6 Martini Regrets
Page 14
I said, “Has anyone checked to see if it’s plastic?”
She gave a startled squawk.
“Well, it might be. Now that would be a neat trick.” I was grinning like a fool, but on her face there was only alarm. I half expected her to launch herself onto the table and squat there, examining it to see if it was natural or man-made.
Clay took hold of my wrist, dragging me away.
“What’s the matter?” I yelled to him over the racket. “Aren’t you interested in the latest news in horticulture?”
“You’ll get trampled in the crush.” He cleared a path for us away from the table, and we fought our way out of the marquee onto the dance floor. “That’s a lot of fuss for a flower,” he said.
Free of the squash of bodies, we turned back to watch in disbelief as flocks of diners flew by us from the other dining tent, fighting to get close to the latest wonder in the plant world. Things were out of control. Someone could get seriously injured in that mob. A magical evening had just morphed into the state of the bizarre.
Clay said, “Are all of these people crazy?”
I shook my forefinger at Clay. “You and your obsession to be rich. Let this be a lesson to you. No matter how much you do have, there’s always something you can’t have.” It was a discussion we’d had often lately. I eased my dress back onto my shoulder and smoothed the silk over my hips. “Just look around you. I thought we were going to get stomped to death.”
“How do you suppose it got there?”
“My guess is a waiter.” And then, after a beat, I added, “Or waitress. They all look alike . . . all wearing the same black masks. They’d just have to come out of the kitchen with a covered dish and put the stem in among the others. No one would pay any attention to what they were doing.”
“Maybe we know what the detail was that brought Ethan here this afternoon. He probably brought it over and paid one of the waiters to sneak it onto the table when everyone stood up to dance.” Clay looked around. “But which waiter?”
“Ah, now that’s the question. Whoever actually put it on the table was well paid and is going to keep their mouth shut.” I worried it around. “But I don’t think it was Ethan who paid them. I caught Ethan’s face when he saw it. I would swear it came as a complete and total surprise to him. Of the faces around the table, Ethan’s was the most shocked.”
“So who?”
“Only Liz took it in stride.”
“Doesn’t mean she knew anything about it.”
“You two were having quite a talk.”
“About my dad. She served on ranchers’ organizations with him.” Clay still watched the table. “My next question is, why would anyone do it?”
I considered the matter. “To shake someone up, or maybe to tell potential buyers there is still a product to be sold?”
“The problem is, everyone at our table wants the flower for themselves. They wouldn’t want to sell it.”
I studied the crowd around the table. “You’re right. No one there is desperate enough for money to let go of something unique. Except us.”
“Jesus,” Clay said, “I hope they don’t think we did it.”
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what will happen.”
I felt Clay’s hand tighten on my arm. I looked at him. “What?”
I could barely hear his whispered words. “If one of them killed Ben Bricklin for that orchid, maybe he or she just wanted to brag, just wanted everyone to see they had it without having to answer questions about how they got it. Maybe we’re dining with a murderer.”
“Or a murderess. Don’t underestimate those women.” I glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to hear, but we had slowly edged away from the stream of gawkers at the far end of the dance floor and were next to the band, on our own. “You’re right. If you couldn’t show anyone or brag that you had a black orchid, half the fun would be gone.” But there might be another reason. A little idea was stirring in my brain.
When we got back to the table, one of Ethan’s fellow directors was there, shaking his hand. “This is the best thing that ever happened to us. I hope you and Nina can come up with another event like this.” He patted Ethan on the arm. Like everyone else crowded around the table, he believed Ethan was responsible for the black orchid appearing.
But Ethan’s face didn’t look smug or pleased the way it would have if he had pulled off this huge surprise. Instead, it showed distress . . . maybe anger and a little panic as well—confusing and dangerous emotions.
The madness had delayed dinner. People still stood around our table, blocking the entrance and refusing to move so that the waiters could serve the main course. When we were at last able to be seated, everyone at our table sat and stared at the black orchid. No one spoke. It was as if they’d used up all their energy and were totally drained.
“Can it be used to propagate more like it?” I asked.
My question was met with incredulous looks; it was Dr. Faust who set me straight. “There are no roots, no back bulbs, no keiki, no seeds . . . there aren’t even leaves. How would you suggest it be propagated?”
The others at the table stared at me as though I might actually have an answer.
CHAPTER 25
I was hungry enough to eat the flowers, no matter how much the black one was supposedly worth, and finally the waiters came along carrying large silver platters.
I tasted the lobster ravioli in a cream sauce delicately. It set me purring. The food and the wine were every bit as wonderful as Ethan had promised, but I was the only one at the table who was hungry. The excitement had taken away their appetites. Probably my healthy appetite was a sign of my plebian origins, but I wasn’t letting a drop of this nectar go to waste. “I need this recipe for the Sunset. Do you think we can sneak into the kitchen and ask for it?” I dipped my finger in a drop of sauce left on the plate. “I think there’s nutmeg in it.” I stopped short of licking the plate, even though I wanted to. “Aren’t you going to eat that?” I asked, pointing at Clay’s plate. He shook his head. I exchanged my empty plate for Clay’s.
