6 Martini Regrets

by Phyllis Smallman

  He picked his cell up off the table. “Shall I dial 911 now, or do you expect to do me more damage before we leave?”

  “Best to hold off on that.” I pivoted on the toe of my impossibly high heels that had cost a week’s tips and showed him the back of the dress, or lack of it in this case. The back plunged to the crack of my ass in a gentle drape of silk. I turned halfway back and gave him a smile over my mostly bare shoulder.

  “I see what you mean.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Lady, wearing that, you can do damage coming and going.”

  “Never mind the damage this did to my bank account. Why does free stuff always end up costing us a bomb?”

  Clay was looking pretty fine himself. With his black eyes and sculpted jaw, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine advertisement for an expensive men’s cologne.

  “Are you”—Clay made lazy circles with his hand and searched for words—“wearing anything under that”—he coughed—“dress?”

  I picked up my silver purse with the jeweled martini glass on the side. “Well, that’s a little mystery to be solved later.”

  Behind Clay, through the uncurtained window, I saw the limo make a wide turn and pull into the driveway. How strange that extravagant car looked in this subdivision of lost hopes.

  Inside the limo, light indistinct music played in the background, the kind of music you wouldn’t recognize if you ever heard it again, a melody meant to soothe and relax. While we settled ourselves, the chauffeur unwrapped the foil from a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. Ethan had thought of everything.

  We eased out onto the street. No one lived in the stucco houses on either side of us to be impressed by our luxury. Slowly, silently, we passed through the empty streets of tract housing, where vacant lots stood out like missing teeth on a homeless person. I turned away from the depressing sight and said, “I’m going to enjoy this night.”

  Clay lifted his glass in a salute. “To the future and our brilliant new life. All our bad times are in the past.”

  I grinned and clicked my champagne flute against Clay’s. “Eat, drink and be merry because someone else is paying.” I sipped my champagne before I asked, “Did you give Ethan our address?”

  Clay froze, and then he set his glass down on the small pop-up table by the door. “No, I didn’t.”

  “So how do you suppose he knew where to send the limo?”

  Clay’s eyes locked on mine. “You tell me.”

  “Ethan’s a suspicious sort of man . . . and very rich. Maybe he just wanted to know more about us before he got too friendly.” I saluted Clay with my glass. “I guess we know who’s been asking questions.”

  “Maybe,” he said, unconvinced. “But there’s also Sasha.”

  If Ethan was making inquiries, okay, but the thought of Sasha sniffing around scared me silly. “Why would he go around asking questions?”

  Clay’s expression grew grim. “The same reason as Ethan: your business card tying you to the scene.”

  “Shit.” I looked out the window so Clay couldn’t see my face.

  Clay said, “Maybe they were only checking out if they could trust me enough to do business with me. If either of them had asked, I would have given them lots of referrals.”

  His faith in his contacts was touching and a little naïve. “I don’t think they’re looking for references, nor are they Chamber of Commerce sort of guys.”

  Clay considered that for a moment. “So, just what sort of men are we dealing with?”

  My eyes found his. “The kind who cut corners and expect others to do the same.”

  “Ah,” Clay said. “Know your enemies.”

  “Know your friends, but know your enemies better,” I said, and then I lifted my glass.

  Locked safely in the back of the limo, we shared our dreams. There were so many things about our lives together we’d never discussed, and suddenly we both wanted to rush at them and make decisions, building our castle in the sky and planning for a future full of dazzling, exhilarating things. There’s nothing like a limo and endless champagne for making future plans in an ideal world where you’re in control of your destiny. The world slipped by while we conspired and dreamed of pleasures yet to come.

  The Tamiami Trail runs from Tampa down through Sarasota, along the west coast past Fort Myers to Naples and from there across the Everglades to Miami. The Tamiami is the lifeline of the coast and traveling on it now in this luxurious car somehow felt like a weird continuance of that journey I’d begun down in Miami.

