Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes)

by Blair Bancroft

  At least I hoped not.

  Have I mentioned that Flint’s a hunk? Quadruple A, certified hunk. Almost as tall as Viktor Kirichenko, but a good eighty-five pounds lighter. I mean, the man has a body so fit he looks like he could wrestle a gator with one hand tied behind his back. Blond hair cut military style, eyes the blue of Florida sky, a chin nearly as determined as mine, nose a trifle bent and lips a shade thin—necessary flaws or else he’d be movie-star handsome and far too pretty for serious law enforcement. If it hadn’t been Saturday night at the height of the Florida tourist season, I probably would have made the faux pas of sitting there, staring at him like a starved dog leashed inches short of a juicy bone.

  As it was, the tables on the gulf-side deck of the restaurant Flint chose were full. As were all the bar stools around the grass-thatched Tiki bar. We grabbed our drinks—a beer for Flint and a frozen Margarita for me—and, armed with one of those buzzers that flashes red and vibrates rather ominously when your table is ready—headed out toward the peace and quiet of the long public fishing pier that stuck out into the gulf behind the bar.

  We strolled down the twelve-foot-wide pier, which, in addition to numerous benches, offered fish-cleaning stations the size of baby-changing shelves in the ladies’ room at the local mall. I guess the pier was Golden Beach’s way of saying, “We’re special. We do things right.”

  About half-way down the long pier, I opened my mouth for some inane small talk, standard first-date exploration, and found it hanging open in genuine awe. “Oh, wow!” I breathed, totally forgetting I was supposed to be a sophisticated executive, gainfully employed by an internationally renowned special events firm.

  Flint’s blue eyes laughed at me over the top of his beer bottle. “How long did you say you’ve lived here?”

  “Since I was fourteen.”

  “And you’re still wowed by the sunset?”

  What could I say? I knew cars lined up along the beach every evening to see the western sky put on its daily show. It’s just that . . . well, I was never one of them. Too many lessons, too many agitated clients, too many trips to far-away places . . .

  I bit my lip as every imaginable color from magenta to lavender and gold—and a few for which I had no name—streaked in ever-changing swirls across the horizon. Inwardly, I squirmed. Twenty minutes into our date, and I was embarrassed. Trapped into playing newcomer to Flint Ramsay’s born-a-redneck bravado.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t get to the beach much.”

  “Might muss up the hair-do,” he deadpanned. “Not good for the image.”

  A thrust where it hurt. Much as I hated to admit it, sun, sand, and surf did tend to mess with the Fantascapes image. Our clients went on dreamtime honeymoons and vacations. Employees, including me, did not. Or, rather, I went but seldom had time to look up from the realities necessary to make fantasies happen. And don’t ask why I was suddenly feeling sorry for myself when I had one of the world’s best jobs. Maybe at twenty-seven, with the Big Three-O looming on the horizon, I was going through some kind of crisis. As if I could change the march of time any more than I could stop the sun from setting in the west.

  I didn’t want to, actually. With age came wisdom and power. I was just beginning to stretch toward being all I could be. I knew it. The problem was, I wasn’t certain what all should be.

  As the blood-red sun sank into the gulf, Flint performed his version of an apology for teasing me. He put both arms around me, rested his chin on my head, and hugged me close. My head spun like a whirlpool; my insides threatened to melt into a puddle and drip through the boards into the water below. Lust, pure lust. It was six months since I’d broken up with Tom Delaney, a lawyer in the firm Marybeth worked for. He was a nice guy, pleasant, polite, convenient . . . but he wanted to get married. Flint, I sensed was in the same ballpark as me. Good sex and no complications.

  I wiggled, settling back against him, doing a little teasing of my own.

  My butt vibrated. If the pier hadn’t had a good strong rail, I might have gone sailing off. Blasted buzzer! It was in Flint’s jacket pocket which was, of course, behind me. I knew my face was as red as the last sliver of sun disappearing over the horizon. Macho man chopper pilot flushed to a matching shade, but I suspected it was from trying so hard not to laugh at the look on my face. We settled for heading back to the restaurant at a near jog. This was the Season, and our table would be snapped up by some hungry tourist at the slightest lag in our failure to appear.

