The last door had an oval lead-glass window in the middle, etched with gold lettering that read PAXTON FINE ART & ANTIQUES, and then in smaller letters underneath, MESSRS. A AND R PAXTON, DEALERS. The doorknob was one of those big brass numbers, polished with age, and when I pushed down on its paddle-shaped handle and gave it a nudge, I nearly banged my head on the door. It was locked.
Inside I could see a black metal music stand holding a framed placard that read BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, but then a woman appeared with a ring of keys in her hand. She was wearing a black long-sleeved silk blouse and linen pants with shiny black stiletto heels and a white leather belt around her tiny waist. I stepped back as she opened the door and smiled.
“Miss Hemingway?”
Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and there was a tiny dried flower tucked over her ear, a pale pink rose. Her big brown eyes were partly hidden behind a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, but I recognized her right away. I said, “Oh, I think we met before—at the Sea Breeze?”
She shook her head. “The Sea Breeze?”
“We rode up together in the elevator … remember? I’d forgotten to pick my floor?”
She smiled and shook her head slightly. “I have no idea what you mean.”
I blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m mistaken. You look exactly like someone I met there.”
She looked up and down the street and then motioned me in. “No need to apologize. Mr. Paxton’s just upstairs.”
I followed her to a reception desk set inside an alcove on the right, with a low counter and a row of white filing cabinets along the back. As she slipped around the counter, she glanced down at Mrs. Keller’s package in my hands and said, “I’m Daniela, by the way. I’m Mr. Paxton’s assistant.”
I nodded and smiled, trying to look as dumb and agreeable as possible. “It’s so nice to meet you, and what a beautiful gallery.”
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. She was the same woman—the woman whose necklace I had complimented in Tom Hale’s elevator. It was true she looked different in a ponytail and glasses, but her beauty was unmistakable. I was absolutely certain of it, but I couldn’t very well argue with her. For whatever reason, she didn’t want to admit she’d been there.
Of course, my mind immediately started tossing out all kinds of possible explanations. Maybe she didn’t want her boss to know she’d been away from the gallery in the middle of the day, or perhaps she was having an affair with someone in the building, or perhaps she was embarrassed to admit on her days off she earned extra money at the Sea Breeze as a housemaid … an impeccably beautiful, luxuriously dressed housemaid.
She lifted up a green leather handbag from under her chair, and as she swung it onto the desk it fell open slightly and out slipped a piece of paper printed with what looked like an airline itinerary or maybe a boarding pass. I remembered she’d said the Catholic cross on her necklace was from Peru, her homeland, and I wondered if maybe she was planning a trip home, but I certainly couldn’t ask her about it—especially when she was pretending she’d never met me.
She folded the piece of paper back into her bag and pulled out a cell phone, glancing up with a tight-lipped smile. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll let Mr. Paxton know you’ve arrived.”
I wrinkled my nose and resisted the urge to give her a your-secret’s-safe-with-me wink. Instead, I just nodded and smiled some more as I looked around the gallery.
The walls and floors were all bright white, and arranged around the room were a dozen or so glass cases on white pedestals, each about my height, with only one or two items inside and lit from above with tiny spotlights. The closest held two identical clay vases, both about the size and color of an avocado, with tiny looped handles on either side. They were pretty enough, but in another case farther back was something a little more my style. It was a threaded gold chain necklace with an oval-cut yellow sapphire pendant, set in a diamond scroll, like a cartouche, with a pair of matching sapphire earrings.
Or, I guess I should say, not my style—I’m not one to gush over expensive jewelry—but it was drop-dead, tail-wagging exquisite. The sapphire at the end of the pendant was as big as a peach pit, and I could feel myself swaying slightly in my Keds as I gazed longingly into its glittering abyss.
“For a hundred thousand dollars, it’s yours.”
