“Impressive,” Barbara said. But there was something in her tone that said it would take more — far more — than a fancy box to save Azure World.
As long as she was in this deep, Cassie said, “We ask everyone in the studio audience to please leave your name and address on the way out. Two ounces of Cassandra will be delivered to each of you as soon as we ship to stores.” At the pronouncement, Cassie saw someone in the dark recesses of the studio rifle around for paper, she assumed to record names and addresses. She forced another smile and imagined Mark Butterfield’s look of shock.
More applause. If it was buzz she wanted, the studio was swarming in it. Cassie prayed against any hidden stingers.
Without warning, Barbara rounded on her. “You have a lot of cheek, giving this mystery fragrance your name and declaring before God and country that it’s — what did you call it — ‘the very breath of beauty’! Explain yourself!”
Cassie willed herself to remain calm. “Christening the perfume in this way really harkens back to the high and elegant position, and mystique, of the Russian czarina in the early twentieth century, for whom I was named. Once you’ve smelled the fragrance, then you can better judge whether we have been too generous with the trademarked ‘definition of essence.’ As to how we can deliver, I’m confident of our sources. Honestly, there is an element of timing that makes every difference, but Nicky has two decades of experience harvesting nature’s best. Believe me, he can squeeze milk from a coconut without cutting it open.”
“Can he squeeze musk from an endangered whale?” Barbara said with exaggerated innocence.
“If you are referring to the Drug and Cosmetic Weekly article, those charges are anonymous, ludicrous, and false. The formulation process has advanced a great deal in the last fifty years, and fixatives from animals such as beaver, civet cat, and, yes, the whale, are no longer required. Besides, have you ever tried to milk the scent glands of an agitated wildcat?” The humorous image worked with the audience, but not on Silverman.
“How do you respond to the statement in today’s New York Times from your friend and mentor, Margaret O’Connor? O’Connor, formerly vice president of marketing at ReginaFloria, said, and I quote, ‘Cassie Dixon always could make something bouncy out of a squirt of this and a dash of that. But really, Azure World has run its course. Most Americans can afford better.”
Cassie was stunned and failed to hide it. Mags was famous for shooting off her mouth, but she was always supportive of the Dixons. Why would she give the press the verbal equivalent of an obituary for Azure World, especially now?
Silverman, known to be a graduate of the school of brawler journalism, saw the stricken look on her guest’s face and decided to pile on. “The facts would seem to support Ms. O’Connor’s assessment. You’ve cut overall production by a fourth and discontinued three of your once-popular fragrances. Azure stock as of noon is down eight dollars a share on news your earnings last quarter were off twenty-two percent over the same quarter a year ago. One well-placed player in the fashion world tells me she recently offered what seems, in light of everything, a generous offer to buy the company. But, according to this player, you declined the offer in order to take a high-risk gamble on what we have all seen” — she motioned toward the stage and the leggy models in their perfect smiles — “is, for all its shine, still a very empty box. What are you thinking?”
Studio Nine went eerily quiet as everyone waited for her answer. The camera people and Miss Flamingo herself appeared to strain forward in anticipation. Even the technician who had been frantically gesticulating that it was past time to bring on the poodle juggler ceased his gyrations.
Taken aback by Silverman’s assault, Cassie was pleased to find that ire won over nausea. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Barbara? I’m thinking that as often as people say they want peace on earth, they are more fascinated with someone else’s battle. This is especially true in fashion, where the competition can turn pretty ugly. The picture you’ve painted is one of pending disaster. Admittedly, we’ve suffered some business struggles of late, but as soon as we fill that pretty box, I challenge you to have me back. On that day I will expect an apology from you for doubting that the good people of Azure — and there are many — could pull this off. And I promise to bring with me another round of Cassandra for everyone in that day’s studio audience.”
Judging by the stir, the audience wanted to applaud but was not cued by any of the sign holders to do so.
