6 Martini Regrets

by Phyllis Smallman

  He’d already told me this. “Immortal.” I tried the word. “If that’s true, why would Ben sell it? Wouldn’t Ben want a perpetual monument by putting his name on the orchid?”

  “Ben couldn’t afford that luxury. He needed money.”

  Someone backed into me and jostled my arm. Champagne washed my hand. I turned, and a glamorous presenter from the six o’clock news smiled at me.

  “Oh, excuse me.” Leah Woods took the glass from me and held out a napkin. “I’m so sorry.” She was even more beautiful in person than she was on television.

  I shook the liquid off my hand and took the napkin she offered. “No problem.” I dried my hand and moved aside to put the crumpled napkin on a small table.

  Ethan followed me, and I asked, “Liz could afford to have her name on the black orchid?”

  “Like everyone at the table tonight.”

  “Except me . . . and Clay.”

  “But you could be acting for someone else.” His voice was light and reasonable, not as if he was accusing us of anything but rather pointing out the obvious. “Clay buys and sells property. A black orchid is just another form of property, and it would be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to a breeder, to say nothing of the glory. So anyone can get into this race, and you do have some connection to Ben.”

  “No, I don’t. I never met your brother, never even spoke to him on the phone or exchanged an e-mail with him.”

  “Still, there’s a link.”

  He must’ve seen my puzzlement because he added, “Your business card.”

  “Ahh, I’d forgotten about that. Right, someone had my card.” I smiled at him, genuinely relieved. “I intend to give them out all night. If one of these people turns up dead tomorrow with my card in their pocket, how much am I going to be able to tell the police about their deaths?”

  His smile was real now. “I see your point.”

  “Look, just to put your mind at ease, I’ll tell you one more time: I never heard about a black orchid until you told me about Ben’s, okay?”

  He looked deep into my eyes, as if he could read the truth there. “And you have no interest in a black orchid?”

  “Jesus, yes. Nina just offered me a hundred thousand dollars for one. Believe me, if I knew where to look, I’d be out there digging one up.”

  “You don’t dig them up.” He couldn’t help correcting me. “They’re air plants. They hang in trees and on other plants.”

  “Whatever.” I brushed aside his lecture. “Since I’m never going swamp walking, I’m not likely to ever see one in its natural habitat.” I stepped back and adjusted my gown. “One more time, just so you know—no one sent me anywhere, at any time, about an orchid. And if I knew where there was one, you think I wouldn’t be all over it? I’d sell it immediately to Nina Dystra.”

  The tension went out of his face and he laughed. “Okay, I never really thought you were involved. I’ve just got a disbelieving nature. But if you find one, call me first, okay?”

  “Agreed.”

  He was determined to find his brother’s murderer and no one was exempt from suspicion. A man with few friends and not many people he trusted, he’d be watching me intently, and at the least hint of me being involved with Ben’s death, my credibility would fly away like a flock of terns on the beach.

  It was definitely time to change the subject. “Now, are you going to ask me to dance or what?”

  Ethan smiled and led me to the dance floor.

  The orchestra was playing big band music, and Ethan was a wonderful dancer, easy to follow and light on his feet. We stayed on the dance floor for a second number before we joined the throng spilling into the marquees for dinner. As we made our way through the dancers to our seats, I saw a tray of used glasses on a folding table against the wall. Among the debris of crushed napkins and half-eaten hors d’oeuvres was Liz’s cat mask.

  CHAPTER 21

  With the scraping of chair legs, the swishing of satin and laughing voices calling out to friends, the diners settled in for the first course. The clamor reminded me of the night sounds in the swamp, a chorus of chatter that blended into a whole refrain. Occasionally a bellow of laughter rose above the babble, like the roar of a gator in the swamp.

  Ethan’s table was on the edge of the dance floor, the best table in the tent. Overhead, a giant crystal chandelier sparkled.

