T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Spud never did make it to the Sunshine State and moved into the efficiency apartment adjacent to my upstairs condo. His place had a private entrance with a stairway that connected to the Block’s parking lot. But he usually came and went through my place, since our kitchens were connected by French doors that always remained open.

  Soon after buying the Block, I’d employed a designer to completely renovate the living quarters, and either kitchen could have competed with those seen in Architectural Digest magazine. But in our case, outfitting the place with Thermador stainless steel appliances was like buying lace stockings for a nun. Spud promised not to cook anymore after he’d almost burned the structure down and I rarely used anything except the microwave. We preferred to eat out and most often quenched our appetites with cuisine from the Block. It was much safer. We don’t have a traditional father/daughter relationship by any means, but we do have some sort of a blood bond that may be love. Or perhaps we just put up with each other out of curiosity, to learn more about the other. Whatever it is, it works for us.

  Spud sneezed, and the motion caused another stray patch of flour to drift down from the top of his head. “Or maybe you should get that microwavable cookie dough,” I told him. “You just slice it and nuke it.”

  “These are better than some stupid microwave cookies.” He scraped a hardened piece from the pan and offered it to me. I shook my head. He waved an indignant hand at his ungrateful daughter. After making sure the oven was turned off and nothing was on fire inside it, I changed into running gear and returned to the kitchen to down some water before hitting my favorite path along the river.

  Bent over the kitchen sink with his tongue stuck out, Spud frantically wiped pieces of a partially chewed cookie from his tongue. He turned on the faucet and, using his hand, scooped water to rinse out the remaining crumbs.

  Arms locked behind my head, I twisted from side to side a few times to loosen up my torso. “I hope your peanut butter cookies don’t get the same reaction from Sara Jane.”

  Eyeing me with a peculiar expression, Spud turned off the water and spit a final time. “These cookies would gag a moose. I think I’ll just buy some from a bakery and tell her I made them.”

  Spud often regurgitated my advice as his own idea. “Good thinking,” I said and picked up a knee to stretch my thigh muscles. “See you in a bit. I’m off for a run.”

  “Hey, uh, before you go, I’m just wondering something,” Spud said, studying me with a cocked head. “I know I wasn’t around during your formative years and all that, but I sure don’t remember any photos of you looking that big-titted … ah … uh, I mean, big-breasted. And your mother wasn’t large in the rack department, either.”

  Looking down, it occurred to me that my new sports bra didn’t flatten me out like my old one did. This one was more like a pushup bra and it accentuated my shape. I stuck out my chest. “So you don’t think these are genetic?”

  Spud shook his head.

  I showed him my breezy smile. “Government enhancements. My bosses decided that some cosmetic procedures would improve my undercover abilities, so your tax dollars paid for a breast augmentation. They also lifted my eyebrows and injected my lips every six months.”

  Staring at my boobs, Spud frowned. “Well for crying out loud. I never would have agreed to my tax dollars going for a pair of implants on my daughter.”

  “Yeah, well, you never would have agreed to spend money on sponsoring a NASCAR team or producing a video game, either, if Uncle Sam had bothered to ask.”

  Spud, licking the air like a dog who’d just chewed a dropped aspirin, reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of beer. He probably figured it would wash away the burnt peanut taste. “I might have given the go-ahead for the NASCAR, but a video game?”

  “Back in 1999, the Army had missed its recruitment goals for so many years that the Department of Defense decided to spend more than two billion dollars on marketing and PR. A big chunk of that was used to develop a video game. It took three years and several million dollars but was finally released as a free game in a big debut. Supposedly, playing the game would encourage teenagers to get off the sofa and go join the military.” I bent over to touch my toes and held the stretch for several seconds, enjoying the feel of the pull in my calves. “You’d be amazed at the things our government spends your money on.”

  “But video games and boobs? That’s just crazy.” Agreeing with him, I finished stretching and headed for the stairs. “At least my boobs only cost taxpayers ten grand.” “You and the twins have a nice run,” Spud called.