I turned to find a rugged-looking man in a gray pin-striped three-piece suit, an open collar, and gold chains nestled in the dark hair on his chest. He was handsome, with a small mustache and a five-o’clock shadow, but there was something curiously unsexy about him, like he might make a good villain in a cheesy TV movie.
I probably blushed, because I could feel my cheeks turn warm as I shifted Mrs. Keller’s package to my left side and held out my hand. I said, “Great. I’ll take two.”
He held his hand up and waved it sheepishly. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I may have caught a cold on the plane and I’d hate to give it to you. I’m Wilfred Paxton. Thanks so much for your help with this.”
I said, “Of course, it’s my pleasure.”
He looked down. “Is this…?”
I nodded self-consciously, certain he could tell I had opened it, which of course was ridiculous, but as I passed it to him, I literally felt the smile on my face reshape itself into a kind of nervous, guilty grimace.
“Miss Hemingway, is anything the matter?”
“Who, me?” I shrugged and flashed him my best smile. “No, no, I’m totally fine. It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”
“Yes, I completely understand. Well, don’t let me keep you.” He nodded at the sapphire pendant in the case behind me. “Shall I wrap that up for you?”
I laughed. “I’m afraid I’d never have an occasion to wear it, but I think Mrs. Keller would probably love it. Why don’t you go ahead and send it to her and I promise I’ll pay you back later.”
He grinned, and I noticed his teeth were the same stark white as all the walls and floors. “She seemed rather reluctant to give me her address, so I’m afraid you may have to act as courier again, speaking of which, please do convey my sincere thanks to Mrs. Keller. She’s been very patient about this entire debacle. As you may know, she bought this piece at an antique store outside Tampa, but it had already been promised to a client of mine.”
I shrugged. “Well, these things happen, I guess.”
He smiled. “Yes, it’s difficult to find competent help these days.”
Over his shoulder, I could see Daniela sitting at her desk. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. Mr. Paxton led me over to her, and at one point he placed his hand in the middle of my back, which made the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten, but I tried not to let it show.
“Daniela, give Miss Hemingway a receipt of delivery, please.”
He turned and flashed that toothy smile again. “And thank you so much for your help. My client will be very relieved.”
I nodded. “Of course, I’m more than happy to help. And as soon as I have a hundred thousand dollars I’ll come back and pick up that necklace.”
He glanced at Daniela and then nodded at me, and then disappeared through a door in the back of the gallery. I almost stopped him. I actually took a breath and started to say, Wait. I was dying to ask what the heck that yellow powder was inside that jar, even though I knew if I did it might create more questions than answers.
Daniela pulled a piece of paper from the printer on the corner of her desk, folded it into thirds, and handed it to me. I tried to catch her eye but she avoided me. I was still thinking I might get her to acknowledge that we’d met before, but she was absentmindedly straightening the papers on her desk. As I said good-bye, she glanced at the door Mr. Paxton had gone through.
All the way to the Bronco, I could still feel his hand on my back, and then I had the strangest feeling I was being watched. Sure enough, as I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed two men crossing the street opposite me. One was pale and thin, in a dark suit,
and the other was squat and bald, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and they were headed for the gallery. Mr. Paxton was standing in the doorway, his face framed in the oval window, his expression completely blank, almost like he was sleepwalking.
I think on any other day, under different circumstances, I would probably have mulled it over for the rest of the evening, trying to come up with some scenario that explained the oddness of the whole meeting, starting with Daniela’s strange denial that we’d met and ending with Mr. Paxton’s odd expression as I drove away.
But thoughts of Mona’s awful childhood were still in the back of my mind, and I was starting to feel bad that I hadn’t called Ethan back … and not only that, but I didn’t think I was going to anytime soon. It was like a quiet panic building in the pit of my stomach.
The only thing keeping me from pulling over to the side of the road and curling up in a fetal position in the back of the Bronco was the thought of Michael and Paco scurrying around in their kitchen preparing dinner. I could see myself taking a seat on the deck our grandfather built, and I could see Paco handing me an ice-cold beer while Michael spooned something yummy onto my plate. I was thinking maybe hushpuppies and fried catfish would fit the bill perfectly.