  We lucked out, ending up at a prime table along the outer edge of the restaurant’s outside deck, with only a wooden railing separating us from the beach. White-capped waves sloshed ashore not more than thirty feet away, while the last beachgoers folded up their umbrellas, picked up their coolers and towels and headed home. I’d hoped I was mistaken about what Flint was thinking, but before he ducked his head into the menu, he flashed me a wicked grin. Great . . . just great.

  We ordered a second round of drinks and while sharing a plate of conch fritters, liberally doused with malt vinegar, and finally edged into the obligatory thrust and parry of getting to know each other. By the time our platters of mahi-mahi and grouper arrived, my stomach had stopped doing flip-flops and settled down to a mere heated flutter every time I looked at Flint’s rugged face against a backdrop of sloshing waves and the first peek of stars from the darkening sky. The lights on both pier and deck were dim, a protection for baby sea turtles, who, after hatching in the warm beach sand, are supposed to head straight for the gulf, but can get detoured by any bright light. The murky ambiance wasn’t so bad for romance either. Truthfully, this was as close to living one of my own dreams as I’d been in a long, long time. I might not be thinking long-term relationship here, but the perfection of the night had to be some kind of omen. I mean, hey, could it get any better?

  It could get worse. Fast.

  “So that’s what you do?” Flint said. “You’re a wedding planner.”

  He sounded so good-old-boy smiling down at the little woman that I nearly choked on my asparagus tips. “Uh, not really,” I managed after a moment. “My mother and my aunt specialize in unusual weddings and my father plans exotic trips for people who want to do something different. Our clients want dream vacations, sometimes things no one has done before. Or something really tough to arrange—like maybe riding a race horse for a lap around a famous track. Mostly, our clients are couples, but we’ve had parents give their children the ultimate graduation gift or honeymoon.”

  Realizing I was babbling, trying to explain a totally frivolous business to a SWAT team sergeant, I looked past Flint’s shoulder toward the end of the fishing pier . . . and saw something else entirely. A vision of nearly ten years ago, when Doug was graduating from college and Jeff and I were still hitting the books. Mom and Dad sent the three of us to Peru to do the whole archeological bit from north to south, ending with approaching Machu Picchu by a four-day hike through the high Andes on the Inca Trail. After that, I’d never doubted the wonder, the power, of making dreams come true. Once-in-a-lifetime experiences were worth the effort. But how to explain that to a rock-solid Calusa County sergeant whose head skimmed the clouds only when he was chasing a bad guy with his chopper?

  Flint leaned forward, his big blue eyes catching the reflection of the candle that was dancing in its glass chimney on our table. “That takes care of the family,” he said, waggling an eyebrow, “but what do you do? Other than commandeering the SWAT team, that is.”

  Did I really want to call myself a troubleshooter? I was afraid he’d laugh. “I–ah–help out,” I replied lamely.

  “Apprentice Fairy Godmother?”

  “Something like that.” Maybe I should tell him I was a gofer. That wouldn’t sound too intimidating.

  “Jeff says you mostly do society weddings, all over Florida. Don’t you ever get tired of the frou-frou?”

  I would, if I went to as many of them as Mom and Candy did. “I get to do a lot of different things,” I told hi
m, keeping it vague. “I help with my Dad’s business too.”

  The server cleared our plates, took our dessert order. Deliberately, I let the conversation lapse, once again looking past Flint’s shoulder toward the fishing pier, now not much more than a black shadow looming over the still-visible white caps. I frowned, my eyes squinting as they attempted to penetrate the darkness. There was movement on the pier, not far from where Flint and I had stood earlier, gazing at the sunset. Not fishermen, not seniors out for an after-dinner stroll. I stared, not quite believing my eyes. A fight on the Golden Beach fishing pier?

  Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Two silhouettes wrestling with each other, bouncing from one side of the pier to the other. Merging into one hulking black shadow, stumbling apart . . . crashing back together.

  “What?” Flint, seeing my face, turned to look behind him.