  I always run between four and five miles—enough distance to clear my head and release endorphins—and today’s run was ideal. I jogged the riverwalk for the first mile, easily moving through walkers and sightseers, the captivating Cape Fear on one side and an eclectic mix of shops, town houses, restaurants, and hotels on the other. Outside decks and verandas, built to take advantage of the water view, were speckled with cheerful people.

  After a cool shower and spritz of my favorite perfume, I applied lipstick, layered on black mascara, and shimmied into a sensual skin-colored La Perla bra and silky panties. I have a weakness for quality lingerie and never pass up an opportunity to shop for my favorite labels. Chemises and camisoles alone fill three of my dresser drawers. After stepping into a short and clingy dress, I made a conscious decision not to strap on my shoulder holster. In addition to drawerloads of beautiful lingerie, I have an amazing collection of blazers that are the perfect length and cut to conceal a handgun. But if I was going to be retired, I would have to learn to relax and leave home without a weapon.

  Indecisive, I plopped on the bed and reconsidered donning a blazer so I could carry my everyday piece, a Glock 21. I felt strangely naked without the security of a .45 strapped to my body. In the past, its thirteen-round capacity had proved enough to get me out of most sticky situations, especially since I always carried an extra magazine and kept more in my vehicle.

  Shaken at the thought of going anywhere without a weapon, I compromised by carrying the piece I usually wore in an ankle or thigh holster, my Sig Sauer P232. I toted the Sig in a belt holster and concealed it with a denim blazer, which buttoned at the waist and revealed plenty of cleavage.

  In the kitchen, I downed two glasses of water, explained to a perplexed Spud that he’d have to soak the scorched cookie dough from the pan, and headed for El Vaquero. Retirement felt good and my body was ripe with anticipation. For both the Mexican food and a night with Bill.

  “Hello, darling,” I drawled in my sexy voice. “You look yummy.” As always, the sight of Bill sent a shiver of appreciation through my body. A model and actor who scored roles in made-for-TV movies, he was comfortable in any setting and turned heads in a classy five-star restaurant just as easily as he did while perched on a bar stool at a local dive. Tonight, he wore crumpled jeans and made them look fabulous with a tight silk T-shirt and expensive Ralph Lauren blazer. I was happily retired and ready to enjoy some spicy food with an adventurous male. Life was good, until I noticed the woman cozied up to him. A gorgeous blonde who appeared to be on familiar terms with my man.

  “Jersey.” Bill flashed me an apologetic smile. “This is my friend Lisa, but everyone calls her Lolly. We went to the same college to study acting and helped each other get modeling jobs,” he explained. “She called me out of the blue a few hours ago, so I invited her to join us for a drink.”

  Lolly stuck out a manicured hand. “So nice to meet you, Jersey. Billy has said so many great things about you.”

  I flinched at the bastardization of Bill’s name, but was in too good a mood to let a curveball ruin my night. I shook her hand. “Hello, Lolly. Love your dress.” Although she was far beyond the typical modeling age, there were no ugly DNA globules floating around in Lolly’s gene pool and I wondered if she’d made the runway or the catalogs. Regardless, she struck me as the type of woman who could control people with a flutter of her eyelashes.

  “Thank you,�
� she replied. “And I love the way you combined a jean jacket with a little black dress. Very few women can pull off that shabby-chic look.”

  I could appreciate a compliment just as much as the next person, even if it was stuffed inside an insult. My confidence comes from the fact that if anybody really pisses me off, I can kick their ass. Or in lieu of that, shoot them. Subconsciously, I pressed the inside of my elbow against the reassuring Sig. Like an alcoholic who relaxes at the mere sight of their first vodka of the day, I was immediately comforted by the hardness of the steel. I joined Bill and his friend, positioning myself so that my back was to the wall and I had an unobstructed view of the restaurant’s entrance. Old habits die hard.

  “What brings you to Wilmington?” I asked Lolly.

  “Oh, I just moved here with my husband and stepson,” she said, fluffing the short white-blond curls. “I’d heard that Bill was living in Wilmington and had to look him up. We were the best of friends back then, in school. This is just such a trip, running into him after all these years!” she squealed.

