“Back off, I’m family! Get your mitts off me, buster, or don’t blame me for what happens next!”
That voice. Authoritative. One of a kind. Maple sugar and gravel.
“Let go or I’ll sue for police brutality! Listen, Officer Twerp, I was having tea with the Queen Mum when you were still in nappies. Back off!”
The hurricane of humanity, with its one and only nucleus, stalled in front of Cassie. The jackets with SFPD across the back parted. In front of her was the indignant face of Mags O’Connor.
“Oh, Cass,” Mags said, her tone softening. When she held out her arms, Cassie melted into them and sobbed.
Mags was exquisite in an Anne Klein pantsuit with matching ribbon brooch, a vision in jewel-toned citron. Cassie detected the refined aroma of citrus freshness, light floral and spice, and a sensual woody finish. Acqua Di Parma, classic Old World essence.
The woman planted a kiss on Beth’s head without letting go of Cassie. After another hug she stepped back to check them over until she was convinced they had not suffered more than minor cuts.
Cassie vouched to the three young officers standing nearby that Mags was as good as one of the family. The police escort melted away to attend to more pressing business.
“I was nuts to see my sister Cass, sweet Beth, and my darling Gretch. Had I known the place was thick with militia, I would have called first.”
Beth gave her the condensed version of the evening’s events. When she came to the dog’s role, Mags peered into the open van and saw an apparently lifeless Gretchen. She looked stricken. “Oh dear heaven, is Gretch gone?” When the vet assured her that the dog would be just fine, Mags relaxed. “Thank goodness. That dear pooch has more sense than a dozen men in blue who think nothing of a mother and daughter standing around the driveway in their nightwear when they could be inside drinking hot tea, away from prying eyes.”
Lt. Reynolds gave the okay and Mags shooed Cassie and Beth inside. They stood like small children at the kitchen sink while she scrubbed the blood from their faces and hands. She found them fresh pajamas and tucked them in on the family room couches. Mags, with her own cup of tea, kicked off her shoes, took the glide rocker, and tucked her legs beneath her.
“Before you two get some much-needed sleep while Aunt Mags keeps vigil, I want to clear up the Times mess.”
Cassie sat up against the arm of the couch and blew the steam from her cup. “Maggie, there’ll be time enough tomorrow for that.”
“Not if I croak before dawn! I’m on borrowed time, you know, and I’ll be slapped sideways if you’re going to stand around my casket thinking, ‘Here lies Mags the Tongue O’Connor. Only death could shut her trap for good!’ ”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked at what was quoted. And getting blindsided with it by Barb Silverman on live television was, in its way, more disturbing than the leech announcement.”
Mags grimaced. “I was horrified to see how badly I was misquoted. Shows me that if they can’t get me liquored up to say something outrageous, they think they can just make it up. The actual interview was much longer than the part they printed, and the part they printed is way out of context.”
The mantel clock shifted its hands and sounded a single chime to denote the hour. Beth’s even breathing indicated that the night’s draining occurrences had caught up with her.
“The Times reporter, a real earth mother type, had caught wind of your new perfume — Cassandra, honey, that’s genius, I’m so proud, it was all over the news tonight, that lavish box — and she wanted to know my professional opinion of your chances. I went on at length about how innovative and tenacious you were, that you had survived far longer than the industry norm on the strength of that innovation. But, I said, the Azure World of old, the one known for its trendy, fruit-flavored scents, the one that has for years successfully serviced the harried housewife with kids and soccer and PTA, was about to pass. My exact words were, ‘The Azure World that was has run its course. That housewife has rediscovered the gorgeous woman within. When the sun goes down, she goes out. The great American middle class is in a place where they deserve and can afford better. Nick and Cassandra Dixon are in a place where they can deliver what America deserves. You watch.’ ”
She paused, sipped her tea, and huffed into the cup. “The little twit. She, or some go-getter editor, chopped my comments to make it sound as if America had abandoned Azure World. I never meant for it to be an obituary, Cass, honest.” Her friend’s last words were said with such a note of sadness that Cassie got up from the couch and wrapped her arms around Mags’ shoulders from behind.
