by Ritter Ames
"Precisely why I didn't. I couldn't predict where our path may lead last night, nor how long we might have been held up at various places, and I didn't want the poor chap bored out of his skull."
Yeah, with satellite television and radio in the vehicle and personal phones that can do practically everything short of time travel. Jack may not have been able to recognize my evasions, but I had become a pro at spotting his attempts at same. No matter.
"Next time?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Definitely." He nodded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nico was obviously following the GPS signal on my phone, because he was at the curb and waiting when we pulled up. It didn't take much coaxing to get Jack to hand me off to my associate and go investigate on his own. I think Mr. Hawkes had already had enough of me for the day, and I can't say I didn't return the feeling.
My right-hand geek was dressed in summer-weight Armani and looking good enough to eat. "Nico, I swear I'm going to lose you today to one of the gallerinas."
His beautifully sculpted black brows rose closer to his curly hairline. "If it does not happen, I will feel I have wasted my time coming today."
Hand to my heart, I said, "I feel slighted."
He snorted. "Until the first of your many admirers comes up to reacquaint themselves with the beautiful and talented Laurel Beacham."
"Thank you for mentioning beautiful, but only you know my true talents."
"Not all your talents." His smile was nothing short of a leer and made me laugh. Oh how I'd missed his humor in the past week.
He already wore a pass around his neck and pulled another from his pocket. "They were in the file, exactly as you told Cassie," Nico said, draping my pass on its gold lanyard over my head. "I also have this for you to carry with you at all times." He handed me a flat packet, deceptively lighter than its appearance implied.
"What is it?" In that weird way crowds develop, we were suddenly surrounded by people, and I felt almost claustrophobic.
"Your personal escape hatch. Keep it in your purse," Nico said. "We will talk about it later."
"Okay." My curiosity was aroused, but I knew better than to open something when Nico said to wait. I pointed toward the gallery. "I need to use the restroom for a second. Why don't you circulate, and I'll find you in the tents."
He nodded, then moved to join the surging crowd, his dark curls disappearing into the throng.
It was quick work to make my face once more presentable. The patch up I did in the car had been enough to cover. Having a few moments alone in the ladies' room not only helped my appearance but boosted my self-confidence too. Long ago, I'd recognized the value of stealing a few minutes alone to simply breathe, and this day was no exception. However, all good things come to an end, and when Melanie stepped through the door, I realized it was my cue to depart.
"He's out of your league. You know that, don't you?"
My hand was on the pull bar. I was almost out the door. I told myself, Leave, don't look back. Then my mouth started moving, and I turned to face her. "Melanie, I don't take anyone's leftovers, least of all yours. If you think you have any chance with him, go for it. But I honestly believe he has better taste."
She raised her throwing arm as I ducked out the door. An instant later I heard her lipstick case shatter when it hit the tiled wall where I'd been standing.
In the tents and enclosures, we could hear the wind, but Mother Nature wasn't slowing down this party. Champagne and caviar flowed like water, and I grabbed a mimosa from a circulating waiter. The glass was simply a prop. I needed to keep a clear head today to see what I could learn about Tina's death and where the snuffbox may now have traveled.
"Have you seen the event planner?" I asked one of the gallery employees circulating among the guests.
The woman, whose name tag read Kendall, pointed to a glassed-in corner at the top of the Browning. "Last I saw of her, she was heading for the top of the building. There is a little set of corner offices where she can keep a birds-eye view on things as she makes phone calls and fields questions. You might check there."
Overnight, the courtyard had been covered with a high dome top to protect the artwork from the direct effects of the sun. This was the New Artists area, and I would be back to check things out, especially since crews were pumping in cool air via several strategically placed portable AC units. The now probable storm was making the day sticky already, though it wasn't even noon.
