“ ’Long as you don’t get involved with my work,” I cautioned.
“No worries there. This Argo’s thing of yours is kind of vapit.” Spud turned his attention to the sports section.
“You mean vapid,” Fran said. “That was one of last Tuesday’s words.”
“Whatever,” Spud said. “It ain’t one of Jersey’s more interesting assignments.”
The house phone rang, and Fran got to it before anyone else had a chance. Apparently, she’d made herself at home. “It’s Ox,” she mouthed to us before launching into a detailed conversation about life in the Jersey and Spud household. “Okay, sweetie, hold a sec. She’s right here.”
Fran smashed the handset into her stomach in lieu of pressing the mute button. “It’s Ox,” she yelled, as though I were in the next apartment instead of five feet away. “That man is pining away for you, don’t you know. And you’re not in such great shape yourself. Anybody who bothered to take a look-see couldn’t miss the sparks flying between the two of you before he left.” Fran stopped to throw back a swallow of coffee. “I’ll tell you this much. If I was younger and more limber, I’d be all over him myself!”
“Not if you had a taste of me first, back when I was younger and more limber,” Spud says.
“Good grief. Just give me the phone.” I pulled the handset from Fran’s grip and headed outside to the privacy of a balcony off the kitchen. Fran and Trish didn’t bother to hide the fact that they planned to watch me through the glass doors. At least they couldn’t hear.
“Hello?”
“I see things are just as entertaining around there as usual.” The sound of Ox’s voice was a shot of warm brandy to my insides.
“You heard all that?”
He chuckled, and the sound seemed to come from mere feet away instead of Bristol, Connecticut. “I miss you, Barnes.”
“I miss you, too.” The understatement of the month. “A lot.”
“Five more weeks.” The sentence conjured up all sorts of reunion images, and most of them didn’t involve clothes. Now that we’d finally slept together, I couldn’t quit thinking about him.
“How’s everything been going?” he asked.
The Block was plugging along as usual, with only a few minor glitches, and I told him everything, right down to the contents of the latest mail delivery and the repair of three fluorescent overheads, broken by a couple of drunk sports fans who were tossing a football. I brought him up-to-date on the situation with the judge and Argo’s and Morgan. Listening, Ox was so quiet, I thought we’d lost the connection. When I finished, he filled me in on Lindsey’s classes, face time with the camera, and Chuck’s Steakhouse, Lindsey’s newest favorite restaurant that was built inside an old barn.
Last year, Ox’s daughter, Lindsey, got her mother’s okay to move from California to live with Ox in Wilmington. I’m five eight, and the girl is taller than me, even after I’ve strapped on my most salacious high heels. Her features are her father’s: mesmerizing cinnamon eye color, smooth olive golden skin, thick hair, and a wide smile. She has earned a nice chunk of college money by modeling, but her plan is to be a television sports announcer. She entered a contest to earn a six-week work-study program sponsored by ESPN and managed to win an all-expense-paid experience of a lifetime. There were only two stipulations. Her high school had to allow her to attend classes virtually, with the use of a tutor, and submit assignments via e-mail. The principal of New Hanover High quickly agreed, since Lindsey is one of his star students. The second stipulation of Lindsey’s participation mandated that a parent or guardian accompany the teen. Ox didn’t hesitate. Six weeks of concentrated time with his daughter was irresistible. Selfishly, I almost wished that Lindsey’s mother were the parent to take her to ESPN’s headquarters. Ox and I had just begun to explore our relationship on a level other than best friends and business partners. And then he was gone. Handling his normal duties running the Block was the easy part. Not having him in the same physical vicinity was proving much more difficult.
Through the glass, I watched the activity in my kitchen. Picking at yet another cinnamon roll, Trish read the paper. Fran was feeding Spud. Cracker paced among the humans, drool hanging from one side of his mouth. Fran finally gave the dog a morsel of banana and winked at me through the glass separating us. She pantomimed something that was supposed to mean my heart beating fast. Spud slapped her on the butt, lost his balance, and nearly fell off his chair from the effort. I rolled my eyes and looked out over the river, away from the romantic doddering in my kitchen.
