Scent

by Kelly, Clint L.

  For the love of God, a mad gunman fired at the house!

  She would never forgive herself if Beth were harmed in any way. Thankfully, Mags had agreed to stay at the house for now, but what could she really do against someone intent on murder? No, Nick would want her to take swift action. She had called a press conference for one thirty that afternoon. The transfer must be made public immediately so any further evil would be called off.

  “Mrs. Dixon? We are ready for the transfer.” The lawyer withdrew a thick sheaf of documents from the briefcase and arranged them on a small conference table in an alcove of the office next to Cassie.

  Cassie read the principle terms and felt sick. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. However early that morning Brenda had had the papers drawn up, she had included the stipulation about Azure employees and Nicholas on retainer. She had been so hatefully smug, knowing she had Cassie right where she wanted her, that she had written it in stone.

  She could not look at Brenda, not at the dissolution of her dream. The woman just sat there at her immense, and immensely empty, desktop, sixty-five stories above it all, and waited. Cassie turned away, removed a gold pen from its desk holder, and to the carefully manicured lawyer said without emotion, “Where do I sign?”

  The insanely cheery ring of Cassie’s cell phone startled them all. For reasons she could not later recall, Cassie did look at Brenda then. There was a scowl on the carefully preserved face at the sudden interruption, but something else as well. Hesitation? Foreboding?

  Fear.

  Cassie had debated whether or not to leave her ringer on but felt better knowing Mark could call in should anything threatening happen beyond the office door. Calculated paranoia. Gunshots in the night did that to a person.

  She dropped the pen and pressed talk. “Yes, Mark?”

  “I knew better than to trust that media guy.” The rich, playful voice she had been longing to hear resonated in her ear. “You free for lunch?”

  “Nicky!” She squeezed the phone as if it were his strong, lean hand. Her cheeks warmed at the thought.

  At the name, Brenda, a woman not known to gasp, gasped. Cassie enjoyed the sound immensely.

  “Don’t talk, just listen,” he said, as if she could get out any more words. “Baby, I am sitting here with the second most beautiful girl in the world. Oddly enough, her name is also Cassandra. And though she is the world’s number one tease, I’m guessing her flirtations will only plant on you the biggest smile that has ever graced your darling face. We did it, baby. We got the prize. And I tell you, Ruggers didn’t say the half of it. This sweet thing is the most unbelievable scent on Mother Earth. We’re rich, baby. Rich beyond our wildest imaginings! What do you say we talk about it over an early lunch at the Black Swan, say eleven thirty?”

  Cassie had daydreamed she might break into song or dance or both at this news. Instead she forced her voice to remain even. “I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Mr. Dixon. Allow me to tidy up some business with Brenda Gelasse, and I’ll be along directly.”

  “Did you say Bren — ”

  “That’s right, dear. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “I hope not, Cass. The waiters are giving me, my shorts, and my backpack strange looks. Let’s just say I don’t look or smell as fresh as the proverbial daisies. Much longer and they may call the vagrancy squad. I don’t know what business you have with that woman, but this is our moment and I can’t wait to share it with you!”

  “On my way, sir. Give your, uh, companion my regards.”

  She started to press the off button when Nicky said, “Honey, you were magnificent on the news networks. Ruggers showed me part of the segment with Barbie Silverman. The box. Your cool. That awful business with the leech. Are you okay?”

  Because of the week’s stress, she had refused to watch any of the news coverage. He must not have heard about the shooting, which occurred in the wee hours. That would keep for later. “Fine, now that I know you are. I’ll be along. Nick?”

  His breathing was music to her ears. “Yes, Cass?”

  “Ginger dust.”

  He paused, and she knew he was savoring their secret code for I love you and always will. “Ginger dust,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

  “So are you,” she said and closed the phone. She turned to the two people staring at her, mouths agape, and stood to leave.

  “Upon further reflection, I have decided not to do the transfer. Thank you both for your consideration; my apologies for the inconvenience. Will you excuse me? I’m due in the office.”

