Montague added a few more verbal strokes to his glimpse of the future before the curtain closed. “And now, esteemed ladies and gentlemen, we honor the winners of this year’s highest awards in all aspects of fragrance formulation, packaging, market branding, new launches, and revival of established brands. Here from the smash Broadway hit Power Play is the exceptional cast to present the Tony Award – winning song that captures this evening so beautifully. Welcome them, please, as they perform William Jackson’s ‘The Sweet Smell of Fortune’!”
The live orchestra began the familiar fanfare for the hit song, and five men and five women in expensive business suits whirled from the wings, dancing and tunefully declaring, “Whatever you do, smell good doing it.”
Mags munched and hummed along, answering Gretchen’s periodic woofs with more popcorn.
“What a show, ol’ girl,” Mags said, producing a frantic thumping. “There’s Cass, see?” She leaned over and pointed to the tight camera shot of the dog’s gorgeous mistress. Nick came next, then a prolonged shot of them both looking dazzlingly handsome and happier than Mags could ever remember.
Gretchen ignored the screen but watched Mags with intense interest. The Dane whined, licked a giant doggie snout, and received a buttered and salted reward.
Nick checked his watch and leaned closer to Cassie’s ear to be heard over the brass horns and the rousing chorus filled with the melodic success mantra of “Smell sensational to sell sensational.” He winked. “Should the buildup go on much longer, this silly grin will become a permanent part of my anatomy.”
Cassie patted his arm and slid the last oval of mango-and-chocolate-accented lychee fruit discreetly between blush rose lips. “I think I like it. Better than a permanent frown.”
Nick’s countenance softened. “Tomorrow’s papers, my love, will be filled with nothing but the exquisite enchantress who held the room and an audience of millions by the sheer force of her comeliness.”
His wife raised an eyebrow. “No more bubbly. Your vocabulary is straight out of the Middle Ages. Hush now.”
Nick hushed, but not before casting the governor a knowing look. The old lecher had been surveying Cassie every chance he got, and Mrs. von Bruegger looked ready to kill.
The smile returned bigger and sillier than ever. Nick relished the thought that he was going home with both the Crystal Decanter and the woman of the hour.
“You can always tell,” the cast members sang, “fortune by its smell.” The orchestra swept into the crescendo of the song’s finale. The male dancers each flashed a wad of bills under the females’ noses, then went down on one knee and sat their partners on the other. “Take a whiff. Get my drift? The scent of money, honey, that’s . . . the . . . smell” — drumroll, clash of cymbals, blare of horns — “of . . . suc . . . cess!” The girls swooned, and the guys flung their arms wide, releasing a blizzard of greenbacks.
Nick applauded with extra enthusiasm. It was their fortune being sung. Those were their greenbacks. The Dixon estate was about to change forever.
Seven fifty p.m. In white coat, black shirt, and white bow tie, Cousin Richard was plenty antsy. He couldn’t loiter by the kitchen door without a tongue-lashing from Chef Condolora. Worse, he never saw himself as a trigger man, but his darkly imposing relative had been quite clear on that score.
“You be in place and make sure Cassandra Dixon never leaves that stage alive. Once she has the Crystal Decanter in her hands and the Dixons have given their acceptance remarks, the paparazzi will go nuts. That’s when you send her your greetings, understand? Don’t you fail me, Richie, or my people will hunt you down and leave your Maria and the baby a little damaged. Got it?”
Richie got it. Big John had promised a generous ten grand for the job, and even if Richie went to prison, which he surely would, his girl and baby son would be set. He’d have better luck turning water into wine than getting ten Gs waiting tables. He knew opportunity when it made a banging noise.
He took a deep breath and felt in his pocket for the hard metal wrapped in linen. Shooting the Dixon woman was the lesser of two evils. Bad for him but good for his family. And in California, with a “my life was threatened; what could I do?” defense and good behavior, he might even get out before his arteries permanently hardened.
There were tables to be cleared before the awards and speeches. Richie grabbed a tray and headed for the ballroom.