Barely hiding the Silverman smirk, Barbara turned to the camera and spoke in the instantly serious voice of a news anchor. “I was informed during the commercial interlude of breaking news at the downtown deBrieze shopping emporium. My apologies to my guest, who is also learning of this for the first time. According to police reports, earlier today a local shopper purchased a bottle of Swirl parfum manufactured by Azure World. Upon opening the package, she discovered what authorities say was a large leech inside the bottle.”
Cassie was astounded. If the report was true, her day was about to end even worse than it began.
Barbara continued. “Apparently, the woman was so traumatized upon discovering the bloodsucking creature, she suffered a heart attack in the deBrieze parking garage and had to be airlifted to Mercy General.”
Can this get any worse? Cassie bit her lip and locked her hands together to keep them steady.
“Doctors will not comment at this time on the woman’s condition, but the family told reporters they will sue for the physical and emotional trauma caused by this shocking incident. KSF News will of course update you as further reports become available.”
When Barbara at last turned to her for comment, Cassie gave a shaky response. “I will personally look into these allegations, of course. Should the facts be as stated, we will certainly do all that we can to help this family. Please keep this woman and her loved ones in your prayers. I ask too that people reserve judgment until all the facts are known.” Even as she spoke, one name flashed through her thoughts. One hateful, ruinous name.
Barbara kept things moving. “Amazing developments, proving once again there’s never a dull moment on Midday by the Bay. Caller, you’re on with Barbara Silverman and today’s guest, Cassandra Dixon of Azure World. Your comment.”
“Yes, I just wanted to ask Mrs. Dixon what she thinks of teenage girls wearing provocative perfume. If it’s as sensual as she says, will there be an age restriction on Cassandra?”
With the little giggle at the end, Cassie knew for certain the young voice belonged to Beth. It was some kind of teacher in-service day. No school. She’d bet her birthright the call was coming from Andre’s hair salon.
Silverman mugged her approval of so astute a young person. “Excellent point, caller. What about it, Mrs. Dixon?”
Keep it even, nice and even. Plenty of time later to ground Beth for life. “Well, caller, that has to be left up to the individual. Teenagers will need to consult their parents. Not only is Cassandra a beguiling scent, it will also be an expensive one.”
With thanks and another giggle, the caller hung up — but not before Cassie heard Andre tell Beth he’d help her buy a bottle. Not if she moved her daughter to an unnamed island in the Azores, he wouldn’t. French wolf.
She did not stay to watch the poodle juggling. When Barbara cut to commercial after two more phone-ins, Cassie excused herself to check on the hospitalized woman and the leech in the bottle of Swirl.
There was little doubt in her mind that a leech named Brenda Gelasse was, even now, wriggling with satisfaction.
Chapter 6
Faces painted jet-black — eyes, noses, and mouths stark white — they wore breastplates of dark-brown tortoise shell and sported giant headdresses of white and purple bird feathers. Cloth-and-grass woven belts accented with shells and bone covered most loins. Two Waronai were naked except for bead necklaces hung with curled tusks of boar ivory. Brown, lean bodies rippled with muscle and glistened with oil.
They hefted their sp
ears as deftly as Nick would knife and fork. He harbored no doubts as to just how far he would get should he follow his gut and bolt.
One warrior held a spear in one hand and what looked to be a small wooden flute in the other. His headdress was bigger than the others, and his bearing more chiefly.
Slowly Nick lowered the pack to the ground and raised both hands in surrender. Waronai muscles tightened and fingers gripped more firmly, twenty-four eyes the color of molasses following every move.
The rain forest animals kept silent, their senses more keen than any human’s. He’d been in the forest three days, and it had been louder than an elephant stampede everywhere but here. Here where the orchid grows.
The sudden scream of a nearby cockatoo broke the silence, each note a mockery. Then no sound but the rush of the creek.
Nick shrank inside, painfully aware of every mile between him and home.
Jungle humidity wrapped him in breath-sucking damp. Sweat ran from his pores. The bouquet of the orchid billowed about the glade. He felt lightheaded, overcome with nausea.