“Thank you, sweetie, for sticking up for us. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” Cassie paused before reclaiming her seat on the couch, thinking about the other worries that lay heavy on her heart, especially after tonight. It was too much to keep to herself. She needed to tell Mags.
“I’m thinking of selling our principle interest, Mags. The constant struggle has worn us down. Beth and Nick need more of me than I can give with this company and its struggles on our backs. Nick has always said it’s my call. He’d be happier running pack trips into the wilderness, and it makes sense to get out while our equity’s still worth something. Nick’s silence has to mean he didn’t capture the scent.” She leaned forward. “And now the aroma wars are starting to get very personal. When that bullet crashed through the window tonight, all I could think of was Beth lying wounded, her life pouring out of her. If I don’t back off now and give them what they want, murder could be next.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Brenda Gelasse, for one. I wouldn’t put any of this past her.”
“It’s an act, Cass, has to be. With her, M is for minx, not murder. She cultivates the iron woman image so her female customer base feels empowered. You can’t dump and run when so much of you is already invested in Azure. Hang on for another year — I can help — then see how things look. At least let Nick weigh in before calling it quits.”
Cassie reached over and patted her friend’s veined hands. “Dear Maggie. And what if in that year the place is torched or Beth is kidnapped? I couldn’t forgive myself. Nick is all about the hunt. If the big one gets away, he loses his appetite. In the long run he’d be relieved if I said it’s time for a new start. Brenda has made us a discount offer, enough to get us a new start anyway. We should take it. The way things are going, this time next week our stock in Azure might not be worth the paper it’s printed on.”
Mags slipped out of the chair and slid down beside her friend. “Oh, Cass,” she whispered. “All you’ve worked for, all you’ve achieved . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
Cassie felt dead inside. Defeat, yes, but at least they would live to start again. Fr. Byron would be glad to hear it. “I know Brenda’s got to be mixed up in this somehow. She has lusted after Azure, Nicky, Royce, all of it too long not to be behind these lies and dirty tricks. Now you can add assault. I thought I could beat her, but she’s out of my league. I quit.”
Mags was strangely silent. Something in the increased tension of the dear old arms around her told Cassie Mags was holding on to something of her own.
She hesitated, then blurted, “I want you to come with me, Mags, please. After tonight I’m a little short of courage. I . . . I just want a witness to what is said and done. You know Brenda. Where she’s concerned, there’s safety in numbers. First thing Wednesday morning?”
Mags released her and slumped back into the chair. She didn’t say anything at first. “I can’t, Cass. I won’t. Take it from Maggie, I’m a liability. She’ll discount the offer still more if I’m there. I’ve just always had that affect on the woman. Trust me, you’ll be better off.”
Alarmed at the undercurrent she sensed, Cassie turned, held the glider still with both hands, and forced the older woman to look at her. “What, Mags, what’s wrong? What aren’t you saying?”
Mags set her mouth in a tight line. “I am saying it. I will not be humiliated by that woman. W
e have a nasty chemical reaction to one another. However little time I’ve got on this earth, I choose not to spend a minute of it with Brenda Gelasse!”
“I’m with you there.” Most people reacted harshly to the woman. And Mags O’Connor had more reason than most. Brenda had spoken ill of the “grand dame” of perfume and mocked her dotage in public. Brenda saw Mags as old school, a throwback to another era when the powerful had their way whatever the cost. She once mused in print that Mags may have been born out of time, one who perhaps in another life had been of the guild of personal perfume-makers, some of whom retired to their private dispensaries to concoct beautiful fragrances or lethal poisons, depending on the need. When Cassie had urged her to sue for slander, had even put her in touch with the Dixons’ attorney, nothing had come of it. Mags never followed through.
And now Cassie saw the pain her request had caused. She relented. “I can’t blame you. If I thought I could phone the sale in, I would. It’ll be like trying to reason with the Devil. Maybe I should get Fr. Byron to do an exorcism of the meeting site beforehand.”