Almost everyone else at the table sent back their plates untouched. Not mine. After the lobster, I ate Clay’s tiramisu and gelato.
Before the bidding on the auction items began, the director of the gardens took over the microphone to make an announcement. She called Ethan up to join her and then announced that he had made a million-dollar donation to the gardens in memory of his brother, Ben Bricklin. The money would be used to build a new laboratory to propagate orchids.
Everyone at our table stood and clapped along with the rest of the partygoers. But not everyone was excited by the news. Martin said, “You notice it will be called the Bricklin building.” He wasn’t even trying to keep his voice down. “Not the Ben Bricklin building, but the Bricklin building.”
“What are you getting at, Martin?” I asked.
“Trust me, by the time it opens, it will be the Ethan Bricklin building.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Yes.” Martin’s statement was flat and final.
The wild evening rocketed over the top. What goes beyond crazy? Whatever it is, that’s what ensued. The noise was incredible. A mob of well-dressed revelers, jacked up by champagne, an incredible flower and now a million dollars, made a noise that had me covering my ears. It was hard to get people to settle down for the auction, but when they did, they started bidding like they were using play money.
When the auction was over, Clay led me back onto the dance floor, but we didn’t really dance. We just clung together, swaying back and forth and letting the surge of dancers flow around us.
Clay said, “Are you through showing off your stuff?”
“What stuff would that be?”
He checked out my cleavage and then turned me slightly to peek behind me. “All the bits on display.”
His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Maybe.”
Suddenly I saw how bone-weary he was. Why hadn’t I realized it? He’d been putting in eighteen-hour days, and here I was, expecting him to dance all night. “Have you had enough fun for one evening?” I stroked his cheek. “Ready to check out?”
He looked around the room. “I think we should, before the cannibals really take over.”
We went to say good night to Ethan. “Take the limo,” he said. “I have the Caddy and I’m staying in town tonight.”
Waiting for the car, I asked Clay, “Do you think Ethan and Liz are getting together?”
“Nope. She hates Ethan.”
“I didn’t get that impression,” I said.
“I saw her watching you and Ethan dancing. The look on her face . . . well, if you can describe hate as pure, that’s what it was. Pure hatred.”
There could have been another target for her malice. Maybe Clay had made a mistake and it had been directed at me, but why would she hate me? Jealousy? If she was interested in Ethan and a younger woman cut in . . . I trembled in the night air and remembered her whispered words. The black swan always dies. It hadn’t made any sense, but I’d met enough crazy people in my lifetime to know what was possible.
I hadn’t told Clay about Liz’s comment and didn’t tell him now. He’d say I was paranoid, but I was going to stay well clear of Elizabeth Aiken.
The limo pulled up in front of us. I clung to Clay and whispered, “Now comes my favorite part of the evening.”
Clay didn’t wait for the chauffeur to get out and open the door. “What’s that?” he said.
“Making out in the back seat with you.” I stepped into the car and slid across the seat to make room for Clay.
Clay stepped inside and his arm went around me, pulling me close. “Ah, and there’s that little mystery to be solved.”
CHAPTER 26
Sunday morning, Clay went out for croissants and the papers. Croissants, with Plant City strawberry jam that Marley had made, freshly squeezed orange juice and the papers—a perfect Sunday morning.
Clay took the front section and handed me the rest. I picked out the local news, and right there on the front page was a picture of the Orchid Ball. The photo had been taken just after the discovery of the black orchid. Everyone in the image was looking at the black orchid, except for one couple at the center back of the picture: Clay and I were smiling into each other’s eyes. We looked mighty pleased with something. I just hoped none of the people at our table thought it was because we’d arranged for the blossom to end up there in the center of the table.
A few hours later, Cinderella was back behind the bar, checking the stock and loading up the beer wells, when Tully walked in. Dressed in jeans, a Stetson and his normal cowboy boots, he was the last of the wannabe cowboys. I started pouring his coffee before he even reached the bar.
“Well, how was the big evening?” he said as I set the mug in front of him.
“Like a night on a psych ward with everyone off their meds.”
“Now that sounds like fun.” He settled onto a stool in front of me and said, “Don’t leave a thing out.”
In the after-lunch lull I was working on paying bills when Clay stuck his head around the door of my office and asked, “Want to go on a little road trip?”
“To where?”
“I just figured since Ethan checked up on us, it’s time we returned the favor. Let’s go see this empire of his.”
I grabbed my purse out of a drawer and shot my office chair backwards. “My vehicle or yours?”