Still the Waronai did not move, nor did they invite him to do so.
Just when Nick thought he might be sick, the warrior with the flute and kingly headdress thrust his spear at him. It stopped mere inches from his belly. Nick jumped but kept on his feet.
With the flute, the chieftain indicated the disposable camera still clutched in his hand. Toss it over, the move seemed to say, or I’ll carve my initials in your gut.
It was the only existing photographic evidence of the celerides. Nick was still deciding how he might hang on to it when a spear blade slapped the back of his hand. The camera fell to the ground. The chieftain strode forward and stomped it into the earth with his bare heel. He shifted the flute to the spear hand, scooped up the crushed camera, and tossed it into the stream.
Helplessly Nick watched flattened plastic float a moment before disappearing in a swirl of foam.
“Steal stink!” said the chieftain in loud pidgin. The accusatory tone with which he said it was plain in any language. He jabbed the spear in the direction of the celerides and glowered at Dixon.
Nick fought rising anger but opted for what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. “No sir. No steal.” He edged a little closer to the orchid but halted when twelve spears began to shake. “Flower here. No steal!” With an exaggerated sweep of both arms, he indicated the sumptuous orchid at the center of the clearing.
The chief snorted, clearly unconvinced. His eleven counselors snorted in agreement with their boss and added a unified scowl of pure skepticism.
“Yes, steal!” shouted Chief Waronai. “Steal spirit!”
“No, no,” Nick said. “Borrow smell.” He sniffed the air with exaggerated pleasure. “Leave flower.” He pointed to the orchid and backed away, arms extended, palms out. For good measure, he threw in the warmest smile he could muster.
The chief laughed derisively, white mouth gaping in a maniacal grin. A chorus of hoots burst from the others. Nick’s annoyance grew. The eleven grunts knew who cut their paychecks, that was obvious.
“Steal flower face.” Chief Waronai waggled his fingers, then mimed picture taking with the other. “Steal flower stink.” He brandished the spear at the contents of Nick’s pack, as if about to run it through. Clearly, Nick had been under surveillance. He edged between the warrior and the pack, the headspace machine tucked inside with its priceless chemical sample.
The carnival smiles vanished from the tribesmen’s faces. Chief Waronai lunged toward Nick, hooked two fingers in his nostrils, and yanked his head downward. He clubbed him across the shoulders with the shaft of the spear, and Nick sprawled on the forest floor.
He turned his head so as not to inhale the insect and forest matter clogging the sweaty junction of nostrils and upper lip. From the corner of one eye he watched the chief kneel on the ground, facing the lone orchid. The others sank to their knees and dropped their heads as if in prayer. A stream of strange, high-pitched language spilled from the chief’s lips, earnestly beseeching the orchid. This continued for ten minutes, then another ten while the chorus joined in.
The pain in his nose spread to his neck.
The vision in his right eye came and went.
All he could see and hear was a disturbing pagan ritual.
“Uhhh . . . gip . . . gip . . . haaa-a . . . gu-go-greel . . . ya-had!” intoned the chieftain.
“Hun . . . hun . . . barrum-mmm . . . ya-had!” his warriors responded.
Nick’s lungs felt like wet sacks of cement, and a leg that had fallen asleep began to spasm.
But no amount of discomfort could trump the beguiling aroma filling the glade with suggestive redolence. Had it intensified under all the attention?
Incredibly, ever so gradually, the flower seemed to suck the resolve from the Waronai, who were now swaying on their knees as if following the unseen oscillations of the orchid. Their supplications slowed, becoming disjointed and slurred under the hypnotic influence of the orchid’s undiluted fragrance.
Flat on the ground, Nick did not receive the full effect of the celerides. Still, he wanted nothing so much as to plunge his face into its sweet petals, drink its nectar, lose himself in its intoxicating chemistry. He was not so far gone, however, that he could totally ignore one incessant reminder that hammered the anvil at the back of his mind.
