Beth took a deep breath and removed the graceful work of art from its box. “Wow! Not bad.” She held the bottle up to the mirror. “Mother, Mother. Remember me? It takes a village to catch you.” A terrible hurt lodged in her stomach. Just once, couldn’t her mother have shared a private moment of triumph with her before rushing off to an adoring public?
A mature fragrance for a mature woman. Beth knew what that meant. A woman applied “the very breath of beauty” to lure a man, and Cassie did not want her daughter luring anyone —especially Andre — for another fifty years. Even though she could have washed it off after a few minutes, and only mother and daughter would have been the wiser. A token of future happiness, a secret held between sisters. Why not, Mother? Why not?
She cradled the decanter in her hand and decided she would do it. She would release the contents of Pandora’s box and test friendships all around. But what really mattered here? If God made the orchid that gave rise to Cassandra, why should the woman for whom it was named prevent her only child from knowing its heavenly odor?
Gretchen woofed and shifted her front feet nervously. She watched every move of Beth’s hands. “You want to know too, don’t you, girl? How about just us girls see what’s in here, just us girls share the secret?” She grasped the stopper and pulled.
The side door opened, and Mags called, “Gretchy girl, here I come, ready or not!”
Beth jammed the stopper back into the bottle, but not before the barest whiff of Cassandra escaped. She had stuffed the decanter back in the box and returned the box to the counter when a low, ominous growl sounded from behind.
Like hearing a rattlesnake’s warning for the first time, Beth instinctively knew that the gentle Dane was no more. Every nerve ending at full scream, Beth slowly turned and saw something she’d never seen. The dog had flattened her ears, risen stiff-legged on all fours, and taken a teeth-bared stance of imminent attack. “No, Gretch — ”
The doorknob turned, the door flew open, and Mags stuck her head in. As if slapped awake, Gretchen stood down with a look of bewildered uncertainty. “Oh, Beth, goodness! I’m sorry! I saw the laundry door open and this door shut, and I thought — ”
A tearful Beth grabbed her textbook and bolted from the bathroom.
Mags trailed after, pleading with her to come back, to stay and talk.
Beth slammed out the front door and was halfway up the steps of the house next door before three thoughts fully registered.
Gretchen would have killed her.
Beth wanted the scent more than anything in life.
Andre’s match had been met.
He arrived at the Gateway Tower at 6:46 p.m. The night-duty guard placed a call to the penthouse, and after a long pause Brenda Gelasse agreed to see the visitor. He was given a special elevator pass key and went up.
The TV was tuned to an entertainment show about the party at the Fairmont. Brenda mixed him a martini while Molinard the snooty cat shot him laser bursts of contempt from its green eyes.
“You came why, John?” Brenda asked, reclining on the couch, exquisitely long and languid in black silk lounging pajamas.
He studied her. How like the cat she was. Impudent. Scornful. Haughty. Unattainable, which made her all the more desirable.
“I thought you might be feeling out of sorts, what with the Dixons getting all the applause.”
“And you’re here to cheer me up?” Her sneer left no doubt that such a notion was preposterous.
“If you’d let me, I could put a smile on your face that would cheer you well into the new year.”
Even he knew that sounded cheesy, but he didn’t care. She was doing it again. Driving him crazy with her aloof act. She was as lonely as he was. Why pretend?
He sipped the martini, made just as he liked it. He’d done the right thing. It was too risky for him to go anywhere near the gala. Let Cousin Richie take the fall. Yeah, it meant giving up the pleasure of plugging Nicky’s little lady himself, but no way would he be able to escape the Fairmont once the deed was done. He wanted the cattle ranch and the millions and the freedom to do anything and go anywhere he wanted. Let baby Richie do the honors and reap the consequences. The dumb grunt would get a real education in Folsom. But Brenda didn’t need to know. “There will be an unexpected twist at the festivities tonight,” he said, “and I’ve put it there.”
“You?” Few could do as much damage to the second-person pronoun as Brenda Gelasse.
He wanted to rub her face in it. “Look behind the sliding door at the head of your bed. It ain’t there.”
