3 A Brewski for the Old Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  The drive curving up to the clubhouse was outlined with a hedge of red hibiscus. Past the hibiscus I could see the manicured course. White sand traps were draped along the far edge of the fairway like a string of broken pearls on a carpet of grass in a color green that only occurs when nature is given lots of help. Royal palms towered above it all.

  The drive swung up in front of a two-storey clubhouse with a row of tall white pillars holding up a broad balcony on the second floor. I pulled up under the portico and a valet attendant ran out to get my keys. I handed them over and minced to the double front doors. A woman in a black skirt, just like me, and a white blouse, just like me, opened the front door. I was pleased to see she had on a silly white apron and I hoped all the wait staff wore them so none of the ladies would ask me to bring them a drink. I undid another button. More trash, less chance of being taken for staff.

  I walked around the mahogany table in the middle of the foyer. It held a fresh floral arrangement, massive and meant to impress, featuring mutant reeds and bird of paradise that climbed at least three feet above the stone urn. The urn itself was three feet tall. That sucker ever fell on you, you’d be dead. I pressed the elevator button and looked around the elegant vestibule while I waited.

  It had been a long time since I’d been here. Jimmy’s parents were members and had brought us to the Royal Palms for every major holiday or family event. The elevator doors sighed open and I turned to them. Behind me I heard the maid say, “Hello, Mrs. Travis.” Too late to run and nowhere to hide, I put out my hand to block the doors from closing and turned to face the enemy, prepared to get down and dirty. There was a muttered response and then Bernice Travis, my darling mother-in-law, walked around the table to join me at the elevator.

  She was dressed in an elegant Chanel-style black suit with white trim. Her impeccable coiffed blonde hair gracefully cupped her masklike face, tight and pinched, and surgically wiped clean of expression. With a husband who is a plastic surgeon it must be tempting to try all the latest techniques, as she had done. Her eyes tried to look startled when they saw me. Then Bernice’s mouth opened and closed. And then it did it again. I smiled.

  She stepped back from me and clutched at her chest, giving me hope all was not lost. Maybe the bitch would die right at my feet. Her eyes tried in vain to widen against their surgical tautness. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Oh, lunch and a fashion show. And you?”

  Her eyes dropped to my cleavage.

  “I was going to wear my spandex with this glittery tube top but my mom is wearing it.”

  She closed her eyes. For a moment I actually thought she was going to faint. But she was no quitter. Instead, she whispered, “You can’t come here.”

  “Excuse me? Has someone passed a new law?”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  Well, that was the understatement of the day. If there’d been a railroad near the trailer park where I grew up I’d definitely have lived on the wrong side. I grinned at her. Up to that very second I’d been feeling twitchy and uncomfortable, like someone was going to come along and say, “Staff must use the kitchen entrance.” But if Bernice Travis was unhappy, I was having a ball.

  “Will you have time after lunch for a drink and a chat?” I asked, sweet and nasty, like arsenic in melted chocolate.

  “No.” She didn’t add “not ’til hell freezes over,” but it was there anyway. “No,” she repeated. Her voice rose to a shout in case I’d gone deaf. “No.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I’ve been meaning to call and have you over.”

  She sputtered and started to turn away. She didn’t get far. She couldn’t leave. Some strange fascination, like a train wreck, awful but strangely fascinating, held her there. She just had to know how bad it was going to be. Slowly she walked forward on stiff legs, never taking her eyes off me, and staying as far away from me as the space in the elevator would permit. The elevator rose silently with her staring at me the whole time, both hands clutching her handbag in front of her as if to shield her from contamination. When the door opened she jolted forward but not fast enough.

  What thing in the world would make Bernice Travis the most miserable? Why, being seen with Sherri Travis! I stepped up beside her and linked my arm through hers. The Travis women had arrived. My face must have looked like I’d just won the lottery ’cause that’s how I was feeling. Hee haw, revenge was definitely sweet and why hadn’t I thought of amusing myself in this way before?

  The room had an eighteen-foot-high ceiling and the far wall was glass from floor to rafters. Packed with elegant, sophisticated women in the latest fashions, all with drinks in their hands, it was as if the pages of Vogue had come alive. I was wildly underdressed but I didn’t think undoing any more buttons to show a naughty lace bra would help. Beside me, Bernice had gone into some kind of shock. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t trying to get away, just standing there waiting for the social axe to fall, like some dumb beast at the abattoir. “Smile,” I whispered. “I certainly am.”

  Heads turned to look at us, eyebrows raised, before they went back to their drinks.

  The scent of mingled perfumes, expensive and exotic, teased my nose. The perfume was overlaid by the smell from towering vases of lilies and small rosebowls filled with gardenias. I wanted to scream for someone to open a window. I wanted to sneeze. I did.

  I don’t sneeze quietly. Don’t know how to. For me it’s Whiplash City and dramatic. Heads turned. Bernice sagged against me, close to fainting.

  Damn, this was fun, made me want to yodel. I propped her up and whispered, “Sorry about that but all the best people are doing it.” Pressing a knuckle to my nose and breathing through my mouth, I fought for supremacy over my sinus.