  Bill’s eyebrows went up, as though it was news to him that they’d been best friends. “Well, it was certainly a surprise to hear from you, Lolly. What have you been up to?”

  Flashing back, the two of them gossiped like girls at a slumber party, but I didn’t mind being left out. I’ve never been much for gossiping, talking on the phone, or shopping—but Bill could hang with the best of them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was gay.

  When a server appeared, Lolly ordered a glass of sangria and decided to skip the food. Bill and I chose nachos with extra jalapeños, chicken and shrimp enchiladas, and a pitcher of beer. I drink beer like other Southerners drink sweet tea, and, soaking up the ambiance while Bill and Lolly continued chatting, I resolved to make some changes in honor of my retirement. Studying a neon Corona beer light, I began a mental to-do list and put two items on it: leave home without a weapon and cut down on the beer.

  As if to test my new resolution, the pitcher of frothy beer was served instantaneously and the nachos arrived shortly after, radiating mouthwatering steam that rose from tons of melted cheese. Downing almost half a mug of beer with one tilt of my head—to wash down a loaded nacho, of course—I deleted the cut-down-on-beer goal from my mental list. After a few seconds of thought, I replaced it with: be more ladylike while drinking beer. I would much rather have focused my attention on Bill, but Lolly’s presence made that difficult to do. Slightly annoyed and attempting to be patient, I refilled my beer mug.

  “Gosh, Jersey,” Lolly said as if suddenly remembering I was there. “Bill and I are so busy catching up, we’re just totally ignoring you! Sorry to homestead on your boyfriend.” She blinked my way in slow motion and thick black lashes seemed to flirt with me. I think she flirted with everyone, both males and females, out of habit.

  Chewing on a nacho, I told her not to worry, that Bill and I would have plenty of time together later. Sweet, celebratory time, I thought. Because Bill modeled and went on casting calls, his schedule was as unpredictable as mine and it had been three weeks since we’d spent a night together. We were way overdue. To celebrate, we’d start by opening some bubbly. He always kept a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne in his refrigerator for special occasions and I figured that my official retirement qualified. Then, we’d jump naked into his outdoor hot tub for a few minutes of steamy, frothy foreplay, I thought, my mind racing forward in anticipation….

  “Oh, it’s horrible, just horrible!” Lolly cried, interrupting my fantasy.

  “What’s horrible?” I involuntarily asked, wiping a spot of cheese off my chin. I think her outburst made me jump.

  “Sam. He’s cheating on me. My husband is having an affair!” she wailed, going from a confident knockout to sniveling damsel in distress in record time.

  I looked to Bill for direction. He always knew the proper thing to say or do in situations like these. A few diners glanced our way and I shrugged my shoulders in helpless apology.

  “Oh, honey,” Bill told Lolly, “just because y’all are having problems doesn’t mean he’s got another woman! It could be any number of things.” He toed my leg under the table, encouraging me to back him up.

  “Well, uh, yeah … Bill is right,” I said stupidly. I hate it when women cry. For that matter, I hate it when anybody cries for no good reason, except babies and toddlers. They can’t express themselves by talking yet, so they are entitled to a good wail now and then.

  Bill gave me another toe nudge, urging me to offer something more substantial. He figured a woman ought to know what to say to another woman, as though sporting a set of breasts gave me unobstructed access to Lolly’s psyche.

  “Men sometimes have a lot of pressures at work,” was what came out of my mouth. “What does Sam do?”

  “He’s a stockbroker, one of those financial guys. He says he’s working late, but then when I call his direct line at the office, he’s not there. He doesn’t answer his cell phone. When he comes home, he just showers, drinks a few bourbons, and passes out like he’s exhausted. A few times I’ve heard him whispering on the telephone in the den when he thought I was asleep.”

  Our enchiladas arrived and we paused conversation to rearrange the table. Sniffling, Lolly pierced a bite of my food with a fork and slowly chewed. I asked the server to bring another plate, as Lolly’s appetite had apparently kicked in.