  Sixty miles south of Tampa, Sarasota sits astride the Tamiami Trail. A jewel of a city, overlooking Sarasota Bay and a group of barrier islands stretching along the west coast, its bay frontage has been turned into parklands and marinas, and its white sand beaches are among the best in the world.

  Outside the limo was a world of luxury. Beyond a row of tall palms a windsurfer sped across the gulf. The red-and-white stripe of the sail made it look like a toy. Sipping champagne, we sped silently by a sculpture that looked like a crane had dropped a pile of I-beams that were leaning together to keep from falling down and then past a twenty-foot-tall sailor kissing a nurse. Tourists turned to look as the limo drove by. When the limo made a right onto a long drive bordered by tall waving palms, I readjusted the silk over my shoulders and said, “We’re going to the Ritz-Carlton. Why is Ethan staying at the Ritz?”

  “No idea.” And then Clay added, “And don’t you ask him. It’s none of our business.” Clay somehow had the idea that I was overly curious and not always tactful. I had no idea where it came from, and I couldn’t disabuse him of the notion.

  I leaned forward to get a better view out the window. “When I die, I don’t want to go to heaven.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Clay said. “You won’t be disappointed then.”

  “I don’t want to go to heaven because I want to go to a Ritz-Carlton Hotel forever and ever, amen. There ain’t nothing like it.”

  “When did you stay at the Ritz?” Skepticism was thick in his voice.

  “My wedding night. Want to hear about it?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  I made a face at him and drawled, “You never want to hear my best stories, and you don’t like it when I . . .” I didn’t finish because we were at the front door of the hotel and the doorman was opening it for Ethan to come out. Ethan was followed by a bellman carrying an armload of gold bags.

  “How did he do that?” I asked. “Come out the door right when the car pulled up?”

  “I suspect it involves something called a cell phone rather than magic,” Clay said. “But you’ll enjoy the idea of supernatural abilities much more than reality.”

  Behind us the trunk opened. I turned to watch the chauffeur hurry to the back of the car. “Reality is for people who lack imagination.”

  Clay laughed. “In that case, you never have to worry about the real world.”

  After the packages were safely stored, the chauffeur opened the door for Ethan. When it had closed silently behind Ethan our driver went to the front of the car and placed a white flag, bearing a scarlet orchid, on the right fender.

  Ethan saw me watching the chauffeur and said, “The flag on the car is to tell the man on the gates that we’re on the guest list for a very exclusive party before the ball.”

  I clapped my hands. “A party before the ball; you are so talking my language.”

  We swept out of the Ritz turnaround, the orchid flag flying, and I said, “Let the games begin.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Ethan put his champagne flute down on the tiny polished table beside him and took two packages out of the gold shopping bag at his feet. Wrapped in shiny gold-and-silver paper and tied with metallic bows, they were treasures in themselves.

  Wary and cautious, I took the gift he offered me. “What’s this then?” Ours was a
lopsided friendship at best, and his gifts seemed to be piling up.

  “Your masks. Each guest will have a different one and . . .” He hesitated and for a moment he looked unsure of himself, something I’d never seen in him before. “I thought I’d get something that represented you, at least in my eyes.”

  Inside the wrapping was a clear plastic box containing a black-feathered mask in the shape of a swan. The body of the swan fit over my eyes, and the neck and head swept up above my hair, dramatic and eye-catching. The wings covering my eyes were outlined in rhinestones. It was . . . well, regal . . . created for someone important.

  I had to swallow several times before I could speak. “Thank you, Ethan. I like my swan. It’s one of the nicest presents I’ve ever received.”

  He gave a small nod and said, “You’re welcome.”

  As pleased as I was, I couldn’t help making a joke. “Unlike some people, you see the true me, elegant and graceful.”

  Clay’s mask was a plain metal façade in the lightest of material. The metal curved under his chin, covered his mouth and had no opening, and rose high above his forehead, like the helmet of some ancient knight. Totally unadorned yet somehow menacing, it made me uneasy.