With that image in my head, I put myself on autopilot. I’ve crisscrossed this island so many times I could practically do it blindfolded, so all I had to do was keep my hands on the wheel. I barely had to think about where I was going.
Sometimes that’s the best way to get where you need to be.
28
Sarasota has a slew of assisted-living homes and retirement communities, and Bayfront Village is the grande dame of them all, even though its main building is about the ugliest architectural monstrosity this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. The outside walls are pink brick and the roof is red terra-cotta tile, which look pretty nice together, except there are Art Deco sunburst patterns painted in a garish turquoise all along the roof, and that’s topped with rows of Mediterranean arches and faux-gold Gothic spires.
The fake cobblestone driveway rolls up to a Spanish-style covered portico, held aloft by four Greek columns, and standing guard on either side are two fat-cheeked cherubs, each peeing into his own sparkling fountain shaped like a giant clamshell. Let’s just say if Dr. Frankenstein had been an architect, Bayfront Village would be his best-known creation.
But its residents don’t give a hoot about the architecture or the similarly jumbled interior decor, because the services at Bayfront are top-notch. A uniformed valet whisks your car away to some climate-controlled location, the glass doors whisper open like magic as you approach, and Vickie, the concierge stationed at a little gold-leaf desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby, phones up to announce your arrival.
I think it didn’t fully dawn on me what I’d done until the elevator spilled me out onto the sixth floor and I looked down the hall. My autopilot had apparently thought a visit to Cora Mathers was in order.
Normally she’s standing in front of her apartment, waving her skinny arms over her head like an air traffic controller. Right before I knocked, there was a volley of laughter like two tinkling bells from inside.
Cora opened the door and beamed at me. “Oh, my goodness, what a wonderful surprise!”
Cora’s in her mid-eighties, but she’s the youngest person I know, in spirit at least. She’s just shy of five feet tall on her tiptoes, her skin is the color of fine talcum powder, and her white hair hovers above her head like a fluffy puff of smoke. She was wearing white cotton clamdiggers and a silk blouse covered with blue and pink parrots on a bright field of green palm fronds.
“Is it a bad time? I was just in the neighborhood and thought—”
“Oh, of course not, Dixie. It’s never a bad time. You can meet my friend Kate!” She tilted forward and whispered conspiratorially, “She’s dumb as a fruitcake and just as sweet.”
I followed her in, being careful not to rear-end her as she tottered into the apartment like a penguin. I was already wishing I’d called first—I didn’t feel like sharing Cora with anybody—but it was too late now.
Cora’s apartment always makes me feel like I’m being cradled. It’s airy and cheerful, all wicker and ferns and lace, and the floors are pink tile, with walls a slightly deeper shade of coral. To the left is a breakfast bar with shutters to hide the kitchen, and to the right is an arched doorway to Cora’s bedroom.
She looked down at my hands. “Did you forget something? You usually have a few goodies for me, don’t you? Some yummy soup from that organic shop or maybe a few juicy peaches?”
I sighed. “I know, but I really wasn’t planning on stopping by. I was on my way home and then the next thing I knew…”
She shook her head sadly and made a clucking sound.
“What?”
“I just this minute put out a fresh-baked loaf of chocolate bread to cool, but it hardly seems fair to offer any when you’re arriving so empty-handed.”
As far as I’m concerned, Chicago has its pizza, New Orleans has its gumbo, and Siesta Key has Cora’s chocolate bread. She makes it in a bread machine that’s probably as old as I am, and the recipe is top secret. I’m completely addicted to it.
I jutted my jaw forward and raised my hand up in a tight fist under her chin. “Listen, old woman, I ain’t leavin’ this building without some of that damn bread.”
She giggled. “Oh, dear. Such violence. All right, then, go on in and introduce yourself to Kate. I’ll fetch an extra teacup.”
