Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  When the music stopped, they were the only couple on the dance floor and polite applause broke the spell. Where had he learned to dance like that? She had asked with her head still spinning. In his college dance club, he explained. His college club was world renown, and he had participated in international competitions. Later, he asked her to dance once again. She declined saying, “I’m afraid of losing the moment, Martin. I don’t believe I can ever recapture that exciting experience. I don’t dare try to return to the magical place you took me. Was I dancing, or was I dreaming?”

  “It was magical for me as well,” he said.

  “Looked fantastic from here,” his father added.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” she said. “I certainly have never danced like that. As a youth, I skipped dance class to climb trees. But tonight I actually danced. Thank you, Martin, for five minutes of my life, I was great.”

  Later, the musicians were putting away their instruments. His father was nodding off at the table. He and Sandy finished the last drop of champagne. He wondered if she detected his nervousness or suspected what he had been rehearsing in his mind all evening. He took both of her hands in his. After an awkward, but charming prologue, he proposed marriage in his best old-world manner.

  He accepted her declination gracefully. He had expected it. Hope against hope, it was worth a shot. He decided that would be the end of it. He would never again introduce the subject. Her discomfort that night might have already put their valuable friendship at risk. She must never feel uncomfortable around him again. She must never know the extent of his love for her. She must forever remain thinking that he was simply carried away by the moment, the mood and the music. If she ever questioned him about his proposal, he was prepared to say he was glad she kept her head that night and turned him down.

  He knew he’d continue to enjoy occasional dinners and social occasions with her and serve as her casual escort at concerts that weren’t Chip’s thing. With love and romance out of the way, they could be solid friends. Yet for all his loss, the evening had been special. He had held her close. He’d inhaled the essence of her being. While she had looked at him in wonder for mere seconds, he had frozen in his memory the image of her for a lifetime. For a moment in his life, he had connected with her in an important way. But nothing more. Love’s keen arrows leave invisible wounds. He would never have her. He would always have Sarasota.

  Sandy occasionally looked back on that evening. His proposal had been sweet, romantic and carried the strong implication that if she accepted he intended to cover her with gold. She hadn’t thought about his money, had always supposed he had an adequate amount. How charming for him to say he’d lay it all at her feet.

  She had liked him from the start. She was attracted to him in many ways, none of which made her heart beat any faster. He just didn’t do it for her. She had no doubt she could have a comfortable life with him if she so desired. But she didn’t love him, so it was all beside the point. In any case, she wasn’t interested in him or anyone else covering her in gold.

  When she did think of Martin, it was definitely all business. Back in March, she’d moved in and shared an office with him because she couldn't afford anything on her own. Since then her outlook had changed. Now she stayed and shared the space because she loved being there. She liked being around him as well, still no romantic interest was in the mix. Perhaps it was the attraction of opposites: he was quietude, she was action. They were complementary forces. She saw herself more in a big sister role although he was pushing forty and had nearly ten years on her. He’d be offended to learn she was watching over him in any regard.

  Unlike Martin, she had begun to dream about receiving the big score from the lawsuit settlement. The money would set her up in a flourishing law practice. The publicity from that notable success would attract other worthwhile cases from vulnerable clients who were due monetary damages.

  She would ignore the old warning to never go after a rich man in court. That’s exactly what she would do. The big shots of the world had their prime-time lawyers. She’d go after them for large settlements. With enough of her own money, she could afford to finance lengthy cases with rewarding payoffs. That was her dream. And the huge fee she might receive from Banks versus Olin would make it come true.

  Martin’s father had set up the law office years ago for the lucrative three-lawyer practice he once ran. She loved the upscale ambiance of the office with its studied décor, which spoke of years of high fees. The glowing mahogany furniture gave off its pleasant woody scent and all the attendant bits and pieces seemed irreplaceably agreeable. While she wouldn’t want such deep carpeting in her home, it was grand for those days when she was alone in the office and could pad about barefoot.

  They each had their own smaller offices upfront furnished with the original luxurious accessories. She felt fortunate as a beginning lawyer to have such lavishness surrounding her. His father’s personal office at the back was the largest and nicest in the suite of rooms. Although fully equipped, they used it mainly to meet with new clients.

  Martin was supposed to use the big back office, even so he continued to reserve it in the hope his father would enjoy coming downtown occasionally and sitting at his former desk—perhaps recalling his days of glory in the courtroom. Yet, his father had come by only once since retiring and seemed uninterested in any of it. Considering his medical condition, he was unlikely to visit the office ever again. She feared Martin might never move into the great office; might never feel successful enough as a lawyer to occupy his father's chair.

  The large office remained decorated in a masculine manner to convey the confidence of a successful law firm, with photographs and paintings of the two-masted motorsailer that once was part of the Bronner family. Many other paintings adorned the office.

  One particular painting intrigued her. It was a small watercolor done in greenish yellows and signed Salvador Dali. No surrealistic melting clock or outer world images; the subject was simply a field with a red barn at the side and a stream in the foreground. She assumed someone was just having fun signing that name. Although she loved it, she’d never bothered to ask Martin about it.