She showed no emotion, cold to the end.
“Go on, look. It ain’t there.”
Like Molinard, she moved not a whisker. “Let’s say I believe you. What significance should I attach to its absence?”
The room was hot. He removed the jacket and cummerbund, undid the bow tie, and removed the top two stays of his shirt, talking all the while. “Ask yourself, ‘If it’s not here, could it be there?’ ” He pointed the martini glass at the TV reporter standing in front of the floodlit hotel. “ ‘And if it’s there, what function might it perform before the evening draws to a close?’ Keep your eyes on Cassie Dixon when she exits the stage.”
That got to her. She visibly winced and sat up. She set her glass on the side table and stood. “It’s too warm in here, John. Take your drink out to the veranda. I’ll just freshen up and be with you in a moment.”
If sharks could smile. He followed her suggestion. He liked the veranda. They used to take their lovemaking out there under the stars until the fighting and the hitting and business got all mixed up with pleasure.
Maybe he’d show her for old time’s sake what could have been. Right here. Right now. Why not? Anything could happen after the gun went off. Better to take what was his and to take it now.
Brenda hated that John Lexington was here, that he’d probably helped himself to her gun, and that he still held something over her. She really thought she was through with him, but with his dark complexion and solid build, he did do justice to a tux, and she was feeling less than desirable these days.
She knew what it was. Nick had slipped her grasp, found the mother lode, and didn’t need her. She was another day older and was losing her touch. What chance had she for love now?
She reached for the test vial of Cassandra. She’d made sure to attain one, a purely clerical interest to be sure. One eye on the competition and all that. Despite the wildly positive reviews, probably because of them, she had been unable to touch it to her skin before now. To do so would have been an admission she had lost. To Azure World. To Cassie the soccer mom. To Nick Dixon the playboy who had come to his senses and asked forgiveness from his wife for an affair with a she-devil.
She would anoint John’s head with it instead. Admit defeat. Be his conquest. Shut up and let nature take its course. There were no alternatives. She had made a name for herself and a reputation no decent man could overcome. She’d settle for an indecent one.
The Dixons, and whatever measure of decency they possessed, had won.
She ran a comb through her hair. Freshened lipstick. Muted the TV and turned on a soft jazz CD. Took several deep breaths and walked out on the veranda. Molinard followed as far as the sliding doors, sniffed the brininess of the night breeze, then went to sit beneath the chaise.
Her ex-husband came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck and she felt the old stirrings. They stared out at the diamonds of city lights and began to sway to the rhythm of Harry Connick Jr.
“Why, John? Why couldn’t we make it work?”
“Because we forced it. We tried to take you and me and make an us, and neither was ready for that. You didn’t want me calling the shots, and I didn’t want to be Mr. Brenda Gelasse.”
She sighed and turned to face him. “That’s the most honesty out of you since we first met.”
He kissed her hard and held her close. Her defenses melted. She felt a rush of emotion and l
ooked up, shocked to see regret clearly etched in his moonlit face. She played with the hair on his chest before he again kissed her, long and with surprising tenderness.
Behind his back she took the little glassine vial of Cassandra, unstopped it, and sprinkled it over John’s head and down the back of his shirt, splashing a few drops on herself in the process. Instantly they were entwined in tendrils of aroma rich and intoxicating. Their kisses became more urgent, awareness of their surroundings less distinct.
John lifted Brenda and carried her to the chaise lounge.
With a deranged yowl, Molinard leapt from beneath the chaise and sank its claws into the man’s back. Brenda stumbled aside, disoriented by the scene. Horror snapped her from the trance. Molinard, the hissing hellcat, clawed her ex-husband’s back and neck to bloody shreds. Green eyes stared unseeing, teeth flashed, long, crimson slashes opened across the man’s scalp, and blood spattered onto the veranda floor.
John yelled and smashed blindly into two enormous clay planters. They fell over with a crash and a clatter of broken shards. He careened on, reeling and slapping at the howling banshee that held his torn head in its sharp, unyielding grip. The black tornado whirled and slashed its victim with supernatural ferocity.