It was a silly question. Clay hated my red pickup with a vengeance. It had belonged to Jimmy, my long-ago husband, and was one of the few things Clay and I fought over. The more he pushed me to sell it, the more determined I was to hold on to it. Really, I didn’t know why I bothered except that it was the last thing I had of Jimmy—well, except for the tattoo on my ass that said, Jimmy’s. I’d like to get rid of that bit of ink, and I’d get rid of the truck too, but I just didn’t want anyone telling me to. Not Tully, not Marley and especially not Clay.
I went out through the kitchen to tell the staff that I was leaving for a couple of hours and then ran down the stairs to where Clay was waiting.
Going down the highway, waves of heat rising in front of us and the guy I loved beside me, I felt as joyous as on the last day of school. I stuck my bare feet up on the dash and started singing along with the radio.
We went up the interstate to Bradenton and then headed east towards highway seventeen. The roads along the coast were insanely busy, but out here, a little bit inland, it didn’t feel all that much different from when I was a kid. On the horizon, sunshine shimmered on metal. The metallic light grew bigger, becoming a vehicle before it whished by us, leaving us alone again.
Pretty soon Clay started singing along with Lyle and me. “She hates my momma, she hates my daddy too.”
If you live in ranch-country Florida, you live under a blue dome that covers your world like a giant cake lid. You can see for miles towards the horizon, and the earth truly seems pancake-flat. The fields beside the road hardly have a hump higher than my ankle, defiantly flat, so I don’t know where this strange idea that the world is round started. Some beliefs I’m just not willing to give up on.
We drove through acres of oranges trees and fields of longhorn cattle towards Poke County, in the Florida Highlands. It’s a real pretty part of the state. I stared out the window, enjoying it all.
Pine Lake sits between Tampa and Orlando. The sign at the edge of town says three hundred and fifty-two souls reside there—not people, just their souls. The only building in the place that doesn’t need painting and fixing is a giant white Baptist church, sitting on an acre of green irrigated grass at the center of town. A lot of money and care have gone into maintaining the church. Right away, you know Pine Lake is a place where religion plays a big part in daily life, so it’s best to watch your tongue.
Other than its manicured house of worship, Pine Lake has nothing to recommend it. The weathered houses were built of concrete blocks and painted in faded pastels. On the edge of town there is a giant railcar-repair business, with a half dozen cars sitting idle on a siding, and some kind of an industrial plant with no name on it.
In a minute, the little place was gone. We drove on, past what seemed like miles of trees bordering the road. The line of trees was thin, just enough to hide the mining operation behind it. Big signs that marked the property on both sides of the road said, BRICKLIN MINES. The only thing to be seen of the mining itself were huge stacks of material with pipes for venting sticking out of them. Over a fence we saw the bucket of an enormous piece of equipment. You could pop Clay’s Ford Explorer inside that big boy and there’d be room left for my truck.
Clay pulled over to the side of the road. “I knew they used big machines, but that’s just awesome.”
“You men. It’s all about size. What’s it for?”
“The earth with the phosphates in it is fifteen to fifty feet beneath the surface. The bucket strips the soil, and then they dig out the stuff they want. Then they have to clean the material they take out with water.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I looked it up after you left for the Sunset this morning.”
I stared out the window and asked, “How big do you think this mine is?”
“Ethan told me this facility is over four thousand acres, and it’s about mined out.”
I turned to look at Clay. “And he told you this because . . . ?”
“He’s looking for new land to mine.”
“I thought you were hunting warehouse space for him.”
“That’s what the man said the first time we met.”
“And now?”
His mouth twitched. “Now he seems a little more interested in raw land.” He looked out his window and away from me.
“Does he want you to buy up land for phosphate mines?”
Elbow on the open window, his chin resting on his hand, he watched the dragline dip out of sight. “I’m not sure. He started out talking about warehouse space but ended up talking about ranchland down in Charlotte County. He wants to accumulate about thirty-five thousand acres.”
The figure took my breath away. Now I knew why Clay was staying close to Ethan.
Clay glanced at me and then looked away and spoke to the steering wheel. “If they start mining the lower Peace basin, they’ll draw water from the Peace River to wash the material from the mine.” He rubbed his forehead. “It will be a big problem.”
I studied him. “Remember the first time we canoed down the Peace?”
He looked at me and smiled. We’d both got eaten alive by fire ants when we pulled our canoe onto a bit of sand. We’d ended up jumping in the river, clothes and all, to drown the ants.
His mind was still on the future of the river. He said, “Phosphate mining takes a huge amount of water, about a hundred thousand gallons a minute.”
“So that’s a problem.” I pushed the hair back from my face. “Can’t they reuse the water, or just put it back in the river?”
“It’s polluted with phosphates.”
“There goes that watercourse.”
Clay nodded. “The plan is, after it’s used, the water will be dumped out into Charlotte Harbor, bypassing the river.”
“And then there goes the harbor along with the fish.” Suddenly this road trip wasn’t as much fun as it had been when we set out. “Are you going to do it . . . find more land to mine?”
“It’s a legal business. Seventy-five percent of the phosphates used for fertilizer sold in the US comes from Florida. It’s a case of get on board or go home.”