  She found him interesting and a wonderful conversationalist. His casually elegant attire was perfect for Florida. He was unique and well-traveled. A fine person with whom to spend time. Charming in unexpected ways, as when he made his slightly perceptible bow before speaking to a woman he hadn’t been introduced to. Sandy was quick to detect personality quirks. If Martin had a dark side, she’d yet to find it.

  In spite of his choice of law for a career, she knew he was averse to situations involving conflict. His feeling was so what if he was a lawyer who didn't like disagreements. Not all lawyers can get down and muck around with contentious opponents.

  She had once suggested that perhaps the law wasn’t his proper calling. On the contrary, he argued, there was plenty of room for his temperament quietly drawing up contracts, wills and so forth. She could have the crime. He wasn't reluctant to meet people; in fact, he enjoyed it. But if you want to yell go somewhere else. Had she ever yelled at him? Probably, she had yelled at everyone else. She could get bitchy. A woman once told her she was charm-challenged.

  They say one should treat a friendship like glass because once broken one might not be able to fix it. That wasn’t her style. Tiptoeing around relationships wouldn’t work for her. She’d be immobilized and still not have any friends using that philosophy. Come to think of it, she didn’t have many friends using her present philosophy. At any rate, she liked Martin, and it was important to her to keep him as a friend.

  Chapter Eight

  “Do you think any new clients will stumble in this morning?” Sandy asked. “Assuming I can still legally represent anybody.” She was sitting at her desk trying to get the top off the hot coffee without a critical mishap. “What did you get for me, Martin?”

  “Grande Latte.”

  “I couldn’t drink this much in a week. Nex
t time just make mine a small black coffee. I don’t go to those coffee places. I get intimidated by all the choices.”

  “Intimidated? A dark alley encounter with some hoodlum who walks on his knuckles doesn’t bother you, but the selection at Starbucks gives you a chill.”

  “Thanks. I could eat for a week on what this baby costs.” She took a cautious sip. “Not bad. Do they offer a payment plan?”

  He shook his head. “What are you living on, dare I ask?”

  “Hope. This morning I’m hoping for a ten-car pileup in front of our office. I have my business cards out and my camera ready. I guess I’ve got enough for my share of office expense.”

  “I doubt that. Why don’t I cover your share this month? It’ll be a gift. If you insist, you can buy me coffee next time.”

  “Just when I think I’m getting set up for a fee from a new client, I pull a dumb stunt.”

  “You know you’re having a bad week when you get a new client and someone shoots her before you can talk with her.”

  “Not funny, Martin.”

  “You’re right. Of course, it’s tragic when a domestic squabble turns violent.”

  “Maybe I can represent the husband of the vic. Don’t laugh I need a client. First, I obstruct the prosecution’s case then I defend the perp.” She chuckled and took another sip. “By the way, I hope I don’t end up defending you. I’ve waited long enough. Are you going to tell me why you sent me that text the night of the murder saying, if anyone asks where you are, say I was with you? The police took that as you needing an alibi for the time of Margaret Frome’s murder.”

  “It’s very innocent,” he started explaining. “I needed a social alibi. I was trying to avoid going dancing with my friends, Brad and Jenna Ebert. I told them I was busy with you. I thought I should cover myself in case they should ask. Jenna has been very forward with me. Makes me nervous.”

  “I assumed something simple like that. What’s with her, anyway?”

  “She’s provocative on the dance floor with me. Brad notices but doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe because he’s my best friend.”

  “Sometime I want to hear about your best friend watching you dance with his wife while she’s coming on to you.”

  “As it turned out, I didn’t need a social alibi after all. They decided to go to that party at Azul Del Mar.”

  “Wait. You say Brad and his wife Jenna were at that condo party? The police must have taken their names and questioned them about the shooting. So they were there? You never mentioned that before.”

  “Small town isn’t it? I asked Brad, and he said they didn’t notice anything unusual. No police were there when they left, so it must have been before the shooting. Later, they were surprised to hear about it.”

  She shrugged okay.

  He checked his watch. “Are you busy for lunch? I danced with someone new. I’m having lunch with her today. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Sure, I’d love to go to lunch and check her out. I can tell you right now she’s not in your league.”

  “It’s only a lunch. Her name is Priscilla. I suggested the Windward Bar down the street. She preferred Nancy’s Tea Room, across from the library. Bars have such rowdy people, she said.”

  “Okay, Nancy’s unrowdy Tea Room it is.” She was thinking this Priscilla might show up wearing dark horn-rimmed glasses, her hair in a bun and carrying a cat.

  An hour later, Priscilla was waiting outside the restaurant when Sandy and Martin strolled up. She was almost as tall as Martin. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail—no bun. Her loose fitting mid-calf-length dress hid her body shape and with flat shoes made her look rather plain. At least no cat.