Brenda paid the cabbie and gathered the hem of the Missoni gown in vintage gold. Concentrating, she walked the red carpet to the Fairmont. She knew what she had to do. John always had a Plan B. When the two of them hadn’t worked out, he went straight into the arms of another woman he’d probably kept on retainer. Oh, John had an alternate plan, all right. Knowing eventually he would die by the sword, he was ever hatching one last plot to destroy. Even in death, as unexpected as it had come, his will would be done. He’d paid someone to use that gun by proxy, and Brenda could not bear to think of living the rest of her life knowing she could have stopped it.
The shaking was starting to subside. She could do this. Had to do this.
Yes, she was jealous of Cassie Dixon. Yes, she resented Nick Dixon’s rejection. Yes, she thought little of Azure’s accomplishments over the past twenty years. And yes, she had taken perverse delight in the reversal of fortunes that should have made Azure World her acquisition. If put on the witness stand and made to swear on a Bible, she would have to say that she wanted to buy out the Dixons only to close Azure down and convince that pompous Royce Blankenship to cut his losses and come work for deBrieze.
And what of Mags? The sodden old mare knew better but had persisted in ingratiating herself with the Dixons. Encouraged them in their impossible dreams. Joined the circus school with Cassie like some Ringling Brothers clown. It was undignified the way the two of them attempted trapeze and, according to her sources, giggled over it like goofy sisters. Mags had to be pushing seventy by now. It was like the Dixons had adopted her when what the woman needed was to face up to —
Brenda made her way to the elegant hotel doors flanked by red-coated sentries who smiled at her approach. Closing the doors at Azure would have been a service to the fragrance world. It certainly did not need a woman out of her element dumping treacly little aromas on the market. Oceans Ahoy? Lemon Twisted? And what in the name of all that was sane was the male scent Brace Me? It was strictly pipe and slippers. Men needed to be aroused, not declawed. She half expected Azure’s next release to be Out to Pasture.
But Cassandra! Now, there was a scent. Out there on that veranda, Brenda had wanted nothing less than to crawl inside that tiny vial and pull the beguiling aroma tight around her thin shoulders. Never had she smelled anything like it. Floral and earthy and, God help her, at once primitive and sophisticated. Cassandra hijacked the scent receptors, scrambled the mind, took the emotions hostage, and tore aside the inhibitions. It was at once holy and dangerous. It was Sin — not sinful, for that implied only partial transgression, but Sin itself, committed by a heart unwilling to settle for anything less than dark surrender.
The trembling returned. Though muted in intensity, the memory of Cassandra remained terrifyingly strong. It was in her in a way she could not express. “What are you?” she whispered to the unseen presence. “I’ve got to see Cassie Dixon, tell her what she’s unleashed.” She thought how foolish that sounded, that she had lost her identity in a perfume. Who would believe her? She wasn’t sure she believed it herself. As engulfed and lost as she had felt, she had also felt intense pleasure. Was it stronger than the dread?
Another shiver passed through her.
The doors parted. The sentries doffed their felt hats. Brenda took little notice. She needed to hurry. The police would put it all together soon, but not before a second tragedy struck.
Laughton deBrieze would call his considerable connections and untangle her from any legal snags resulting from tonight’s events. Would that he had equal access to that which calmed the soul.
For tha
t she had Fr. Byron. A pang of regret gnawed at her. I have so far to go. But without that priest . . . now, there was a man with considerable connections.
No more thoughts of John. Not now.
Brenda made straight for the ballroom.
Chapter 21
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritu Sanctus. Amen. (May God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, bless you. Amen.)”
Fr. Byron lifted his hands from the television and shook a small handful of Tums from the bottle. He had a bad feeling about this night. He didn’t know about praying over inanimate objects, but if this was as close as he could come to being at the Fairmont, then he was pretty sure the loving God would honor his supplication.