It was faint at first, but insistent. Get out. Get out now. Go or die.
He ignored the anvil initially. Let it clang. Just lie there and let Madame Celerides find you. Lean into her embrace. Surrender to her wiles. Let go, fall back, trust the senses . . .
Clanging. Louder. Warning. Get out, get out. Escape or never see Cassie or Beth again. Now! Now!
He tried pushing against the ground with arms gone rubber. He rolled onto his back and sat up. The naked backs of the Waronai swam before his eyes, their headdresses like exotic birds perched on the ground.
Standing, he shook his head. Wobbled unsteadily to the pack. Managed to raise it halfway before bending over and grasping both knees in the hope his head would defog. Almost of their own weak accord, his arms slid through the straps, and the pack settled into place against his body.
Nick staggered off in the direction he had come. A hundred feet away he regained equilibrium. He broke into a clumsy jog which quickly became more purposeful. At the base of the ridge, he did not hesitate to fight back up the incline to the place where the bees had so noisily asserted themselves.
He skirted what remained of the termite nest with the bees busily rearranging their affairs. One thought crowded all others. The weight of Cassandra in all its glory rides with me!
His mind sharpening by the minute, Nick found his earlier trail and picked up speed. He had no way of knowing when, or if, the Waronai would come to their senses — an odd expression, given the circumstances. But now, away from that enchanted glade, he knew that everything depended on a clean escape.
“God, don’t fail me now,” he murmured. “Give me winged feet.” He hadn’t thought of that phrase since childhood, when Kid Dixon — the ring name he gave himself when pretending to be a professional wrestler — used to pick fights with the wrong people and had to rely on fleet feet to escape a pummeling. He fantasized he was Mercury for that burst of speed that more than once had saved his neck.
The clear, pure note of a flute penetrated the forest from behind.
A war flute.
A bloodcurdling cry made the neck hairs stiffen and Nick’s heart skip a beat. A chorus repeated the cry, and he knew with dread certainty that the superstitious Waronai had awakened from their fragrant stupor and were after the scent stealer.
He ran, ran like Mercury, but another warrior cry sounded closer behind, and by the third he was convinced his pursuers floated above the forest, immune to the roots and vines and uneven ground that kept him from going full out.
They were used to the terrain, acclimated to the oppressive humidity. They were gaining on their prey and, from the
sounds of it, enjoying the hunt.
The blood roared in his ears, and pain stabbed at tortured lungs with all the subtlety of shattered bone. Every labored breath was a gulp of hot steam that rather than refresh seemed to coat his throat and lungs with a thick, heavy paste. He was desperate for a draft of cool mountain air instead of this awful choking wetness.
A piercing squeal rent the forest ahead. He stumbled, stopped, ears straining to sift through the jungle’s horrors to determine which one would kill him soonest.
Behind, the clear note of the flute, the lusty battle cries of intoxicated orchid worshippers, closed with deadly speed.
Ahead, the approaching grunts of fast-moving susscrofa, bad-tempered forest boars, a pack of savage pigs with canine teeth ending in grotesque tusks of death, each set driven forward by as much as two hundred pounds of ham.
He tried to think. Tried to pray. Tried to breathe. Tried to still the banging of his heart. On the plane ride over, he had heard a report of wild boars derailing two Japanese bullet trains, injuring seventy-five people. The first train braked after running over a pig; the second train slammed into the first from behind.
He had also heard that indigenous tribes survived by their wits and the accuracy of their weapons. The fertile Waronai, among all the forest dwellers, were said to thrive.
Nick would take his chances with the pigs.
He slid the pack from quaking shoulders and turned to face them. He hadn’t long to wait.
With a ghoulish gabble of squeals, the pigs burst from the vegetation like devils on holiday. Thin legs churning, long snouts siphoning air, rat eyes glinting with ancient intelligence, they charged the creature in their path.
And with eyes wide, teeth bared, roaring raw defiance, the creature charged the pigs.
Scent Page 6