  She said, “You can call me Prissy.”

  Sandy nodded and smiled. After the introductions, they slid into a booth across from Sandy. They didn’t make a lovely couple. They didn’t match at all. She supposed his new friend might be okay, although, as expected, certainly not good enough for him.

  Priscilla took out her dark horn-rimmed glasses and skimmed the menu. “The quiche du jour is good here. What are you going to have, kiddo?”

  Kiddo apparently was Martin because he answered, “Perhaps a club sandwich.” He turned to Sandy. “By the way, Prissy was an actress in New York.”

  Priscilla straightened up. “I was in Days of Tribulation on TV. I don’t suppose you saw it. It didn’t run very long, and I wasn’t in every episode. After a few months, the big star told the producer I was coming on to her, and it made her so uncomfortable she couldn’t work with me on the set. So I got sacked. Can you imagine me with a woman? To make it even funnier, everyone knew I was dating a male production assistant at the time.”

  Sandy said, “So the producer knew the star was lying.”

  “People know what they want to know, kiddo.”

  “Still, TV actor is quite an accomplishment,” Sandy had to admit. “You went through the auditioning, learning your lines and performing in front of the camera.”

  “I lost my agent over the incident and moved back to Florida. I never seemed to get it together enough to return to New York. However, I definitely had a major role in Streetcar. The director said I was born to play Stella. Easily the best Stella he’d seen in ten years of teaching.”

  “Teaching?”

  “That was in college. I shouldn’t have dropped out. I’m at the Marriott Beach Resort now.”

  “At the Marriott. As in, you presently perform there?”

  “I’m a server there, at least until something better comes along. What I really want is to go into business.”

  He said, “Isn’t it great for her to have such goals. That’s very ambitious.”

  “Yes, it is,” Sandy said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Public Relations. I’m very good dealing with people.”

  Sandy had a few thousand questions for Martin that would have to wait. The first one being, “Are you out of your mind, kiddo?” What she actually said was, “How did you two meet?”

  Priscilla was aglow. “The dance club.”

  “Not actually a club. All quite informal,” he said. “The Beachland Club has a small combo three nights a week and five or six of us are regulars. Brad and Jenna are in the group—I told you about them. Who else?”

  Priscilla answered, “Leland, plus a couple others I don’t actually know.”

  “You can’t count Leland. He just sits and watches,” he said. “Prissy has recently become a regular. She’s a good dancer.”

  “I guess a club is a great place to meet singles,” Sandy said. “And it helps if you are a good dancer.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about dancing,” he said. “Not at all like trying to meet someone in a bar. Most women enjoy being asked even by a stranger in the safety of the dance floor. Accepting has no hidden meaning about what comes next. Nothing comes next. You don’t have to start explaining who you are or what you do, to take the acquaintanceship to the next level. There is no next level. You go back and sit down. Thank you very much.”

  “I’m not a good dancer,” Sandy said. “The most amazing dance of my life was with Martin. Remember that?”

  “Oh, yes. I definitely remember, over in Sarasota.”

  She continued, “I should be a good dancer. I’m good at guessing the next step a man is about to take before he takes it.”

  As the conversation stayed with dancing, He and Priscilla smiled easily at each other. Apparently, dancing was a definite connection between these two.

  “So, you’re a lawyer too?” Priscilla was looking at Sandy. “What do you do all day?”

  “Mostly legal stuff.” Sandy hoped that didn’t sound too smartass. Priscilla was just trying to be nice. “Right now I’m investigating a shooting.”

  “That poor woman you found? I thought the police are investigating.”

  “Of course they are. At any rate, I got myself involved, and I’m not waiting around for the police to uninvolve me.”

&n
bsp; “Sandy likes to solve murders her own way. If you want to get away with murder, you’d better get away from Sandy Reid. Confronting a wretched wrongdoer is no more than a traffic speed bump to her.”

  Later, after more lunchtime chatter, they were back at the office without Priscilla. She didn’t question him at all. His business; he was a big boy.

  “Priscilla asked me to straighten out a little skirmish she got into.”

  “What skirmish?”

  “She’s in a checkout line at the supermarket, you see, when this elderly lady in front of her drops her purse. Prissy bends down to help get everything picked up, and when she stands up the woman behind her accuses her of trying to cut in line. Can you believe it? Prissy protests and the woman begins mouthing off. Prissy tries to calm her down and says okay, okay, get in front of me. The woman says no, no, no. You cut in. You go to the back of the line. By now, other people in line are chiming in against the woman. Anyway, Prissy hangs tough and stays in line behind the woman, and everyone else in line quiets down.

  “Prissy gets outside and the woman is waiting for her at the curb. The woman tries to shove her and in the process, the woman loses her balance and falls against a newspaper vending machine. The woman yells Prissy pushed her and she’s going to sue. Prissy tells her to go to hell and walks away to her car.”

  “You can’t drop it there. The woman could come back in a year with a different story, and all your witnesses have disappeared.”