As I again approached the Browning's front door, I turned to scan the crowd on the off chance I would see Jack or Nico. Neither man came into view, but as the old saying goes, "A good time was had by all," or at least the event was in the process of getting that appellation. Beautiful people were laughing, mingling, talking, and drinking as well as eating. Inside, a small band played a mix of chamber and Latino music in the main lobby, the sound faint but pleasing.
I waved away another waiter, this time sporting some kind of artichoke heart hors d'oeuvres, and pushed through the crowd to the Deco railed staircase. Everything on the ground floor was new art, some by established contemporary artists and a good number by new fledglings who had somehow come up with the entrance fee, and still more who had been asked to participate. None of this was going to get me any answers about my friend's death or a seventeenth-century snuffbox, so it wasn't worth my time unless new information surfaced. I hoped Jack was making progress in our joint mission, because I'd pretty much put all thought of it aside as my plans shifted toward coordinating horizons that included this new murder.
The stairs were covered in a custom runner, unpadded to keep people from tripping. The pattern of the carpet was that of lush flowers and vines, blending well with the Deco motif of the building. However, I wondered at how the Browning justified the cost of this kind of extravagance. I didn't have to see the backing to know the exquisite rug was handmade. It might be worth Cassie's time to do a little checking on the Browning's finances and donors. Can never be too careful or too well informed.
I didn't plan to storm the castle, so to speak, but moved ever upward in a casual yet efficient manner. The second floor housed the beginning of the Browning's art collection, and the works stretched to the fourth floor as well. The elevator was going to get a workout that day. At the point of rounding the curve in the staircase, I glanced over to the queue for the single elevator, a device as slow as any utilized in this type of setting, and figured the wait at the end was probably now past two in the afternoon.
The fourth floor also held an artist's studio, soundproofed, of course. This was the space I had planned to check out yesterday, but a certain set of car thieves thwarted those good intentions. I made a pretense of interest now, but only to lend credence to my seeming exploratory jaunt before I headed for my true destination on the top floor. Instead, a woman in a severe black suit with a cell phone to her ear nearly bowled me down on the stairs. The phone flew out of her hand and arced over the railing, executing a nosedive before exploding into a handful of pieces as it hit the parquet floor.
"Damn!" The woman moved past me to recover the plastic and electronic pieces. I recognized her as the person who had signaled Tina when we'd left the tent the day before, and assumed I'd found my quarry.
"You're the event planner, right?" I walked back down to the fourth floor.
She gave me a weary nod and a wary look, most likely over her limit on complaints and problems already.
I offered my practiced handshake. "Laurel Beacham, of the Beacham Foundation."
"You're based in New York." The Brooklyn accent was still strong in her voice, so I knew she was either commuting in her business endeavors or was a recent transplant to the Florida sun. The basic black business outfit she wore put an even stronger point on my assumption.
"Well, I'm based in the London office." I stooped to retrieve a small square piece that probably covered the back of her phone. She scrambled to pick up the rest of the scattered parts. "But I've been in Orlando and wanted to stop into
the event today while I was in the neighborhood, so to speak. You've truly done an outstanding job."
The woman smiled and suddenly showed her vulnerability. "I'm Alice Lawson. I can get you a card—"
I had already pulled one of mine from the Fendi and offered it to her. "You can mail one to me here. Or e-mail me a JPEG file. I'll forward it along to the events planner in the New York office."
"Oh, I will." She unceremoniously shoved the pieces of her phone into a too-small pocket in her skirt, making the fabric bulge. I handed over my small contribution.
She thanked me, and I moved on to what I really wanted to ask her. "I was here yesterday in the late afternoon and ran into a friend of mine. Tina Schroeder. She said she worked for you, but I haven't been able to find her today. She was going to meet me earlier about an item she was passing along from a friend. Do you have any idea where I could find her?"
Alice's face turned as pale as the marble statue on the floor behind her. She stuttered, "No…n-no…Tina…Tina failed to show this morning. Probably got bored." She attempted to laugh, but the effort came off as lacking. "You know how she is."