“Lindsey just walked in,” Ox said. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Hiya, Jerz! How’s everything hangin’? Bristol is totally rad—it’s amazing here.” Her words rushed together. “All the stuff I’m learning is incredible. And get this—they’re going to let me do a real live segment on SportsCenter at the end of the academy program! I’m totally stoked.”
Before I could respond, the girl’s attention had been snagged by something else. “Later, Jerz. Gotta run. Love you!”
Ox came back on the line. “If that girl were in charge of a board meeting, it would be over before the coffee was served and everyone would know exactly what their plan of action was.”
He and I had been apart for only a week and there wasn’t much more to say, but I wasn’t ready to hang up.
“It’s not the same around here without you,” I said. It was almost more intimate talking with Ox when there were several hundred miles separating us. Sort of easier, anyway.
His voice came out throaty, deep. “We need to talk when I get back, Jersey. You know that my life revolves around two women and one of them is you. Question is, how far are we willing to go with this thing?”
Was he talking marriage? Living together? Or something else? I thought about pushing the issue to get an idea of what was on his mind.
“I’ve got to go,” was what emerged from my mouth. “Talk soon?”
“Sure.”
I hung up, my emotions a braid of anticipation and uncertainty, and went inside just in time to see Fran—brandishing a rolled-up dish towel—chase Spud into his bedroom. And the word chase didn’t equate with moving fast. You figure it out.
FOUR
Morgan knew his sister just wanted to help, but he couldn’t believe that she’d gone so far as to employ an investigator. He wasn’t exactly sure what Jersey Barnes did for a living, but regardless, his problems were none of the woman’s business. For starters, he didn’t know what he’d gotten involved in. How could he possibly ask for help when he wasn’t sure what he needed help with? On top of that, he’d begun to question his late father’s business ethics. Did Morgan really want his sister to learn that their father had been a pervert? A voyeur who apparently got his kicks by eavesdropping on unsuspecting diners?
Morgan wasn’t sure if the tiny office in the back of Argo’s kitchen was warm or not, but the cotton shirt he’d carefully ironed was now plastered to his skin. Corner-mounted on the wall in front of him, a security monitor could display six squares of simultaneous action. The discreet cameras were installed not only for the safety of the patrons, the chef had explained to Morgan, but also to ensure top-notch service. Of course, things were quiet right now since Argo’s was closed. During operating hours, though, he could see when a celebrity entered with entourage in tow, allowing him to greet the party and seat them personally. He could monitor activity in the kitchen—or the back of the house, as food service lingo dictated—and at the same time, he had an overhead view of the dining room. Another camera was trained on Argo’s cozy bar, and an outdoor camera enabled him to survey the parking lot. Upon discovering the system, Morgan had thought it odd for a restaurant. A department store or liquor store, maybe, but not a fine dining establishment. He had voiced his observation to Deanna, the head server, who’d assured her new boss that video surveillance was commonplace everywhere from car dealerships to coffee shops.
Morgan humored Deanna’s enthusiastic explanation, even though he f
ound many practices at Argo’s to be peculiar. Especially the fact that nobody other than his father was allowed in the small office where he now sat. When first touring his newly inherited business, Morgan had learned that his father had possessed the only key to the room. He’d found it on his father’s key chain, along with house and car keys. That was more than a month ago, and the eight-foot-square office—tucked into a corner off the kitchen like a storage closet—remained unchanged: computer, telephone, two filing cabinets, spin-dial safe, and loads of clutter. The walls were bare, except for the flat-screen monitor and a single framed photograph. In eight-by-ten, his mother and father laughed about something—genuine expressions that couldn’t have been posed. His father’s dark skin stood in stark contrast with his mother’s cream-colored complexion, their cheeks touching, their eyes focused directly on the camera lens. The picture had been taken recently at his parents’ house. Probably just before his mother died. He was reminded again of the fact that he was alone in a confusing world. He’d had big plans for a wife and family, but Maria dumped him. Now he had no one. No fiancée. And no parents.