At evensong he’d been jumpy as a heroin addict. Fr. Krell, gout and all, would not have botched the collect for Saturdays. “Grant us that as we sing your glory at the close of this day, our joy may abound in the morning as we celebrate the Maschal Pistory . . .” The what? The Paschal Mystery, you dunderhead — the Paschal Mystery! Agnus Dei, the Pachal Lamb, the redeeming sacrifice, the only fit substitute able to ransom me from eternal death. By the grace of God, I shall not be judged by my twisted tongue, but covered by the atoning blood of Jesus the Lamb of God. Gratiae, my Savior. Thanks.
At last the awards were about to be presented. He turned the sound up louder than necessary to drown out the faint chattering of the bats that had been gathering in the belfry of St. John’s for the past week. There were always a few in residence, and he was usually grateful for their devout dive-bombing ways that kept the bugs of summer and fall in check. The fascinating creatures were the only mammals that could truly fly, and he’d heard that each could eat half its body weight in insects every day.
But this was different. Thousands of bats had massed by now, and like water from a fire hose, a dense stream of them gushed from the bell tower every night to invade the city before returning to the tower with the dawn. Parishioners were becoming reluctant to attend evening services — tonight’s attendance had been considerably down — and there was talk of raiding the church coffers to hire an exterminator. What else could be done? The church’s chief benefactor had gotten a bat entangled in her coif and broken a heel, and very nearly an ankle, in the dark rush of wings.
His uneasiness hadn’t been helped by the breaking news earlier of the incident at Wolf Glen, north of the city. The TV announcer said that four wolves kept at the popular wildlife sanctuary had turned on their female keeper. She had stopped by for “bed check” before rushing off to her sister’s wedding. The wolves had to be tranquilized. Why had the keeper entered at all, dressed as she was in lavender bridesmaid dress and slender silver heels, hair glamorously upswept? Her colleagues surmised their kindhearted friend had just left her home on the property, saw a need — one of the new wolf pups in distress, perhaps — and went to correct the problem.
Fr. B flipped over to the all-news channel just to see if there were any more particulars. The keeper had managed to trip the alarm that sounded in the main office. The two on-duty biologists rushed to the enclosure and darted the insane animals to stop the vicious attack. They entered the enclosure and were physically ill. The bloodied keeper lay on her back in wide-eyed shock, staring at the sky, as if unable to comprehend her gentle charges turning on her like that.
“Miserere nobis (Have mercy on us),” the priest prayed.
He turned the channel to the gala. NAFG President Perry Montague quieted the crowd at the Fairmont, then said, “Who among us would not wish to stop the hands of time, to defy the aging process, to tell Mother Nature, ‘Thanks for everything, but we’ll take it from here’?” A wave of contained laughter rippled through the ballroom as the camera panned the crowd to capture the beautiful people nudging one another and nodding in agreement.
“And so we live in an age of two thousand antiwrinkle products that, alone, tally nearly four billion dollars in sales per annum. And I must say, looking at you, that the attar of apricots seems to be working.” More laughter, more panning to capture the rich and famous touching their faces and — Fr. Byron sniffed — trying to look younger than when they had arrived.
Montague beamed at the reaction. “But all the cucumber juice, grape seed extract, and oil of hyacinth on earth are powerless to smooth the creases of the human heart, until what I call ‘the miracle moment.’ That is the moment when divine providence and man’s ingenuity meet in a cream or a fragrance so beguiling that it reaches deep into the psyche, penetrating even to the human soul.”
Fr. Byron flinched. Leave the theology out of it, President Montague. It’s still just a bit of this and a pinch of that combined with ninety percent alcohol. He poured himself a cup of peppermint tea and sat with it on a straight-backed chair. Where would the world be without the spin doctors?
“Just as flowers in their natural adornment are meant to attract, so with our bodies. It is our privilege as master blenders and formulators to work with personal chemistry — body heat, if you will — to perfect the human aroma. It is our alchemy to turn up the heat, to make things, how shall I say” — here bushy eyebrows arched suggestively — “more interesting.”