Now the big question, what made her so nervous? The fact she thought she was hiding Tina's death from me? Or because I'd said the girl was bringing something to give to me today, before she was murdered? I probably shouldn't have taken the risk of saying that last bit, but I'd wanted to see what it got me. I figured this was the kind of thing Jack had been warning about earlier.
I waved a hand. "Oh, no matter. It was just a perfume sample a friend wanted me to try. Starting a new business and trying to beat the bushes for customers, and friends are the first asked to try the new scent."
Alice seemed to relax a fraction, and she faked a little laugh as she said, "Yes, we all have those kinds of friends. Don't we?" But her dark eyes still held a hard look.
"Isn't that the truth?" I put a hand on her forearm to imply solidarity. "You've saved me looking all over for nothing. I'm sure you need to get back to work."
"Nice meeting you."
"You too. And remember to send me your business card." I smiled one last time at her, then quickly made my way back down the stairs. The third floor was full of experimental art, my least favorite, so I headed to the second floor, drawn to the area featuring Sebastian, an artist who'd been well established for the past fifty years. It was rumored he still lived somewhere in Italy, but no one had seen him for decades. A few people quietly walked and talked in the area, but most on the floor stayed engaged with the art. There was nothing second class about this gallery.
The oversized landscape of a Tuscany vineyard was exquisite. Done in oils, the work reminded me why I'd gotten into this business. Daydreaming over a picture had been my modus operandi as far back as I remembered. For that fragile second, I was lost in the Tuscan countryside, searching for the elusive Sebastian. A voice near my right ear startled me.
"Does it speak to your heart?" said Anthony Berintino, otherwise known as Tony B. He stood too closely behind me and was clad in confidence and a thousand-dollar Italian suit. He was such a stereotypical hood, I didn't know whether he had no imagination or actually set the bar for every other low-thinking thug with visions of grandeur. Long suspected of being connected to some of the "families" and the acting front man for a dozen corporations, Tony B had never been convicted of or even charged with anything in the twenty or more years his name had been active.
Slick, cool, with a powerful physique and a smile that dropped women at thirty paces—and there had been plenty of those over the years—I knew he was always in evidence at Browning celebrations. I'd also noticed him and Melanie with their heads together when I was checking out the line to the elevator, so I figured nothing had changed recently. The man was one of the reasons my grandfather had started disengaging himself from the Browning right before he died.
In his early forties, Tony B's confidence matched his physique, and I knew he was building a reputation few people discussed. And as long as no one discussed it, he felt free to increase his influence through monetary gifts and celebrity attendance at events such as this one.
Looking past Tony B's shoulder, I saw his too-thin, too-blonde wife of fifteen years also present and holding court nearby, but as usual they worked the room separately. I had run into both him and his long-suffering bitch of a spouse many times over the past few years, usually at only the most prestigious events. I had even sat next to him at one of the less prestigious, and ultimately more infamous, parties held on a private yacht anchored on the Strait of Gibraltar. We'd had to stop our host from diving headfirst into the dangerous waters because he'd had too much to drink. He had "wanted to swim naked with the fishies." As I recalled, Tony B had been the one most often getting the poor man refills.
"Tony B, it's lovely to see you." He moved in for a hug, but I stepped back and offered a hand.
"You look terrific, Laurel, but fawn really is too understated a color for you. Think about a bright red or a peacock-blue next time."
Now I'm getting fashion tips from a thug. Great. "Thank you so much for noticing. I've been at a bit of a disadvantage with limited luggage this trip."
He smirked, then pointed toward the painting I'd been studying. "I see you like Sebastian."
I turned and pulled the Fendi closer as I processed possible options to get away from him. "Yes. I love his work and the legend behind his life story."
"Ahhh, women and their romance." He leaned closer. "I have a couple of Sebastians of my own. In my office. I'd love to show them to you."