Brenda shook off the terror and ran inside the apartment for something to swing at the cat. Her hands closed on an ornamental rolling pin from the kitchen, and wielding it like a battle-ax, she raced out onto the veranda.
In the melee, she smashed the rolling pin against the small of John’s back. With a moan he abruptly changed directions away from her and lurched pell-mell toward the railing. Blind and unheeding, he grabbed the cat in a stranglehold, and together they pitched over the side of the Gateway Tower in a six-hundred-fifty-foot free fall. The scream turned her insides to water.
Brenda, in numb shock, sank to the veranda floor amid the broken planters and blood-spattered mess. The scene on the muted TV had shifted to the interior of the Fairmont Hotel. A sweeping shot of the Grand Ballroom showed elegant people in their finery. From somewhere way at the back of her stunned psyche a persistent thought formed. Go there! Hurry!
But curiously, in the air was a lingering scent of Cassandra that she very much wanted to breathe. The thought that all trace of it would soon be gone brought her to tears. She felt the floor until she found the tiny vial from which had spilled sweet death. Brenda held it to her nose, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Their approaching wails brought her to her feet. They were coming for John, and she was glad he would not have to lie long in the street alone.
Chapter 20
Shouts. Flashing emergency lights. The throaty bleat of arriving fire trucks. Confusion. People running, caught in the floodlights of the Gateway Tower, shouting about the gruesome discovery. Screaming about the unidentified body sprawled on the pavement.
Imitating the stealth of the cat she so recently lost, Brenda skirted the noise and chaos. She wanted to avoid questions, make the main thoroughfare, and hail a cab for the Fairmont. There was no time for police procedure, and she most certainly did not want to catch the minutest glimpse of John’s shattered body at the unsecured scene.
“Ms. Gelasse!” The rich, familiar baritone rang across the garden mall outside the building. Brenda froze. “A word, please.”
In heels, she walked stiffly over to the six-foot-four chief of building security, Landry Moss. The crisp uniform accentuated an imposing presence, and a shiny badge glinted in the night lights. He had the biggest hands she’d ever seen.
“I – I heard the police and fire department so close. What’s happened, Landry?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but it looks like a jumper. Terrible thing. Strange thing. Your side of the building is a crime scene, so you won’t want to linger. Judging from the spatter — ”
She winced.
“Apologies, ma’am. Judging from the condition of the body, it will be some time before they identify the guy. The deceased is wearing part of a tux, so I’d say he was having a good time somewhere up there this evening, except he’d been clawed something awful. Maybe too much to drink, thought he could walk the rail of one of the verandas. Seen it before. Me, I gave up the hooch years ago when I started seeing pink elephants — ”
“Excuse me, Landry,” Brenda said. “I’m late for a fashion gathering this evening. How do you suggest I best get to the street to catch a taxi?”
The security man straightened to his full importance. “The awards ceremony at the Fairmont? Almost pulled that detail myself. I figured you for the top of the guest list. Am I right?”
She nodded, keeping what she was certain must be telltale eyes on the pavement at her feet. Her stomach rolled at the thought of John and Molinard and their moment of impact.
He seemed to take her averted eyes for modesty. “Not to worry, Ms. Gelasse. There is no sense in the police bothering a classy lady like yourself with the details of such a sorry end. Any questions they would ask of you can be asked later. And may I say, you are looking right fine this evening. I’ll escort you over to the street and call that cab myself.”
“Thank you, Landry. You are one of a dying breed.” Her stomach rolled again at the choice of words.
“Not at all, ma’am. I need to get me away from the scene for a moment. Strangest thing I ever smelled.”
Brenda jerked involuntarily. “Smelled?”
“Why, yes ma’am. Weirdest thing. Here’s this poor guy, with the claws of a dead cat still imbedded in his flesh, flattened all over the paving stones — please forgive my frankness — but the place where they fell smells like the gardens of God, all sweet like. Messes with your head.”
“Yes, I’m sure it does.”
The security man appeared lost in thought.
“Landry?” Brenda said insistently. “A taxi?”