  The theme of the ball continued with black tablecloths draped to the floor and a napkin folded like a tuxedo on each white plate. In the center of the table sat a silver bucket full of white orchids. On each silver-gilt chair was a bidding paddle with a number on it to use in the auction. I planned on pushing mine way under the table so I didn’t end up buying that diamond-encrusted watch by accident. Above my place setting was a card with an embossed medallion and my name in the center. Inside was the menu in Italian and the wine list.

  Two people had entered the marquee ahead of the rest of our party and were already seated. They didn’t rise to greet us, just sat there looking somehow mulish and discontented. Even when Ethan made the most pleasant of introductions, Dr. Martin Faust neither bothered to rise nor offered his hand. He did, however, nod slightly in my direction while his fingers remained firmly laced over his basketball of a belly. Just below his fingers, one stud on his shirt front had given way, showing a slice of pale, hairless skin. This was matched by a pancake of baldness on the crown of his head, giving him the look of a cranky priest from some ancient monastery.

  Ethan thrust a handsome package in front of Martin’s face.

  Martin frowned. “What’s this?”

  “Open it,” Ethan said. “It’s your mask.”

  Martin pulled off the wrapping without enthusiasm, revealing the largest and strangest mask in the room. Black and rigid, it had a long ferocious beak, like some vicious bird of prey from a nightmare. “What’s it supposed to be?” Martin grumbled suspiciously, turning the hideous thing around in his hands.

  “It’s a Medico Della Peste.”

  “What’s that exactly?” Martin’s voice was full of misgiving, and he held the mask away from him between the tips of the fingers of both his hands.

  “A plague doctor’s mask.” Ethan jabbed at Martin’s shoulder with a fist. “Get it . . . Dr. Faust.”

  Martin’s face pinched up in disgust. “Well, obviously I get it, but do I want it?”

  Ethan’s enthusiasm was undefeatable. He beamed at his own cleverness. “It was worn in the seventeenth century by doctors treating plague victims. Put it on.”

  The masks Ethan presented to the Dystras were even more telling. Hers was a . . . well, basically a two-faced presentation, smiling on the mauve side and frowning on the purple side.

  Ethan said, “Nina is on the Orchid Ball committee, and she’s on the board of the theater. I chose her mask for her love and commitment to the theater and the arts.”

  Nina’s face said she didn’t believe him, and neither did I.

  Richard Dystra held up the image of a scarlet goat with long curved horns. He only positioned it in front of his face for a second before he lowered it. He wasn’t smiling, but I was.

  Ethan handed Sasha his gift last.

  “Ah,” Sasha said with relish. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” Sasha threw aside the wrapping paper, looked down in the box at the mask and bellowed with laughter. He threw his arms wide, embracing Ethan’s description of him with joy. “The trickster,” he said. “Yes. That’s me.” He gently lifted a sparkling creation out of the paper and put on a Harlequin mask with diamond shapes in bright colors—oranges and greens and reds and blues, all sparkling with sequins. Sasha’s pleasure in his gift was evident, and he threw himself into the party with gusto, entertaining us with stories and setting the whole table laughing.

  Sasha’s voice was deep and it carried. Around us, people turned to look. Sasha seemed quite
unaware of the glances coming his way and was so animated that anyone passing by would have mistaken him for the host. Ethan sat back quietly and watched.

  Charming and entertaining, but with an aura of contained violence about him, Sasha was a man who would always compete like his life depended on winning, whether it was for an orchid or for riches beyond my imagination. He was a man who’d do well in the turmoil of war, and perhaps his drive to conquer everything around him had made him thrive in the commercial world, but it was a little overpowering in a social setting.