  Fortunately for Bernice, the ladies were more interested in whether their panty girdles were taking off the promised five pounds, or maybe they were concerned with how much of their martinis remained and how soon they could order a refill without garnering attention. Whatever it was, we had fallen off their radar.

  I pushed Bernice forward to meet Sheila, who was coming to greet us.

  “Hello, Bernice. Hi, Sherri.”

  “You know her?” asked Bernice, aghast.

  “Why yes, of course.” Either Sheila didn’t know the history or she had as warped a sense of humor as I did; she made my being there seem perfectly normal. Sheila wore a linen dress in an aqua green color, with a matching jacket, and looked model perfect. “Come get a drink,” Sheila said, drawing me away.

  “You do know that was my ex-mother-in-law?” I said to Sheila. “Yup.”

  “Okay, so you pulled me away so she wouldn’t have the big one and ruin your party. Understandable, but I really would have liked a few more minutes to torture her.” Sheila laughed. “I thought you wanted to meet Thia.” “Oh yeah, that too. Lead me to them. No wait! I definitely need a drink first.” I gave a dramatic shiver. “Alcohol will kill the Bernice germs.”

  Anita Charters came up to us while we gave our drink orders to a waitress in a silly white apron. Seemed I could have undone another button; for sure Mrs. Charters was displaying more cleavage than I was. Tully would say she’d caught ten pounds of fish in a five-pound net. The fish were definitely wiggling and jiggling and trying to get back to the ocean and you couldn’t help but watch the roiling to see how they made out.

  And her skirt was too tight and too short. Standing about five-foot-three in three-inch heels, she was decidedly plump, with a round face perfectly made up like a Kewpie doll. In a little girl’s voice she gushed and made happy over meeting me, and I was thrilled that someone finally thought my presence was an asset. I was sure this nice lady wouldn’t lie. I chatted to her, maneuvering her out of the crowd, saying all the nice things I had heard about Thia, great big liar that I am and then got to her with, “Wasn’t it awful what happened at the rec hall?”

  Bingo. Her face clouded up and then moisture filled her eyes.

  C H A P T E R 2 8

  “It�
��s so awful! How could this happen to us? This isn’t supposed to happen in the Preserves. We pay a lot of money to be safe.”

  “You knew Mr. Leenders well?”

  “He was an employee.” Her lips hardened into a firm straight line before the delicate flower returned. “He was such a wonderful man.” Anita Charters sniffed delicately.

  “I understand Thia and Mr. Leenders were close,” I said.

  “He helped me out a lot. He was good to Thia. He talked to her as a father would. Her own father isn’t involved in her life. She really needed a male influence. RJ gave it to her.” The babbling stopped with that suggestive statement.

  “He spent time with her?”

  Her eyes hardened momentarily and then she said, “He was a father figure to all the teenagers here.” “Did he spend time alone with her?”

  She stopped dabbing at her nose and lowered the tissue. The Kewpie doll’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a strange question.”

  “I just wondered how well Thia got to know him. He has a stepdaughter about her age. I wondered if Thia knew her.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Wary and watchful, she wasn’t going to commit until she knew where this was going.

  “His death must be painful for her if she got to know him well.”

  “She knew him as an employee. Thia is a kind girl, so of course this news is bound to distress her.” She smiled sweetly.

  “He was a good man.”

  “And yet someone killed him.”

  She was back to dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “I just can’t understand. It must have been something from his private life, something he brought in with him.” It was as if she were talking about dog crap he’d stepped in and dragged with him to the Preserves. Maybe that’s how she thought of everyone outside their enclave.

  A shockingly beautiful young woman floated towards us. Her skin, clear and pale, her nearly black hair and her disturbing violet eyes would make her stand out anywhere, but in this crowd of aged matrons with their national debt’s worth of procedures and products, this child/woman, the goddess whose image we were all trying to attain — in this room she was a shooting star. I felt a sharp bite of bitter envy. Had I ever been this young and beautiful?

  She drifted to a stop beside Anita.

  “This is my daughter, Thia,” Anita Charters said. She beamed at her daughter with delight.

  Neither the introduction nor the murmurs of admiration registered with Thia. Her face remained totally blank. She neither smiled nor frowned. Around us people moved in to be near Thia, drawn to her. They spoke animatedly and warmly to her but nothing seemed to penetrate her wall of indifference, and she remained unresponsive through the further succession of flattery and laughter that grew with her at the center.

  Was she on drugs? There were none of the obvious signs that I could see and, believe me, I have a doctorate in identifying a buzz. The girl just seemed immune to everything, frozen inside her own little bubble that no one could pierce. Definitely not normal.

  Thia and Anita were seated at the same table as me, thank you Sheila, and all through lunch I tried to get a reaction out of Thia, talked about music and movies and names in the tabloids. If she answered at all it was in monosyllables. I tried future plans, vacations, books, favorite beaches and surfing. Nada! She wasn’t rude, just indifferent. When dessert came, a wonderful raspberry sorbet with fresh raspberries and a sprig of mint, she excused herself, rose gracefully from the table and left for her modeling chores. I ate her dessert.