There was a tan elderly woman in a yellow pantsuit perched on the tuxedo sofa at the other side of Cora’s glass-topped coffee table. She wore her jet-black hair in a short bob, with a necklace of white beads and two white disk earrings the size of sand dollars. Despite the fact that she looked every bit as old as Cora, when I entered the room she stood up with surprising vigor. Her lips were bright vermilion, her eyelids pale blue, and her arching eyebrows were drawn in with a thin black pencil.
She thrust her hand out and flashed a set of perfectly straight white teeth, and for a second I thought she could probably do a mean impersonation of Liza Minnelli if she put her mind to it. “Charmed to meet you, I’m Kate Spencer.”
She had a firm grip. “Hi, I’m Dixie. Cora always speaks very highly of you.”
She looked me up and down, appraising me like a steer at market. “Well, the ol’ girl is right—she always says you’re a right pretty one.”
She had a thick Texas drawl. I said, “Aw, that’s nice. I actually pay her to say that, but thanks anyway.”
She blinked. “You pay her?”
I waved my hand in the air as I sat down in one of the chintz armchairs opposite her. “No, no! I’m just joking.”
She was holding her mouth open in a half smile, almost like she was waiting for the joke, and then nodded. “Honey, how old do you think I am?”
I pulled a couple of errant hairs that had fallen across my face and tucked them behind my ear. “Oh, gosh, I’m so terrible at guessing ages, I have no idea.”
“Guess! I bet you’ll be surprised.”
Cora came shuffling in carrying a tray with a teacup and a fresh loaf of chocolate bread. “Dixie, she’s a hundred and ten.”
Kate fluttered her fingers in the air like she was shooing a fly. “Oh, now, shush, Cora, be quiet.”
“Kate, Dixie doesn’t want to guess how old you are.”
Kate clapped her hands together and interlaced her fingers. “I’m ninety-three!”
I figured I’d play along and act surprised, which wasn’t too hard because the woman looked easily ten years younger. I shook my head, “That’s amazing. I would’ve been way off.”
She grinned from ear to ear. “I know it. Cora’s just jealous.”
Cora nodded as she filled my cup. “You’re right about that.”
I laughed. “Oh, stop. I say every woman in this room is a total knockout.”
Cora shook her head as she lowered herself down in the chair next to me. “Well, one out
of three ain’t bad. Dixie, tell Kate about your hunka-hunka.”
“My what?”
She made a speed-up motion with her hand. “You know … your man, your hunka-hunka.”
“Cora, please tell me you did not just call Ethan my hunka-hunka.”
“Well, you won’t let me call him your boyfriend, and I believe I recall you told me not to refer to him as your beau.”
I said, “Well, that may be, but hunka-hunka is worse!”
She rolled her eyes at Kate. “Oh, Lord, such a preoccupation with labels. What do you want me to call him?”
“I don’t know. My…”
I looked down. Suddenly there was an awkward silence and I felt a muscle in my cheek twitch slightly. Cora’s smile faded. That’s the problem with having a friend like Cora. She sees right through me.
“Dixie, what’s the matter?”
I looked down and smoothed the wrinkles out of my shorts. “It’s nothing. I’ve had a rough week, but I’m sure you girls have better things to do than sit around and talk about my dumb problems.”
Cora wrinkled her nose. “Dixie, we’re two old dames having tea. We’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Well, it’s completely stupid. I wasn’t even thinking about it, but since you ask … the topic of children has reared its ugly head.”
I turned to Kate, thinking perhaps I needed to offer some sort of explanation, but she had already pivoted toward the window and was staring intently out at the bay with her teacup poised just inches from her lips. I got the distinct impression Cora had already told her all about my sordid past.
I was waiting for Cora to say something like, Oh, poppycock! or You’re thinking too much, but she didn’t. She was just sitting there watching me, her pale blue eyes reflecting the light from the windows. Finally, she nodded slowly and sat back in her chair with a sad sigh.
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