Mags seemed profoundly unhappy. “That’s the Catholics,” she said.
Cassie took the next day, Tuesday, to review her decision.
“You know your limits,” Mark Butterfield told her.
“It will keep you from hopping out of the fiscal frying pan into the fires of insolvency,” agreed the three members of Azure’s legal counsel.
She talked to the dahlias, a rapidly recovering Gretchen, and God. The first two were exceedingly noncommittal, and God was apparently in no mood to speak from the clouds.
She decided against confiding in Beth or Fr. B. Beth was infatuated with the heroic and bloodied Andre, while the priest would take her for a stiff philosophical run that would likely lead right back to the starting line.
Not even Nicky, without the scent, could have helped that much. She knew what he would say: “I trust you, Cass. I want you to be happy.”
What she needed was the plainspoken, rational facts, and those she could list on her own. “I’m exhausted. I’m scared. I’m not having any fun. I’m letting stubbornness rule my head and my heart. The only reason I’ve not cut and run before now is pride and the desire to rub some very snotty fashion noses in my success. We could have been a huge success, but a huge failure is no way to finish. Selling our shares is better than nothing.”
By nine that evening she stood again among the dahlias, waiting. “For what? An alien spacecraft to land and pointy headed little green men to step out and assure me I’m doing the right thing? I know that already. But will Nick think me a coward? Surely not with Beth in danger. I have to protect her at all cost.”
A heavy mist spangled the flowers and drifted past the yard lights like spray from a waterfall. Cassie felt drained. Beaten. Done. Though she was alone, she said bitterly, “You win, Brenda. I accept your offer!”
Cassie and Mark watched the floor numbers all but spin as the elegant oak and gilt express elevator soared toward the sixty-fifth floor of the Gateway Tower.
Cassie swallowed. She felt desert-dry in her spirit. What am I doing here?
At the fiftieth floor Mark said, “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“No, but do I have a choice?”
Floor fifty-five came and went.
“William Shakespeare wrote, ‘There’s small choice in rotten apples.’ ”
“Mark, don’t talk.”
At floor sixty-five the elevator came to a queasy stop. “Please stay in the waiting area,” Cassie told him. “I want to face this on my own. Plus my cell phone is set to ring you with one press, should I require backup.”
The open floor with its breathtaking views of San Francisco and the Bay Area was hushed with high-level efficiency. The large office to the left had a sweeping view of the Golden Gate and the ocean beyond.
“May I help you?” The long-haired receptionist squeezed the question in between phone calls on a headset.
Cassie handed over a card. “Ms. Gelasse is expecting me.”
The receptionist’s evaluating glance said, So this is the one.
Cassie smoothed the pale-blue silk suit by Ann Taylor and breathed deep the Sicily parfum she wore. It was by Dolce & Gabanna and, clean and businesslike, said she was no longer obligated to wear scents by Azure.
The door to the office with the ocean view swung open, and Cassie entered.
Brenda wore a Ralph Lauren skirt and jacket, a study in understated gray and maroon. She was impossibly statuesque, like a Paris runway model. The silver pendant was Cartier, the shoes Louis Vuitton, but the shocker was the scent. One could reasonably expect a day version of Night Tremors, her signature aroma. Instead it was Chypre, created in 1917 by Francois Coty. An accord of oakmoss, labdanum, patchouli, and bergamot, it was itself one of the perfume types in the French classification. It could be difficult to find.
Of course. What better scent with which to seal the deal? Night Tremors says craving, desire, passion. Brenda is past that with Azure. Chypre says conquest, triumph, victory.
“Just to satisfy my curiosity,” Gelasse said, purring the words like a well-tuned Masarati, “why the change of heart?”
To her credit, Brenda did not take a position in the room whereby she could loom over her acquisition. She sat opposite Cassie, elegant legs crossed, immaculately manicured fingers laced just above one knee, the pristine burgundy shoes clearly never having left the building.