Fr. B stirred the tea with more than his usual vehemence. “Saints alive, that whole room is overheated, you blowhard. What they — no, what we all — could use is a little ice in our undergarments.” He stopped himself, surprised by so earthy an outburst. This was why he watched very little television.
Montague settled the crowd at last. “Tonight we honor those select few individuals who in the past year took the industry in unexpected directions. By a mix of devotion to the art, uncommon sensitivity to detail, entrepreneurial drive, and at times sheer tenacity, they took this thing we do to another plane. And so we gather here in this magical setting to lift them up. To them we say thank you.
“This evening, our first two Silver Roses, so magnificently created by the great glass artist Chihuly, are for Best in Advertising and Best in Packaging. Here to help me make the presentation is the star of stage and screen . . . ”
Out glided the famous starlet in a gold lamé dress that the cleric was certain had to have been spray-painted on her willowy frame. Behind the presenters the curtain parted, and a giant screen brightened with the now-famous thirty-second spot for Azure’s new perfume. It was Fr. Byron’s first time to see it, and he was a little shaken by the seductive female mouth filling the entire frame and exhaling wispy streams of gorgeous pink. The voice-over, equally seductive, kept repeating two words: “Beauty is.” In the last ten seconds, an equally seductive male mouth and neck entered the frame, drawn by the insistent pink wisps, and the two mouths joined in a passionate kiss. All faded into that famous pink and gold box, the answer to the repetitive phrase: “Cassandra, the very breath of beauty.”
“Oh my,” said Fr. Byron, gulping his tea. “Oh my.”
A door opened to the ballroom, and Brenda Gelasse heard the swell of applause and saw the chandeliers brighten.
“The Silver Roses go to Azure World, to Vice President for Marketing and Media Relations Mark Butterfield and Director of Product Packaging SafiVoronin, and their teams of promotional savants!”
“Your name, ma’am?” the tall, tanned man in charge of the guest list asked.
Without hesitation Brenda replied, “Sheila Drummond, Drummond Cosmetics.” She did business with the Drummonds and knew that their vacation in the Alps had been extended by an early blizzard.
The young man was possessed of a military bearing and athletic build. Brenda guessed Marine Corps. From the looks of the high and tight haircut, probably a recent discharge. Or, with all the government dignitaries in attendance, perhaps Special Detail. He ran a finger down the list and stopped at Drummond. “Will Mr. Drummond be joining us this evening?”
Brenda felt momentary regret. “Ted, my husband, was taken ill at the last minute. The lipstick magnate is flat on his back. Flu, we think. I am here to uphold the family honor. I know I am quite l
ate, but Teddy was projectile vomiting and that was the least of it. He’s got the worst case of — ”
The handsome young man held up a sympathetic hand. “That’s fine, Mrs. Drummond; you needn’t explain. I’m afraid, though, that dinner has already been served, but I’m sure we could find you something from the kitchen.”
Brenda leaned slightly forward. She could see by the quiver of his nostrils he was tracking the Cassandra. There was an involuntary widening of the eyes, a perceptible acceleration of breathing, a softening of features. He was disarmed without having been touched.
“I wouldn’t think of it. Waitstaff are among the world’s least appreciated and most overworked, wouldn’t you say? They don’t need me to add to their misery. No, my girlish figure doesn’t agree with the glazes and sauces they trot out at these things.”
The young man leaned closer and nodded. “Attend a lot of them, do you?”
Brenda met him halfway. “You have no idea. Teddy drags me to all of them and they bore me stiff. I mean, how many canapés can one person eat?” He moistened his lips, eyes half-closed. “But duty calls,” Brenda said, the words brusque. He was left standing at an awkward angle as she stepped over to the metal detector. “May I?”
The young man jerked upright as if in response to the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers. “Certainly, ma’am, please.”
She stepped through the frame and received a perfunctory wanding. No alarms sounded.
“Thank you, ma’am. We can’t be too careful in this day and age. I will call someone to escort you to your seat.”
Scent Page 23