Come up and see my etchings, little girl. Okay, maybe not, but that's how his offer made me feel. Regardless, I'm nothing if not diplomatic. "Gee, I'd love to, Tony B, but I'm only here for part of the day. Just breezing through to add a little Beacham interest to the celebration."
"Really? That's funny, because I heard something different. My mistake."
Yeah, there was the warning shiver again. So who tipped Tony B off about me? Melanie or Alice? And why? Did he have anything to do with Tina's murder? I could have asked if he'd seen Simon lately, since I knew they were acquainted in the past, but common sense told me to get out of there fast. "Well, it was good seeing you, Tony B. And thanks again for thinking of me." I excused myself and headed back to the lobby level to regroup. The man was never a person to be trusted, but something about the way he said what he had made me doubly uncomfortable.
I texted Jack and Nico and asked them to meet me outside the ladies' room. While I waited inside, I rummaged through the Fendi for Cassie's Hermes scarf. I still loved the suit, and would always take Margarite's clothing suggestions over Tony B's, but this was a festive event, and a little extra color couldn't hurt. I did a quick twist maneuver with the scarf and connected the ends in a loose knot. The golds and burnished brown in the Hermes were a perfect complement to both my hair and the linen suit.
In a couple of minutes, an old-money matron wearing blue silk and dripping diamonds pushed open the door and asked, "Are you Laurel Beacham?"
"Yes."
"Well, there are two nice gentlemen out here who asked me to see if you would please come out."
"Thank you." As I pushed past her, she entered the restroom. I scanned the hallway, looking for either of the guys, but was instead grabbed by each arm and muscled farther down the hall and away from the crowd in the lobby.
I twisted to try breaking free, but their holds only tightened. "Wait a minut—" And that's when the goon on my right lifted the portion of the Hermes that lay across my bodice and pushed it into my mouth.
"Keep quiet, and everything will be fine."
Obviously the diamond-clad matron didn't know a gentleman when she saw one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We exited the building at the loading dock, where a big black Mercedes sat idling. Next thing I knew, one of them grabbed my Fendi and pawed through it until he found my cell phone. He took the phone, dropped it to the pavement, and smashed it with his size thirteen shoe. I
couldn't scream, so I wiggled and fought. I was not getting into that car without a struggle. My heel ground into the instep of the goon holding my right arm. But my self-defense move didn't matter. They shoved me and my purse into the trunk and slammed down the lid.
Okay, no phone, trapped in the dark in what felt like a mobster's car, and Jack and Nico had no idea where I'd gone. Hell, I didn't even know where I was going. Or why. Or who had the balls to kidnap me in broad daylight. This couldn't be good.
I wasted a few moments looking for the trunk latch release cable only to find it had been disabled. While that area in the Mercedes was good sized, it isn't surprising I quickly felt a bit cramped and claustrophobic.
Nonetheless, I counted myself lucky I was awake and all in one piece so far. As I quantified the situation, I did take the opportunity to not only remove the scarf from my mouth but to take it off my neck as well. Call me paranoid, but all of Jack's talk that morning, chastising me for continually putting myself into harm's way, was hitting home. I couldn't take credit for this current predicament though, as I had little choice but to move with the Danger Twins.
I squeezed the slippery fabric, telling myself being proactive was better than nothing. After all, having something knotted around my neck left me vulnerable for an easy throttling. Conversely, holding the fabric in my own hand meant I had my own silky noose ready if a chance defensive move presented itself. The fabric might be beautiful and softly elegant, but I knew from experience that silk was deceptively strong, like my own backbone, and I intended to use both if pressed into another corner.
The car took enough short-block turns to hinder my keeping a running tally in my head. Besides, I didn't know Miami well enough for it to matter anyway. When the engine went silent about twenty minutes later, I had no idea where we might be. I just hoped it wasn't some dead-end road near a cemetery.
The more gracious goon, the one who only shoved my scarf in my mouth, opened the trunk lid and grunted in a way I interpreted to mean "Get out."