  Cassie rushed from the room. The lawyer, thrown off balance by her abrupt departure, half fell into the seat newly vacated. Just before closing the office door, she noted with giddy satisfaction that the mouths of both the buyer and her legal counsel remained fixed in the open and locked position.

  Chapter 11

  Cassandra, the very breath of beauty, was set to roll out in the California test market.

  “Nicholas, I work the formulation under duress,” the Nose fussed. They sat on a park bench and watched the Azure geese. “Do you wish to be known for a synthetic copy of the real McCoy, a counterfeit fragrance derived from gases and computer printouts? Where is the crushed essence of the flower?”

  Nick said nothing, just smiled and listened.

  Royce sat straighter, made eye contact, and had time for but brief conversation. “Historic,” he repeated often. “I am overseer of an historic formulation!”

  He sent one hundred blood red roses to Joy Spretnak at her desk and signed it, “Your other nose.” She told a close friend who told an assistant chemist who told Royce that when the flowers arrived, she had to request the afternoon off and make an appointment with her endocrinologist.

  Nick learned that SFPD ballistics matched the slug dug from the Dixon ceiling to the weapon found in the Dixon shrubbery. Within ten days the police told him they had apprehended the gunman whose fingerprints were all over the .38 special.

  “He’s a small-time hood wanted in a string of robberies in Nob Hill,” said Lt. Reynolds on the phone. “The shooter’s not talking. Won’t say why he fired a shot through your bedroom window. Maybe he had the wrong house; maybe he was high on something.”

  Most important to Nick, Cassie took considerable comfort in the capture. And when he insisted she and Beth carry mace and that they install a home alarm system with twenty-four-hour monitoring, he met no objections.

  Nor was that the end of the good news. “Block & Tackle for men made a promising debut,” he reported to Cassie. “It felt like a talented opening act for the main attraction. Is it me, or does the air we breathe smell a little sweeter these days?”

  Cassie was right back in the thick of it. The rush of activity around the Cassandra launch allowed little thought for other matters.

  At strategy sessions with senior management, she kept tabs on the latest developments.

  “Presales?”

  “Great to off the charts,” said Mark Butterfield, checking a clipboard. “The strategic-placement team is experiencing nothing but success. We’ve got sample sniffs out to the movers and shakers in all the major markets. The First Lady is interested; so is Buckingham Palace.”

  “Status of the cruet?”

  “We’re racing the clock, and the design is stunning. We’ve got the drawing of the celerides that Nick made from memory.”

  “Concept?”

  “A sweeping, pale-pink, almost gossamer glass reproduction of the seductive orchid stem. It culminates in a single crystal teardrop signifying the jewel of morning dew he recalls so clearly from the day he first laid eyes on it. We’ve got the Pochet luxury perfume glassworks in Paris working night and day to reproduce these works of art.”

  “Per-unit cost?”

  “High, but more than offset by the visual presentation. You can’t trap the essence of essences in anything less than a high-end vessel. It comes in just over budget for a premier scent, more than made up in the first pric
e increase scheduled to take effect six months post-launch.”

  “Security?”

  “Per your directive, we’ve instituted three round-the-clock bottling shifts under maximum secrecy and top-clearance protocols.”

  “Media?”

  Mark Butterfield, hair tousled and tie askew, looked every inch like he’d recently enjoyed a satisfying roll in quality-grade clover. “You’ve been declared royalty,” he said. “The Nicholas and Cassandra of fashion cosmetics! Your last-minute reprieve from certain destruction made you the media darlings. Leno’s people are on the horn every couple of hours. Letterman says you owe him, and took to the streets of the Big Apple and reenacted Nick’s flight from the wild boars and menacing tribesmen who threatened him with death, et cetera, et cetera. You can’t buy that kind of exposure! Oprah’s doing a whole show around pheromones, for which we’re the sole sponsors, and plans another a year from now with a studio audience made up exclusively of moms and all their newborns who are named for you two. Apparently, there are a lot.”

