Molly’s chest. “Still, you’re officially single. That means you can still go out and play. Here’s my card,” Al slipped a business card into the leaves of Molly’s closed book. “Call my cell if you need any entertaining while you’re in Nashville. After all, how exciting can an antique show be?”
And with that said, the plane thankfully landed with such an acute screeching of tires that Molly was thoroughly prevented from responding to Al’s preposterous series of remarks.
Nothing could have prepared Molly for the sheer enormity of the Opryland Hotel. Its lobby was easily the length of half a football field, covered with lush carpets, and lit by dozens of glimmering chandeliers the size of dinner tables.
As she and Clara maneuvered themselves around pods of tour groups, valets, bellhops, and what appeared to be a cluster of Dolly Parton lookalikes wearing sequined gowns and padded bras, Clara pointed euphorically to a gilded trolley beyond the reception desk.
“That, my dear, is the tea trolley. The world’s finest piece of carrot cake awaits you after we check in.” Molly’s stomach did an excited flip as she hustled herself in front of a family of six in order to enter the stanchion maze corralling guests waiting to check in. A large group of Japanese tourists were chattering animatedly in front of Molly. The men were dressed casually in polo shirts and jeans and carried red Japan Airlines vinyl flight bags. The women were decked out in designer suits of all colors and were accessorized with jewelry, scarves, and sunglasses fresh from the pages of Vogue. Molly, who only took note of the latest fashions during her regular visits to the nail salon, had never seen such a collection of Prada, Fendi, Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent, or Luis Vuitton in one room.
Shoving her Kate Spade knockoff purse farther back on her shoulder, she whispered to her mother, “Exactly how much is our room again?” She subtly gestured toward the group of Japanese women. “ ’Cause I think the contents of those women’s suitcases are worth more than the entire inventory of my house.”
“Nonsense.” Clara waved dismissively. “You can always get your money out of antiques. Every item those women are wearing is depreciating in value as we stand here. Besides, we got a special rate for the Heart of Dixie show. Even your tight-fisted boss can’t burst a blood vessel over this room. Ah . . . it’s finally our turn.”
“Welcome to Nashville,” their desk clerk greeted them warmly. “Clara and Molly Appleby? Yes, we have you in a lovely garden room overlooking the waterfall. Here is a map to your room. See this symbol? That’s the main lobby.
Turn right here, go to this set of elevators, and proceed to the fourth floor. Your room will be down the hallway to the right. We suggest you keep this map with you when you move about the hotel. Enjoy your stay, ladies.” Molly clutched the map with some trepidation and followed her mother to the tea trolley. Moments later, she was sinking her teeth into the freshest, most fragrantly delectable piece of carrot cake in existence. Raisins popped with bursts of flavor in her cheek, soft strips of carrots blended with nutmeg and cinnamon on her tongue, and the two inches of butter-cream frosting scooped into her mouth from her fork were so tantalizingly sweet that her teeth began to protest at the sugary onslaught.
“My dear lord!” she breathed and then took a deep sip of tea. “That should be outlawed.”
“You’ll be glad you ate that cake later on. There’s never enough food at the preview party.” Clara briskly dusted some powdered sugar that had fallen from the spongy surface of her raspberry lemon square off of her pant leg.
“Now, let’s go find our room. Got the map, Marco Polo?” Molly successfully navigated them to the fourth floor and slid the key card into their door. As soon as it was opened, a burst of cigarette smoke wafted out of the room, as if being chased by a forceful breeze.
“Somehow I doubt this is a non-smoking room,” Molly stated the obvious.
“Well, I certainly asked for one!” Clara grumbled, striding across the floral carpet and throwing open the balcony doors. Their balcony contained a charming cast-iron patio set just big enough for two. Molly stepped outside and marveled at the sight: The balcony overlooked a verdant paradise of tropical trees and plants, which seemed to be growing so prolifically that the restaurant and bar tables far below were mostly obscured by their robust foliage. The sounds of the cascading waterfall assailed their ears with more of a loud purr than an abrasive roar, and several small birds flittered about the metal rafters beneath the sunlit glass roof.
“That waterfall’s got to be forty feet high!”