  “Bill said you just moved here. How could Sam be having an affair so quickly?” Logic told me that it would take at least a few months of knowing someone before you jumped into an illicit affair with them. A one-nighter, maybe, but not an ongoing fling.

  “I don’t know,” Lolly said in a tiny voice. “We’ve only been married a year. And we did just get to town. Sam is opening another branch office and he’s doing this one in person so he can train his son, who just graduated from the Citadel. Sam wants Jared to become a broker and work with him in the business.” She dabbed a napkin beneath a set of very blue eyes. “But maybe it’s somebody in his company. Some secretary who’s also here to open the new branch …” Her voice trailed off and ended in another bawl.

  “Open a new branch of what?” I asked, shooting a mind-your-own-business look at a nearby couple who was openly staring and obviously eavesdropping.

  “Chesterfield Financial.”

  A piece of shrimp stuck in my throat and I had to chug some beer to keep from choking. Chesterfield Financial was one of the biggest brokerage firms in the country, whose founder could affect the price of a blue-chip stock with an offhand comment during a press interview.

  Lolly raised a hand to wipe her runny nose, and suddenly it hit me. The rock on her ring finger had to be a full four carats’ worth and it was accented by a solid emerald-and-diamond tennis bracelet. The outfit she wore was of the designer variety and her appearance reeked of pampered wealth, from the fashionable hair color to the professionally done acrylic nails. She was both beautiful and well kept.

  “Lolly, what is your last name?” I asked just to be sure.

  “Chesterfield.”

  “Is your husband, uh, the Samuel Chesterfield?”

  “Yeah. But he goes by Sam. I call him Sammy when I’m not mad at him.”

  I could only shake my head and even Bill seemed astounded when the realization clicked in his socially calculating mind. Apparently, he and his college gal pal hadn’t stayed in close touch. Although he knew she’d gotten married, he hadn’t made the connection. Lolly had snagged the Samuel Chesterfield, catapulting her into a position of obscene wealth and notoriety. She didn’t need to work any longer, that was for sure.

  Bill’s perfectly shaped jaw dropped half an inch and he remained speechless, a rare condition for him. The president of the United States could have walked through the doors of El Vaquero and Bill would have waltzed up to say hello. But Lolly’s disclosure had awed him into silence. Either that, or he was practicing for an upcoming movie scene that called for some major astonishment.

  L
olly explained that Chesterfield’s son was being groomed to take over the conglomerate Sam founded. The family planned to live in Wilmington for several months, giving Chesterfield time to oversee the opening of the new branch office while teaching his kid the ropes in the process.

  I took her hand. “Lolly, I don’t know what’s going on. But Samuel Chesterfield would not cheat on his new bride. He’s a financial shark, but a shark with integrity. The American public loves him. That’s why they keep sending him their money.” Thinking my mini speech sounded pretty good, I tipped my head back to finish another beer. Bill regained his senses, closed his mouth, and refilled our mugs, emptying the pitcher.

  Racking my memory banks, I recalled that Chesterfield had openly shared his professional and private life with the media, but that was when he’d been married to the same woman for some thirty years, raised two handsome children, and was friends with all the influential Hollywood types. The nation wept with him when his wife died in a boating accident, after which Chesterfield reverted to a very private, very dateless life. I’d read something about him remarrying, but had no idea that the new missus was twenty years his junior, not to mention an acquaintance of my boyfriend.

  Lolly made a show of carefully dabbing a napkin beneath teary eyes in what looked like a scene from a soap opera. “But he must be having an affair! That’s all it could be.” Delicate sniffles escaped her throat and threatened to become hiccups.

  Questioning me with his eyes, Bill raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer. It took me a few seconds to realize what he wanted. I was already shaking my head in the negative when Lolly brought up the “D” word.

  “Hey, aren’t you some kind of a detective, Jersey?”

  “Something like that,” I answered. If you could call breaking into top-security buildings, penetrating foreign safe houses, and stealing back stolen government electronics being a detective.