  Cassie beamed. Amazing what one orchid can do! Nor were she and Nick the only ones given the star treatment. Beth, who was transferred to a private school for added safety, called home the first day to ask, “Okay if I give interviews to five reporters who want to know what it’s like to be a child of destiny?” She had been asked to autograph everything from student backpacks to students’ backs.

  Cassie did one interview that landed Gretchen on the cover of American Canine. She was even glad Andre hadn’t missed out. The media coverage brought in so much new business, he was forced to hire a receptionist, two additional stylists, and a fashion consultant. And he was starting to grow on her. She invited him home to dinner, but it was so riddled with interruptions by TV producers, Azure personnel, and well-wishers that Nick finally gave Beth fifty dollars and told her to find a nice anonymous dinner for two. “We’ll try again for dinner at home when the storm dies down.”

  Nick and Cassie supervised the test launch, she from San Francisco, he from L.A. A hundred glassine tubes of Cassandra were given away at each of several major malls, with gorgeous models in flowing pale-pink gowns strolling the concourses, spritzing at random, and having their photos taken with shoppers, their kids, and the out-of-town relatives.

  “This is Mark in midtown Manhattan,” said an upbeat voice on Cassie’s cell. “The animated billboards are flashing Cassandra to the masses. We’ve got a Broadway exclusive in the Lion King programs and are this close to a Cassandra night, when the performers cavorting on the African savannah will daub the wrists of female audience members with scent. I can see the headlines now: ‘Lions Beguile with Orchid’s Wiles.’ All this buzz is fantastic!”

  “You’re telling me,” Cassie shouted above the mall chaos. “Azure stock is up another fourteen percent!”

  Back in San Francisco, Mark fielded calls from Hollywood. The most sought-after director in film proposed one of the most lucrative product-placement deals ever devised: “Sole billing in my next two pictures, including a blockbuster with an ensemble cast of household names. Two of my A-list actresses offer to work for free in exchange for exclusive name association.”

  Mark felt the power. “I’m sorry, but Cassandra parfum has but one name and one identity. We cannot confuse the message. I’m sure you understand.”

  The results from the test markets were uncommonly positive. Mark heard “showstopping!” “unparalleled!” and “fragrance revolution!” If the profusion of exclamation points wasn’t proof enough, the Chronicle hailed its hometown darlings with a flattering profile headlined “The Scent of Success.”

  The tabloids were the source of even greater hyperbole. Unable to get the exclusive it sought, the National Weekly improvised: “Cassandra Cures Impotence and Sciatica.”

  Mark scorned Barb Silverman’s Midday. The woman nonetheless camped out at the Azure corporate office, despite repeated assurances that Cassie Dixon would make good on her promise to return and shower the audience with gifts of Cassandra once the test was an unqualified success. Silverman stewed on air, and publicity begat publicity.

  Brace yourself,” Nick said to Cassie with a laugh. “My dear, your Azure stock just rose another twenty-three percent yesterday and is headed for eighteen today. Can you stand another historic high?” They strolled arm-in-arm across the sloped back lawn and watched the San Francisco Bay shimmer in the distance.

  “Oh, Nick, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for those few investors — especially our employees — who hung with us and kept their stock through the war years. Tell me more good news!”

  “Gladly. Word of mouth is gaining speed. They’re clamoring for Cassandra in some of the most remote regions on earth. Major metro preorders have gone through the roof, with Harrod’s in London requesting ten thousand units in a single order. We’ve gotten outlandish offers for advance bottles. So many people have stormed the front office demanding product that as of this morning we are now a lockdown facility with entry by voice- and fingerprint-recognition only. Joy has been a real trooper.”

  He sat her on the lawn and kissed her.

  “Nick, I’m so happy!”

  “Me too, babe. Azure’s hitting on all cylinders, with very little need to expend marketing dollars. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Mark tells me we’ve been able to settle the leech case out of court, and the zinc class action suit was tossed for lack of evidence. Remember a day not so long ago when we couldn’t get the trash collector to return our calls? Nowadays even our garbage smells sweet to somebody.”

  Nick roared. “I love you. You really know how to romance a guy.”

  Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, et in unum Dominum, Jesum Christum (I believe in one God, the Father almighty, and in one Lord, Jesus Christ) . . .” Fr. Byron paused in the recitation of the Creed, fervently crossed himself, and picked up his cordless phone. After pressing in the number, he listened to the rings.

  Cassie’s cell phone went to voice mail again, and he wondered what he could say that was any different from the last two messages.

  How many politicians does it take to change a lightbulb? Two.One to change it, and another one to change it back again. Or is that priests? I forget. No, he didn’t feel in much of a joking mood.

  He decided on a more direct approach, but not without some wit. “The dying request of a poor, old, and forgotten priest is to speak to you one last time. Fr. B’s the name and sermonizing is my game. Please call.” He felt no guilt over the content of the message. After all, everyone was dying, and technically every request was a dying request.

  “Obfuscation,” he said. “The older you get, the more obfuscatory you become.” He didn’t care if it wasn’t a word and returned the phone to its stand.

  Not that he anticipated the Dixons building an altar or sacrificing a bullock in gratitude for their remarkable turnaround.

  Fr. Chris grunted. Fr. B glanced at the thermostat. With two of them in his tiny kitchen, the atmosphere suddenly felt as hot and itchy as a cleric’s collar.

  “But where is their loyalty?” Noncommittal though his fellow priest usually was, Fr. B needed someone to hear what he was feeling. “How much fame can one family take? Is there not just as much opportunity to stumble when you are adored as when you are reviled?”

  Fr. Chris turned on Wheel of Fortune, their nightly viewing ritual, but said nothing.

  Fr. B turned off the burner on the stove and poured the pan of boiling water over two plastic bowls of instant cinnamon-apple oatmeal. A little low-fat milk, a light sprinkle of artificial sweetener, two whole wheat rolls lightly spread, and dinner was served. The other priest accepted the orange bowl and yelled, “Spin again, you ninny!”

  Fr. B returned silent thanks. After the amen, he said, “Where are the Dixons getting their spiritual nourishment? The mother of triplets, Mr. Shave Cream, even Lydia the Jewish catechist continue to make weekly Eucharist, but who has seen the Dix-ons anywhere but in the papers or on TV? Have y
ou?”

  Fr. Chris shook his head. “Buy a vowel! Buy a vowel!”

  In front of Fr. B on the little Formica table that was both breakfast nook and desk, a large newspaper photo of the handsome couple gave the impression they were smiling at him.

  “Look at them radiating such joy. Accomplishment. Contentment. They look positively redeemed.” He frowned. “God, they can’t do this without you. At least when they were against the wall, they started to ask the right questions. What should I do?”

  “Buy another vowel!” Fr. Chris said around a generous mouthful of oatmeal. “Look, Byron, even though I’m off duty, I’ll give you my two cents. Trust God; trust the process. You can’t force them to be rational at a time like this. You just be sure you’re there when they need you. And trust me, they will need you.”

  Fr. Chris turned back to the oatmeal and the TV. “Solve the puzzle!” he shouted. “Solve the puzzle!”

  Mags O’Connor stretched what she called her ancient limbs in preparation for beginning trapeze and kept one eye riveted to the TV monitor. An extreme animal show was reporting a bizarre incident of a palomino thoroughbred that had earlier that week practically chewed the face off its rider. Despite the warning that due to graphic content viewer discretion was advised, Mags watched the news footage of the emergency call to the ranch outside San Francisco in horrified fascination.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency, please?”

  The actual recorded call continued with, “My wife’s been attacked by her horse.” The caller was breathless with panic. “She’s bleeding from the head and face something awful. Send help, please!” His agonized sobs made Mags’ stomach clench.

  “Did the horse buck her off? Did she land headfirst?” asked the call center dispatcher with maddening calm.

  “No! She — my wife — was riding in the paddock when the horse just started bucking and whinnying, all wild-eyed. It all of a sudden stopped, turned its head back . . . grabbed her arm in its teeth, yanked her to the ground. Oh hurry, please God, she’s dying!” The accompanying wail of anguish made Maggie wince.