He led her to the opposite side of the building, where the street was not yet sealed off, and with two fingers and a piercing blast whistled a cab to the curb. He took her arm and helped her inside. “Fairmont Hotel,” he barked at the cabbie. Before shutting her door, Landry gave her an intensely curious look. “Forget this business, ma’am, and just have yourself a wonderful evening.” Still he did not close the door. Suede brown eyes bore into hers. “And if I may say so, Ms. Gelasse, you do smell exquisite.”
Before he could say more, Brenda gave him a sickly smile and yanked the door closed.
The cab pulled into traffic and, with the help of two officers with orange flashlights, began to maneuver around a gleaming crimson fire truck. On impulse, Brenda turned and stared out the back window.
The security chief stood at the curb staring after the departing taxi, big hand still gripping an imaginary handle.
Wearing her TV glasses, Mags O’Connor settled into the recliner in the living room with a large bowl of hot popped corn, a six-pack of chilled diet root beer, and the remote. She felt badly about Beth, knew there was jealousy there, but chalked it up to adolescent hormones and general angst. She could testify all about the clash of wills that could make a home a battlefield. The last few weeks had strained them all. The last thing she wanted to do was come between this mother and daughter.
“Gretch, old girl, it’s a good thing Maggie’s in the house, because if I was there at the Fairmont, I’d be shooting my mouth off every five seconds.” An answering thump-thump told her the Dane was in complete agreement, which earned her a handful of popcorn on her Mickey Mouse beach towel beside the recliner. It disappeared in two or three sweeps of the tongue.
“Can’t help it, Gretch. I used to be a force to be dealt with back in the day. I don’t put out to pasture willingly.” Thump-thump. More popcorn. Mags knew the dog was working a regular Pavlovian scam, and that she herself was the test subject providing the conditioned response. Mags didn’t care. Two of the most deserving people in the world were about to take highest honors, and Monday Cassandra hit the stores. Stand back and marvel.
“Bet the
re’s more expensive perfume wafting through that room right now than you could name.” Thump-thump. Popcorn. “The ones who want to earn points with certain perfumers are wearing theirs; the ones who want it made clear they cannot be owned are wearing a private formulation. Watch and learn.”
The Dane watched the hand sprinkle popcorn on the towel. Another swipe of the tongue. Popcorn gone.
She turned her attention to the TV just as North American Fragrance Guild President Perry Montague began speaking in front of a floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtain. “Tonight we honor those who this year went above and beyond to improve, strengthen, and raise the visibility of fragrance in the public consciousness. Many, many things vie for our time and attention, but it is the basic appeal to our senses that undergird them all.
“By far the most romantic, the most ethereal, the most otherworldly of those senses is the sense of smell.” To a collective gasp, the curtain dramatically parted to reveal a lush garden of delights — huge bouquets of glorious roses, lilies, orchids, and tulips tier upon tier in a dazzling array of colors; flowering trees; cascading waterfalls and meandering streams; melodic birdcalls; and attractive Polynesian and Asian women dressed in the most beautiful leis, sarongs, and saris of seemingly every color and hue. An announcer voiced over the scene by pointing out not only the details of the set but the fact that one hundred aromatherapy nozzles were at that moment misting the air of the Grand Ballroom with a pleasing mixed bouquet of floral scents.
“Looks like Bollywood,” said Mags archly. “Wonder what extreme excess costs these days.” Thump-thump. Swipe.
“Good smell is the essence of human existence,” the Guild president continued. “With more than half a million separate odors in the world, the future of aroma is open to interpretation and exploitation. In the home of the future, not only will the walls speak and change scenes, but every room will present a smellscape.” On a giant screen behind, images began to illustrate the address. “Perhaps Junior will want a bedroom that today smells like grape jelly and tomorrow like cherry soda. On Tuesday Sister programs a day of carnations; on Wednesday she’s feeling playful and dials in the essence of chocolate syrup. Mom’s having houseguests for the weekend and for the spare room programs a mountain cabin combo of cedar and pine. Dad’s a leather man for the garage but wants the workshop smelling like that Alaska fishing stream where he caught the fifty-pound king.”
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