  “Why?” I asked, pointing at it.

  Ethan answered my question with one of his own. “Do you know the story of the man in the iron mask?”

  “No.”

  “A prisoner in the Bastille, he was made famous by Dumas. No one ever saw him without his mask, never knew his identity, but people guessed he was royalty. This mask is for a man who keeps his own counsel and remains hidden.”

  Ethan had captured the essence of Clay. No matter how well you thought you knew Clay, you really didn’t. A part of him was always concealed and private. And, yes, there was a sense of superiority about him, an awareness that he was less prone to foolishness than the rest of us might be.

  “Okay,” Clay said, still holding his mask up in front of his face, “show us yours.”

  “When we get there.” Ethan picked up his glass. “I’d much rather enjoy this.”

  Clay lowered his mask and said with a smile, “Then tell us about your other guests.” He picked up his champagne flute but he didn’t drink. Unlike me, Clay never drank much.

  Ethan turned to me and smiled. “Who do you think I asked, Sherri?”

  I shrugged before I remembered my dress was best worn by a mannequin that didn’t move. I tugged the silk back in place on my shoulder and said, “I just figure you picked people for the Orchid Ball who like orchids. I don’t suppose they buy their plants from Publix’s like me and throw them out when they die.” I frowned at him. “Honestly, Ethan, don’t let anyone ask me a thing about orchids or they’ll figure out how stupid I am. I’m depending on you to keep me out of trouble.”

  “Count on me,” he said. “And you’re right, they’re all plant people.” Ethan listed them on his fingers. “Sasha will be there. You’ve met him, Sherri. And Dr. Martin Faust and his wife, Erin, will be joining us. He’s a man you can’t call too many nice things. He’s nasty, petty, self-important, misogynist and racist, but damn, the man knows his orchids.”

  I said, “Gee, all those things and clever too.”

  “Yup. And heavily into micropropagation.”

  I lowered the glass halfway to my lips. “Which I hope is something legal, not something disgusting he does with underage girls.”

  “Asexual reproduction.”

  My glass came down again. “Okay, now you’re being crude. Aren’t there any normal people at this party?”

  “Define normal.” He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Of the eight at the table, besides you, Richard Dystra would likely seem the most regular person, mainly because he has the least money and can’t afford to be too outrageous. He’s a defense attorney.” His eyes moved to Clay. “I believe you know him, Clay.”

  “Yes.” Clay’s voice was totally neutral. “Dystra was head of a real-estate consortium that I did business with. We ended up in court.”

  “Well, as I heard it, you won, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  Clay stopped pretending to drink and set down his glass. “Why are we here? How did we make it on the guest list? We don’t collect orchids and didn’t know your brother. I’m guessing that’s another attribute your guests all have.”

  Ethan spread his arms wide. “You’re here because I like you. I had to have someone at the table I like.”

  “That’s a lovely sentiment.” Clay’s lips spread in a thin smile. “But we seem to be a little outside your group of friends.”

  “Which is perfect. They aren’t exactly friends.” He leaned forward. “I need you there, someone who is on my side, someone who didn’t want Ben’s orchid.” Ethan seemed to struggle, about to say more, then shook his head and sat back on the leather seat and picked up the champagne bottle. “I want you to enjoy your evening.” He topped up the glasses we’d hardly touched. When he got to mine, he started to pour and then lifted the bottle and said, “What do you think this evening is about, Sherri?”

  I opted for a rare bit of honesty. “Except for us, each of your guests is an orchid collector. Even though you keep saying it’s impossible, it seems your brother had a black orchid for sale, and these people were on the list of potential buyers.”

  He finished filling my glass. “And?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

  I lifted my glass towards him. “You’re looking for the person who killed your brother. You think that person will be at your table tonight.”

  Ethan set the bottle in its silver bucket. “Yes.” The smile was gone from his face and there was ice in his voice. Ethan nodded in my direction but spoke to Clay. “Beauty and brains. You’d best watch this one, Clay.”