  The entwined writhing shadows staggered back toward our side of the narrow pier, jerking and swaying like some contemporary ballet, performed behind a scrim. Four arms shot up, forming a desperate triangle with the bodies below. Hands fought for control of . . . something. A small package? A gun? A knife?

  Whatever the object was, it went flying. Over the side, I thought. Flint shoved back his chair, barreled past the crowd at the Tiki bar on the run. The fight now had everyone’s attention, with diners leaving their tables to crowd close to the deck railing. I stayed where I was, held fast by a feeling I sometimes get. Instinct, intuition . . . whatever, I’d learned to pay attention.

  The massive double shadow rammed into the pier’s side rail. It looked like one of the combatants had gotten the upper hand and had the other by the throat. Then everything froze as the man on the bottom caught sight of Flint heading purposefully toward them. Screams echoed around me as the two bodies plunged twenty feet into the sea below.

  I kicked off my sandals and vaulted over the side of the deck, landing in the sand on the run. It was high tide, and I hit the water fast. Dear God, but the gulf was cold in March! Tourists had to be crazy to swim in it. Fifteen feet out, I paused, listening, searching the dark water. Heard splashing . . . gurgling. A heartfelt “Bozhe moi!”

  Huh?

  “I’m coming!” I shouted and stroked hard toward the anxious mutterings ahead. I slammed into something that resembled a whale. Or at least a manatee, Florida’s beloved sea cow. “You okay? Can you swim?” I asked.

  “Not good. Not like water,” said Viktor Kirichenko, clinging tight to one of the pier’s support posts.

  “Where’s your buddy?”

  “Buddy?” I could picture his blank stare, even though I couldn’t see it.

  “The man you were fighting with,” I enunciated clearly.

  “Thief. Bad man. Good he drown.”

  Yeah, sure. I’d place my money on good old Viktor as the man on top in any fight. Even if he couldn’t swim. “Okay,” I said, “you’re going to have to trust me, Viktor. I can get you to shore, swimming from one post to the next, but only if you trust me. You grab me and try to use me as a lifebuoy, we both go down. Understand?”

  “Da, da.” I wished I could see his face. I mean, if he panicked, we were done for. Straight for the bottom, like the Titanic.

  I explained the principle of the chin tow, hoping he understood. This was a lot closer to the man mountain than I’d ever wanted to be, but what the hell . . . a life was a life. Even if I was beginning to wonder if Viktor’s was worth saving.

  “Laine? Laine?”

  “We’re okay,” I called up to Flint, “but come down to the beach for back-up.” Mighty convenient that my genuine need coincided with my desire not to step on Flint’s macho manhood.

  It was a bit like towing an eighteen-wheeler with a scooter, but neither Viktor nor I was the type to panic. We made it back to the beach almost before Flint did. “What happened to the other one?” I asked.

  Flint shook his head. He looked up at the people crowded along the deck rail above. “Anybody see what happened to the other guy?”

  Murmurs. Shaking heads. Silence.

  Flint groaned and reached for his cell phone. There went our date. It was Search and Rescue, interviews, reports. The county deputies would have to hunt for whatever the men were struggling over, too. Flint wrapped me in his jacket and, trailed by the curious crowd, we climbed the sand dunes up to the restaurant, where the hostess found us a corner in the now sparsely filled dining room. I shivered while Viktor continued to insist he’d been mugged. Which was possible, but, as Flint pointed out, the public pier in front of the most popular restaurant on the central gulf coast didn’t seem like a wise choice for a crime.

  “Bad guys like foreigners,” Viktor told him. “Easy target. Dumb ox, that’s what he called me.”

  Oh, Viktor, if only I could believe you. Would a body wash up in the morning, straight into a crowd of spring-breakers? A row of mommies and toddlers? A swath of resident seniors?

  In the end, Flint—who knew all the deputies, as well as the detective who came hard on their heels—got me off the interview hook until morning. I was chauffeured home in a patrol car and told to report to the South County Sheriff’s Office in the morning.

  Viktor had to stay there, dripping all over the restaurant floor. Maybe I’d postpone my call to Fantascapes favorite art professor. The Fabergé egg fantasy was looking more like Humpty Dumpty. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . .

  Too bad. I kinda liked the big brown bear.

  As first dates go, my evening left something to be desired.

  Chapter Three

  Sunday morning. Through slitted lids I glared at the sunshine trying to penetrate the draperies over my two bedroom windows. Another glorious day in paradise, a quiet moment punctuating the frenetic height of the Winter Season. Downtown Golden Beach on a Sunday is saved from the silence of the tomb only by the faithful attending services at the Catholic church a block up the street. Everything else is shut up tight, with only an occasional car cruising by on the usually busy street outside our building or on Main Street, a block to the south.

  Between our building and Main Street, with its picturesque shopping district, is a nicely landscaped park, which doubles as a central parking area. Main Street—unlike the dinky little street below my apartment—is boulevarded, with swaying palms and perfectly mulched flower beds extending the seven blocks from the Tamiami Trail to the Gulf of Mexico. Since our small city’s economy depends on tourists and snowbirds—part-time residents from “up north”—the Chamber of Commerce works overtime to make everything look as appealing as possible.

  A lot more appealing than my apartment carved out of two rooms that once housed young military students. I suppose I could afford something more sleek and modern, but you can’t get any more convenient than living above your office and being able to walk to nearly every kind of shopping. The park across the street even boasts a gazebo where concerts are presented on a regular basis—everything from band classics to jazz and folk. To hear the music, I only have to open my window.

  So why should I live in some fancy condo? I wasn’t here half the time any way.

  Damn! I winced, snuggled down and hugged my pillow, wishing it were Flint. How could I lie here, smugly contented, when last night’s date had gone so far south my first chore after coffee was a drive to the South County Sheriff’s Office? Not the way to spend Sunday morning. Not even in the same ballpark with the personal fantasies I’d had about this weekend, with last night maybe stretching . . .

  Ugh. I threw back the covers and stalked into the living room, slamming the thermostat down to seventy-five on my way to my kitchenette and the coffee pot. You’ve heard of a one-butt kitchen? Well, believe me, that’s what I’ve got.

  But so what? My bed is huge.

  I couldn’t stay grumpy. Last night’s better memories had me back to a purr before the coffee was ready. But the feel of Viktor’s soggy beard against my arm kept intruding, the pull of a weight so massive that even the salty gulf had trouble su
pporting it, let alone a Fantascapes troubleshooter a hundred and fifty pounds lighter.

  Think Flint. Hot bod. Slow grin.

  Next time. Oh, yeah!

  The Lexus ate up the road on the way south. My blood sang. Over the drawbridge and down the Trail to the Sheriff’s office we go. It was a good day to be silly. I breezed into the Sheriff’s Department and gave my statement. The detective, a solid cop of middle years, had been at Marybeth’s and Jake’s wedding, so I managed to get the scoop on the remainder of last night. It wasn’t much. No body. No gun, no knife, no package. All they’d found was Viktor’s wallet, stuffed with one hundred dollar bills, giving ample motive for an attempted mugging. But thanks for coming in, I was told. Since neither the Russian nor I could provide a description of the mugger, catching him was highly unlikely. So Kirichenko had been sent on his way with an admonition not to carry around so much cash, and that was pretty much that.

  Why was I not convinced? But it was good to know Viktor was well-heeled. If he wanted four interlocking Fabergé eggs that opened like pages of a book, he was going to need every cent.

  As I drove back toward the center of town, I wondered what Mom would serve for supper. Sunday night at the Halliday House, our home in the woods, is a tradition, though it often resembled a board meeting more than a family get-together. How could it not when we were a family business? Come hell or high water, we all dined together on Sunday night. Doug even made it down from Orlando about once a month.

  I stood on my brakes as a Cadillac cut me off, darting from the lane on my right to a left-turn lane into a shopping center. I gritted my teeth, reminding myself this was Florida in the Season when at least a third of the drivers on the road had no concept where they were or how to get where they wanted to be. Good old Route 41, the Tamiami Trail. Most people think Tamiami is a name left behind by the Calusas or borrowed from the Seminoles. I’ll let you in on a secret—it’s short for Tampa to Miami, the cities at each end of the Trail.