  At Sasha’s side was the model Ethan had told me about, Willow—no last name, just Willow. She was a goddess. Thin and flawlessly beautiful, she was the kind of woman who made all other women feel inadequate. She was exotic, almond-eyed and coffee-skinned. Every woman in the room instantly hated her on sight and every man wanted her. I almost could feel pity for Willow. Almost. She was wearing a brown rag. Well, at least that’s what it would have been on anyone else. The iridescent silk jersey dress clung to her in erotic delight. It was all too clear she wore nothing beneath it, so there were two of us in danger of shocking the ensemble. Her mask was of gold filigreed metal, light and insubstantial, and represented nothing. Perhaps Ethan didn’t know her well enough to make a statement about her, or maybe it was his strongest judgment of all.

  While the original seating was fixed by name cards, Ethan’s plan was to have his male guests change seats with each course. It was my misfortune to be seated next to Martin Faust for the beginning of the dinner. Florid of face and pugnacious in attitude, he sounded like he was challenging me to argue with him even when he was just passing on innocuous information. I soon decided that he, along with Richard Dystra, was a dinner guest I didn’t want to know. But whether or not I wanted to know about Dr. Faust, he told me anyway. “I’m cloning ghost orchids,” was his reply to some mild question of mine about his interests outside of work.

  “That’s nice.”

  He frowned. “I’m helping preserve wild orchids by propagating them and spreading them among orchid lovers. As the swamps disappear in the natural world, this may be their only hope of surviving.” He paused as if waiting for my applause. When no clapping came from me, he continued. “Clamshell orchids and crooked-spur orchids are almost gone from the Fakahatchee swamp near Naples, so I’m also specializing in those.”

  I was looking around for the promised food and wine, so I didn’t reply. It didn’t stop him from talking.

  The waiters were all busy delivering the soup course, so I smiled at Ethan and pointed to my wine glass. If I was going to spend part of my evening with the man beside me, I needed a whole lot more alcohol.

  There was a strange pause, and I realized I wasn’t keeping up my side of the conversation. Really, I didn’t care if Faust spent the rest of his life in a swamp, making it with plants, but to be polite, I said, “Ethan explained the new rules of collecting. Do the new laws stop your work?”

  His hand waved. “Stupid law. All wild orchids are endangered, and it’s illegal to take them out of the swamp, so they are just left there to disappear under the blade of the bulldozer. I’m sure even you can see how ridiculous that is.”

  “Ah.” I nodded in understanding. “Your collection is illegal.”

  He pressed towards me, spitting out the words. “My collection is very old and dates back to before the regulations on taking natural material out of Florida swamps were put in place.”

  “How nice for you.” Where was my wine? Faust was working hard at spoiling what should be the most exciting event of my year.

  Erin Faust, “the wife,” as Martin called her, leaned forward from the other side of him and said, “Martin and I are pariahs here tonight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She made a moue with her mouth and fanned herself faster with her bidding paddle. “You mean Ethan hasn’t told you?”

  “No.”

  “Martin has been charged with theft. He’s been stealing orchids from all over the world for years, obsessed and trying to collect every rare orchid there is, but he finally got caught smuggling in one from Thailand. It got him fired from the Sutton Botanical Gardens.” Her smile of satisfaction was broad. “Pariahs,” she added. “You won’t see too many people stopping by the table to say hello, not with us here.” Her mouth was a thin line of satisfied venom.

  I looked from husband to wife and back again. Dr. Faust looked like his head was going to explode, while she smiled in a sly, pleased sort of way.

  Erin Faust was a woman who disappeared into the background, a woman who long ago gave up on life and reneged on sex appeal. About fifty, she wore the comfortable, drab clothes and sensible shoes of a seventy-year-old. Still, she was delighted with her silver mask and its feathers flaring out like a Plains Indian chief. She became all coy when she thanked Ethan. Coyness didn’t suit her. The mask, covering the upper half of her face, glittering with purples and reds and golds, did suit her. When she put it on she changed, no longer the faded frump in lavender but a regal presence growing in stature, dominant and forceful.

  Martin Faust said, “You look ludicrous.” He pushed away from the table.

  She lowered her mask and watched her husband as he left the table without excusing himself. Her eyes followed him as he pushed past the people at the edge of the dance floor. The expression on her face startled me. Hate and loathing were not the looks a wife normally gave her husband.