  “Thanks, Ethan, but I figured that one out a long time ago.”

  Ethan crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap. “So, Sherri, what do you think I’m planning?”

  “I’m not sure.” I studied him. “Maybe . . .” I stopped myself. Glancing out the window, I said, “Vengeance is a dangerous dish.” My eyes went back to his face. “I hope you don’t serve up more than you can chew.”

  He winked. “Don’t worry about me. I have a very healthy appetite.”

  The limo stopped at the entrance to the Selby mansion. Wrought-iron gates, hung between white pillars topped with iron carriage lights, were opened by a man dressed in a black suit. We cruised silently over the circular brick drive, past a live oak dripping in Spanish moss and masses of red bromeliads, as the iron gates closed behind us.

  We parked in front of a white-pillared house with dark green shutters. The front doors stood open, welcoming us, while on each side of the doors stood a man wearing a black half mask. “Very impressive,” I said.

  “There’s a special reception here first for the directors and lead donors,” Ethan explained. I wasn’t listening. What held my attention was a pink Cadillac with extravagant fins, parked beside a carriage house to the left of the entrance. “Ethan, didn’t you say you still had your father’s Caddy?”

  He followed my gaze. “Yes, that’s mine.”

  A man in a suit opened the limo door.

  “It’s pink.” I couldn’t understand the shock I was feeling.

  “I think of it as a test of manhood,” Ethan said. “It takes a real man to drive a bubblegum-pink Cadillac from the fifties.”

  “You get my vote,” Clay told him. “But you didn’t need to order the limo just for us when you already had a car here.”

  “I wasn’t planning on driving myself. Crazy—I haven’t driven Dad’s Caddy since before Ben died, but I did today. I was here earlier to attend to a few last-minute things. I went out for lunch with some people and they dropped me off at the Ritz.”

  “Haven’t I seen it before?” I glanced over at him. “Did you bring it to the Sunse
t one day?”

  His lips stretched in a pleased smile. “That’s right, I did. I’d forgotten that. You’re very observant.”

  “I was sure I’d seen it before.”

  Ethan was the last one out of the car. When he emerged he was wearing a tri-cornered hat with a huge red plume, a cape and a devil’s mask with red horns.

  You have got to admire a man who boldly says he’s the devil. While I was pretty sure he was exaggerating, I still pitied the poor murderer who had the devil after him.

  As I started up the steps I suddenly felt strangely reluctant and fearful. It wasn’t just a sudden case of social anxiety; I was terrified, really afraid. This was no longer just an evening of incredible celebration but a night fraught with danger. Ethan was on a track for truth and retribution, and I didn’t want to get caught in the fallout.

  CHAPTER 19

  Clay clasped my elbow and drew me to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “Jitters,” I replied. “Now, take Cinderella to the ball.”

  And so we proceeded into the wonder of Selby House, into a luxurious but alien world, and out to the reception on the brick balcony overlooking Sarasota Bay where masked servers carried silver trays full of champagne or canapés. Dressed exactly the same and wearing black half masks, the waiters were totally anonymous and, to me, threatening.

  Ethan greeted people and introduced us before we moved on. It was easy to see that he was the center of attention. Groups parted and people turned to nod and watch him pass. Suddenly, there was a man directly in front of us. Pugnacious in his walk and stance, everything about him presented a challenge. His eyes were firmly fixed on Clay.

  Beside me, I felt Clay stiffen.

  The man blocking our way held out his hand to Clay as if daring Clay to reject it. “Heard you were coming tonight.”

  It was the briefest handshake in history, and it was Ethan who introduced Richard Dystra to me.

  Richard Dystra’s eyes turned from Clay to me. His jutting jaw and squat build made him seem more like a gangster than a smooth-talking criminal lawyer, but from the pouches under his eyes to the blue-black of his cheeks where whiskers threatened to sprout, his hound-dog face was alive with character. “Well, well, well,” he said as if someone were offering him a particularly fine and delicious dessert.