The space behind his eyes flashed hot, and Morgan ignored the pressure of forming tears. He still couldn’t comprehend the fact that his mother was gone, just like that, in an instant. The heart attack happened a year ago, but her death seemed like yesterday, when Morgan allowed himself to think about it. She’d been too young to have a heart attack. Too vibrant. Too healthy. Yet her heart muscle had suddenly stopped beating just the same. The experience must have desensitized him, Morgan knew, because when he’d learned of his father’s death, he’d felt nothing. A little sad that the overbearing man never came to love and accept Morgan for who he was. But that was it. A hint of sadness was all he felt. Until he’d found the strange earpiece plugged into a small blue box next to the computer.
The other side of the box held a thin cable that climbed the corner of the wall and disappeared into the ceiling. Morgan had bought an all-purpose ladder and, working early the following morning, moved a string of black ceiling tiles to trace the cable. It stopped above a single table—the Green Table—where it plugged into a battery-operated wireless receiver. The receiver had obviously been installed to acquire an incoming signal from somewhere. Morgan had scoured the famous table, the chairs, the plants, and the artwork on the walls, to find nothing. Perplexed, he’d let himself into Argo’s at six the next morning and searched every single table, chair, and booth in the place. He’d examined the hostess stand, restrooms, bar, and foyer. No listening devices. The third morning, he’d returned to the Green Table, sat down with a cup of coffee, and found it.
The ornate table’s center held a metal sculpture of a wine goblet and grape clusters encircled by five tea candle holders woven through copper-fashioned grapevines. One of the busboy’s duties was to replace the burnt candles with fresh ones after each group finished their meal. The server would light the tea candles upon greeting the next customers. The sculpture was about ten inches high and a foot in diameter, perfect for the table’s centerpiece. Morgan had picked up the hunk of metal out of simple curiosity, to see if it contained an artist’s signature mark on the bottom. He hadn’t been able to determine if the piece was an original sculpture or a cheap trinket, but he had found a hole drilled beneath a grape cluster. The black microphone blended right in.
Morgan had reassembled the centerpiece, replaced the candles, and decided to test the apparatus the next day. Once again, he’d awakened early and headed to the restaurant, this time clutching his bedside alarm clock radio. He had put it on the Green Table and tuned it to the first radio station he’d found. Back in his tiny office, he’d inserted the earbud and fiddled with dials on the blue box until a DJ’s voice filled his ear. The words were distinct and clear. Morgan had listened to a string of commercials, two country songs, and the traffic report before he’d retrieved his alarm clock radio. So his father—the big, successful, charismatic Garland whom everyone loved—had been into eavesdropping. The deviant.
As early as grade school, teachers had reported to Morgan’s parents that their son didn’t interact with the other kids. A few suggested a class for “special children.” He had remained in regular classes and, surprising the teachers, hadn’t been teased or bullied as he’d worked his way through the grades. Other students simply ignored him. The older Morgan grew, the more agitated Garland became with his son’s demeanor, which the elder man perceived as a lack of ambition. Luckily, Morgan’s withdrawn behavior was more acceptable in a college environment, and he’d managed to make a few friends in his dorm.
Now, as a forty-four-year-old adult, Morgan had to force himself to smile and nod at customers in the restaurant. Mingling wasn’t his thing. He never knew what to say. But at least he didn’t get off on listening to private conversations, like his father must have been doing. After all, the Green Table was where everyone who was any-one sat. A nationally read food critic declared the table to be the absolute best table in the Carolinas. Not the food, but the table.
Had his father listened to kinky foreplay suggestions between seemingly dignified socialites or taken notes on confidential business dealings among high-powered stockbrokers? And how long had the table been bugged? Had his mother been aware of it before she died? She used to work at Argo’s, helping to greet and seat customers. Surely she’d been allowed to enter Garland’s private office.