  I searched for something to say. “Do you help in your husband’s orchid business?”

  She nodded, her eyes still following her mate. “Martin is out collecting much of the time and going to shows and judging. He isn’t home much.” She didn’t add, “Thank god for that,” but it was there in her voice. Her eyes turned to me now. “I do the propagating and fill the orders.”

  “So he was interested in Ben Bricklin’s orchid.”

  Her nostril curled. “He’d go to any lengths to have his name on an orchid, he wants it so badly.” Her laugh was spiteful and mean. “He just doesn’t seem capable of making it happen.”

  Around the marquee, diamonds glittered in the light from the chandeliers, flickering like fireflies at twilight.

  “Do you collect?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She waited for me to say more and when I didn’t, she added, “What exactly do you collect?”

  “Drinks.” I gave a limp flutter of my right hand. “I like the ones with little umbrellas best.”

  Standing beside me, Ethan reached out a hand to me. “Dance with me, Sherri.”

  “God, yes,” I replied.

  “Lovely couple,” I said as Ethan guided me from the table, his hand on my elbow.

  Ethan led me into a slow dance. “He’s a brilliant taxonomist.”

  “What’s a taxonomist when he’s at home?”

  “He’s the guy that gives a new plant discovery a name from its appearance or characteristics, like how it reproduces.”

  He swung me around, and I felt silk slip from my shoulder. “Exciting.” My left hand tugged the silk back into place. “He actually looks like the kind of guy that would find plant reproduction thrilling.” I leaned back in Ethan’s arms so I could look into his face. “Oh, please let him be the one,” I said. “I’d like you to take him out.” I smiled. “I’m thinking it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “You think that’s what I’m planning?”

  “Absolutely, and he deserves to be the subject of your vengeance.”

  Ethan smiled. “Now, my dear, you can’t take this personally. We don’t always get what we want.”

  When we returned to the table, Liz and Clay were deep in conversation. She held Clay’s left hand tightly in hers, bouncing their joined hands up and down to underscore her words. Clay laughed and then rose, offering Liz his hand. As they passed my chair, she leaned over me, her breath tickling my ear as she whispered
, “Be careful, my dear. The black swan always dies.”

  I jerked away. What the hell was she talking about? Was it a threat? I didn’t get a chance to ask. With a smile and a lift of her eyebrows, she was gone. I watched her athletic strut as she led the way to the dance floor, a woman who was still fit and able, with a body that wasn’t giving anything up to age.

  I felt a hand on my bare shoulder and turned.

  “Dance with me.” Not a request but a demand. Sasha took my hand and pulled me to my feet without waiting for my agreement.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sasha drew me to him and led me into a fast gliding step, closer to ballroom than any dancing I’d ever done. He was a natural dancer, which made following him easy, although there was a certain aggression to his performance. The dance floor was crowded, but the elegant press seemed to part for Sasha. He charged around the dance floor at speed, expecting others to make way for him as he hurled himself into the thickest pack.

  The music was too fast for conversation, and I was concentrating on following my partner and staying decently covered while he spun me until the world twirled in front of my face. Damn, I hadn’t thought about dancing in a dress designed for standing perfectly still. Still, I’m the kind of girl who will do anything not to be ignored, so I danced under the stars with Sasha and let the silk take care of itself.

  When the music ended, we made a dramatic dip in front of the orchestra and then Sasha led me into a slow dance.

  I wanted to enjoy the dancing, and the only plant I wanted to think of was the one that put the wine in my glass, but Sasha’s thoughts were still on orchids. “Mrs. Faust enjoyed telling you all about her husband’s sins, didn’t she?” Sasha said. “Their nursery has been illegally growing and shipping orchids for years, and she was part of it, but she likes to blame him. The Fausts used to be one of my best sources for exotics but not anymore. I think that’s what she resents: losing business.”