“That’s nothing,” Clara remarked flatly. “See that circular area down there with the tables and chairs?” Molly nodded.
“That’s where we’re having our cocktails. The whole bar turns in a slow circle while you’re sitting there!”
“So our plane buddy, Al, was right,” Molly mused. “I could see him having trouble stepping off a moving platform after a few beers.” Clara shrugged. “One can always hope that those sort would simply fall over the side into the lake. Good riddance, too. I can’t stand loud talkers.”
“Oh, forget about him. I feel like we’re in the Brazilian equivalent of Chaco cliff dwellings!” Molly exclaimed.
“Or inside a greenhouse made by giants. This place is fantastic.”
“Except for the smoke.” Clara frowned. “Call the front desk and see if you can get us another room in this area, will you, my candied praline?”
Molly rolled her eyes at the latest of Clara’s confectionary monikers. “You only call me a baked good when you want me to do something.”
The front desk was profusely apologetic that their nonsmoking room had been invaded by a mysterious group of smokers in the time elapsed since the previous guests had checked out. He offered them a similar room just down the hall and promised to send up a bellhop immediately with a fresh key card. After waiting outside their new premises for ten minutes, Clara began to storm up and down the hallway.
“Where is our key? I’m getting tired and cross and we need to get dressed!”
At that opportune moment, a bellhop with sun-bleached hair, tanned skin, and a dazzlingly white smile bounded down the hall with boyish exuberance. He smelled faintly of Coppertone and practically bowed when he saw the look of impatience on Clara’s face.
“Sorry, ladies.” He smiled again, causing a series of dimples to appear on both cheeks. “I had to help a group of Japanese guests and we had some language difficulties. Here are two drink vouchers for the Cascades Terrace Lounge to make up for your inconvenience. And if there’s anything you need,” he eyed Molly suggestively, “anything at all, just ring for me.” He tapped on his gold name badge. “I’m Wiley.”
“I bet you are,” Molly mumbled under her breath as her mother accepted the drink vouchers, all previous feelings of irritation clearly dispelled.
“Now, that’s service!” Clara pronounced gaily as they entered their new room.
“To what are you referring, Ma, the drinks or the bellhop?”
“The drinks, of course. Now, let’s get ready. I’m about ready for my fr
ee nip.”
Molly tugged at the constrictive neck of her wool sweater for the third time and cast a surreptitiously envious glance at her mother’s black sheath dress. Clara looked classy and comfortable in her washable linen, which she had dressed up with vintage accessories including a choker and matching bracelet of Victorian jet.
“Why did you pack that sweater?” Clara demanded, taking immediate notice of Molly’s discomfort. “It’s broiling in Nashville in October.” She leaned over the glossy surface of their table and examined her daughter’s neck. “You know you’re allergic to 100 percent wool. I think I see hives blooming on your skin this very minute!”
“It’s a blend, Ma,” Molly scowled, refusing to admit that she was suffocating with both heat and prickly itchiness beneath the pumpkin-colored lambswool. “I just thought it was the perfect color to wear to the preview party.”
“Go upstairs and put on something else,” Clara ordered.
“I’ll get our drinks. Go on, it will only take you a second.” When Molly returned to the revolving bar, wearing a silk sweater set and a necklace made of miniature pieces of southern pottery, she noticed that their table had moved slightly west of the waterfall. Clara nodded in approval at Molly’s second choice of attire and pushed a bowl of cocktail peanuts in her direction.
“By the end of the hour,” Molly said cheerfully after taking a slurp of her cocktail, an iced creamy concoction called Nuts and Berries, “we’ll have turned 180 degrees.”
“My, my.” Clara sank back into her chair. “Isn’t this place wonderful? The sound of running water, tropical plants, and a double shot of Crown Royal and water that actually has two whole shots in it.” She raised her glass to the bartender in salute. He bowed gallantly in return.
“Let me taste that,” Molly requested.
“I don’t see why, you won’t like it,” Clara retorted, but handed her daughter the thick tumbler.
Molly took a miniscule sip and coughed. “Ugh! How can you enjoy that? There are products for refinishing furniture that have less turpentine in them.”
A Deadly Dealer Page 2