Morgan had planned to dismantle the listening device right away, before anybody else had a chance to learn what Garland had been up to. His first order of business, though, was to finish poring through all the file folders loaded with suppliers, invoices, recipes, employee information, and miscellaneous correspondence. And find a safecracker. Morgan had already tried the usual birthdays and anniversary dates. He’d searched the desk drawers and computer’s contacts database for the combination. He and his sister had gone through all the personal documents and belongings in the house and found nothing that resembled a numerical combination. Argo’s had another safe—one where money and deposits were kept—but at least three people had the combination to that one. At worst, Morgan thought, the second safe might hold his father’s porn collection. At best, it would contain answers.
A delivery truck appeared on the monitor, snapping Morgan out of his fog. He’d come in early to get rid of the Green Table’s microphone apparatus. But now, it was already noon. Had he really been sitting at his desk like a zombie for three hours? Apparently so. Deliveries were arriving. Prep chefs would appear next. Soon, the phone would start ringing. He’d wasted so much time that now he couldn’t chance removing the microphone and receiver. Tomorrow would bring another chance. Morgan decided to go home as soon as the head chef arrived. He was exhausted. Dealing with his father’s estate, taking over the restaurant, and being ruthlessly dumped by his fiancée had messed with his head so much that he’d turned into an insomniac. Not to mention that strange happenings were pricking him like metal shavings flying at a giant magnet. He knew his apartment had been searched, even though he’d played dumb with the Jersey Barnes woman. His car had, too. He didn’t bother to lock his car doors because he never left valuables inside. And who would want to steal a run-down Ford sedan? Twice, though, Morgan had sensed that somebody had been in his car. Once he’d caught the distinct smell of cigar smoke. A few days later, he’d found a packet of tissues on the floorboard. They’d obviously fallen from the glove compartment, but Morgan hadn’t opened the compartment for days.
He stood on shaky legs that were numb from sitting too long and went to accept the produce delivery. As he checked off a box of artichokes against the invoice while a route driver waited, it occurred to him that in addition to eavesdropping, his father might have recorded conversations. Was Garland into blackmail? If so, did one of his father’s targets think that Morgan now possessed the dirt on them? The theory didn’t make sense, Morgan told himself as he felt avocados to make sure they weren’t overly ripe. He’d searched the office and found no tapes or rec
ording equipment. And why would his father try to blackmail somebody? The man had been wealthy.
Morgan finished checking in the delivery and thanked the driver. Turning around, he almost lost his balance when a wave of vertigo caused his brain to think he was falling. That happened when he got stressed out. The vertigo. College exams used to bring it on. First dates. And family gatherings. His inner ears were wreaking havoc with him lately, and he’d felt off-kilter since moving to the East Coast. Morgan wanted to get drunk. Then he’d have to sleep. Or at least get some rest while he was passed out.
Ten minutes later, two employees arrived. Morgan told them he’d be out for the day and headed home. He bought a bottle of vodka and a pint of orange juice on the way and, on impulse, stopped at a convenience store for a cup of ice. He downed an entire drink sitting in the parking space and poured a second to summon up courage. Before putting the car in gear, he dialed his ex’s phone number. Maria was still in town, as far as he knew. Maybe she’d come to her senses. Maybe she would move back in with him.
“Why are you calling, Morgan?” she answered.
“I just want to talk,” he lied. He wanted to see Maria. To be with her and run his fingers through her hair and inhale the floral scent of her perfume.
“I’m busy.”
She didn’t sound busy to him. “Doing what?”
“Shopping for a dress, if you must know. Anyway, it’s none of your business.”
When had she suddenly turned into such a bitch? He poured another splash of vodka into his cup and gulped. He rarely drank anything more than a glass of wine in a single sitting, and the strong taste made his eyes burn. A cash register sounded through the telephone. So she really was shopping. “You’re my fiancée, Maria. I love you. I need to understand what happened to us.”
“I am not your fiancée anymore, Morgan. If you want the ring back, fine. Although I was going to have it made into a nice drop, to remember you by.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 3