  Sheila left to be master of ceremonies, or is it mistress — whatever it was, she was terrific at the job, poised and witty.

  Thia came first in the parade of fashion, floating elegantly into the room, a born model. Sighs of regret rose behind her as the ladies watched an unattainable perfection. She strolled from table to table, turning this way and that so everyone could see how beautiful the clothes were, but it was Thia everyone was looking at and a hum of adjectives went up after she passed by. She paused at each table, posed and turned, responded to remarks but never reacted to the compliments that followed her.

  Anita watched joyfully, her hands joined in front of her mouth as if in prayer, worshipping at the shrine of Thia’s beauty, as enraptured as the rest of the guests.

  Thia had been given the lion’s share of the clothes. The other people modeling were just there to fill in until she could change and return to the room. No doubt about it, whatever “it” was, the girl was loaded.

  As the fashion show ended and the room started to empty, Thia slipped back into her chair beside me and picked up her lukewarm water.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it,” Anita asked.

  “It was okay,” was Thia’s bland reply.

  “You didn’t want to model?” I asked.

  “My mom volunteered me.” Her tone was edged with anger, the first emotion I’d seen in her.

  Anita’s hand trembled as she picked up her wineglass. “I should have asked first.” She gave a little laugh. “I promise I won’t do it again. Okay?”

  There was no response from Thia.

  A large woman came to the table to talk to Anita and she turned away from us.

  “Do you know Lacey Cagel?” I asked Thia. Thia turned her blank violet eyes to me.

  “Did you know that Ray John Leenders lived with her and her mother?”

  She gave a small shrug. “So?”

  “Ray John had a thing for young women. He had a thing with you.” The face was no longer blank.

  I leaned towards her. “Come to the washroom with me,” I whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

  She hesitated, on the verge of telling me to get stuffed, and then rose without speaking and led the way from the room. People stopped her, congratulating her and complimenting her, but she sailed through the storm of admiration, barely hesitating. She walked past the entrance to the washroom and down the hall to an exit that brought us out on a long balcony overlooking the first tee. We were alone.

  She stood with her back to the view, leaned against the railing and stared at me, challenging me to I didn’t know what.

  “You were…” I started to say “molested” but it didn’t fit her attitude, “involved with him.”

  Thia neither denied nor confirmed it, just waited. I could’ve used some of her poise. She made me feel like an awkward fool, like I was the kid and she was the adult.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Absolutely none. Do the police know?” The magnificent violet eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

  It certainly sounded like it. “I just need to know about Ray John. I’m not trying to cause you a problem.”

  She looked away, down the first fairway where two carts worked their way along the emerald carpet to the small flag in the distance. In profile she was even more stunning, with high chiseled cheekbones and a long patrician nose. She swung back to face me. “You got it all wrong. RJ didn’t force himself on me. I was willing. I loved him.”

  Well, shut my mouth. Just in case I still had it all wrong, I tend to get things all wrong, I asked, “You were willing?”

  “Oh yes,” she said lightly. “I was willing. More than willing, I was eager for it.”

  “He was a lot older than you, old enough to be your father. What he did was illegal.”

  She laughed out loud, enjoying either my naivety and stupidity or my shock.

  “Didn’t that worry you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t get it. What did you see in him?” She laughed. “He loved sex and so do I. That’s all that mattered.”

  “You had sex with him at the rec hall?”

  “The rec hall, my house, his truck, wherever.”

  “Did he meet the other girls there too?” Her jaw hardened as she came off the railing. “If there were others, they were nothing to him. Just shit. I was the one he was really into.”

  An unfortunate choice of words in m
y opinion. “So, it wasn’t just sex?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “We were good together. I suppose I’ll have to go back to those stupid boys now.” She sighed.

  “Tell me about the other girls. Who were they?”

  “I don’t know that there were others, but if there were, they didn’t mean anything.” She dismissed the thought with a flick of her hand.

  “Did you meet Ray John the night he died?” My luck ran out. “It’s none of your business and if you go telling anyone this, I’ll make you sorry.” She drifted away, back inside to her fans, completely composed. A hell of a lot more composed than I was.

  Her attitude shocked me as much as Ray John’s rutting ability. He definitely had to be on drugs of some kind to keep up his schedule. What was the number now — Thia, Lacey and Rena, at least three. That would take lots and lots of drugs.

  C H A P T E R 2 9

  I begged off the golf game Sheila offered. The Royal Palms was freaking me out. I could take the zombie girl shagging an older man, but I knew my mother-in-law was lurking somewhere about. Normally, I don’t even like to be in the same county as her if I can help it, and by now the shock had warn off. Bernice would be out for blood and there were sharp instruments, knives and forks, on the tables. Run-away, Run-away!

  I went to see Uncle Ziggy. In the hospital parking lot I took a minute to call Styles. “What?” he answered.

  I hate call display. No more civility from your nearest and dearest or even the cops. “Will the autopsy report on Ray John show steroid use or drugs to push up his sex drive? Do they check for things like that or do you have to ask?” I could tell by the quality of the silence I had his attention. “Perhaps you’d better explain that,” he suggested mildly, but I wasn’t fooled, I knew it was really an order.