“We’ve both seen the Chronicle this morning,” Cassie said, unwilling to play cat and mouse with her host. “The night before last, my home was invaded and shots were fired, leaving my daughter’s friend injured, our dog wounded, and our lives in jeopardy. On the heels of the recent break-in and the bogus lawsuits filed against us, I would say the opposition’s intentions are clear. We are such an alluring acquisition that someone” — she paused to let that sink in — “is willing to go to any length to secure a purchase.”
“Why not simply go into hiding, or at least send your daughter to a safe place until the police complete their investigation and those responsible are sent away? I have contacts that could help with that. It is done all the time.”
Cassie’s stomach clenched. What kind of charade is this woman playing? I know she’s guilty; I just can’t prove it.
“It’s no way to live. As I’m unable to negotiate a deal posthumously, I think it wise to take you up on your offer and transfer our shares on this side of the grave.”
The words had their dramatic effect. Her adversary’s eyes narrowed, creating disturbing shadows in their sockets. Instantly Brenda the tolerant became Brenda the deal maker. “I’m sorry for your gathering misfortunes and relieved no persons were harmed. But what of your pretty promises about ‘the very breath of beauty’? Record a failure with this invisible aroma of yours, and that one brassy stunt on Midday likely sets the company back a million in ill will. You’ve placed Azure on rocky footing. What of the new scent, the one your husband went off chasing? Where is it? For that matter, where is he?”
Cassie almost reached into her suit pocket and pressed the button on her cell.
Instead she summoned every ounce of self-control she possessed. “Rest assured Nicholas is attending to business matters. Granted, for you my signature scent is at this moment a calculated risk. You will be banking on a name, premier packaging, and a carefully considered marketing plan. Worst-case scenario, a woman of your resources, with Laughton deBrieze in her corner, could fill that box with a dozen different serviceable fragrances and carve a decent niche for any one of them. At seventeen million, despite a spongy market position, we both know the Azure stock is a good buy.”
Suddenly sick and weary of the whole affair, Cassie gave a defeated, dismissive wave of a hand. “I’m ready for the transfer,” she said. “Are you?”
Brenda wanted Azure. She would run it into the ground and eventually sell off the formulation equipment and, once the publicity died down, put the corporate headquarters
and lab facilities on the block. Play it right, and I can easily realize three times my offer.
But the money was secondary and mostly paid for the inconvenience of making a scandal go away. More than anything, what she relished was ransacking the creative talent at Azure. That constipated little Blankenship will at last be mine. And some of the formulators and marketing staff were tops in the trade. Mark Butterfield was a delicious dish in his own right, all cool jazz and clean good looks. Wouldn’t he look fine on her keychain?
Nothing, though, compared with her reacquisition of Nick Dixon. They’d had a chemistry once and she wanted it back. That he’d gone all self-righ teous on her after what they’d shared galled most of all. He’d taken the lure she’d dangled then, and she was just as confident that, down and defeated, he’d rise to it again — given the right conditions.
She buzzed the front desk. “Kandace, could you ask Mr. Winetraub to please join us?” To Cassie she said, “Very well, Mrs. Dixon. I won’t prolong the suspense. Though I doubt anyone else would offer you half as much for a terminal business, I’ll not take advantage. Your family has suffered a sufficient scare, and you need to put the matter behind you. Seventeen million it is, which is over market value but includes the remain der of all employee contracts and the ongoing services of Mr. Dixon until one year from today.”
Cassie almost rose from her chair, but Brenda stopped her with an upraised hand. “I merely wish his professional services to aid in the transition. There is no deal without his expertise. He will of course be well remunerated for his trouble. Well remunerated.” Her smile was as suggestive as it was triumphant.
A small, thin man in tweed and a toupee entered the room with a slim black briefcase. Introductions were made, and Cassie felt her stomach take a second drop. God, what am I supposed to do? I can’t risk Beth’s safety, but I hate this! We came so close . . . She wished she could have spoken to Nicky before committing to the transfer of stock and a year of his servitude, or at least scheduled a session with Fr. Byron before making so drastic a move. Everything they had worked and sacrificed for . . .
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