Orchid Beach hb-1

by Stuart Woods

  “You decide,” she said, plopping down in a chair. Daisy curled up at her feet.

  Jackson went away, and Holly took in the sky and ocean before her. The setting sun lit the huge cumulus clouds and turned them pink, and the blue water reflected the color. Jackson was back in a couple of minutes with a cocktail shaker and two glasses.

  He strained a clear, green-tinted liquid into the glasses and handed her one. “Your continued good health,” he said, raising a glass.

  “And yours,” she replied, sipping the lime-flavored cocktail. “What is this?”

  “Vodka gimlet,” he said. “Vodka and Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, shaken very cold.”

  “Delicious,” she said. “What did you mean, my continued good health?”

  “You’re healthy—I’d like to see you remain that way.”

  “Do you have some reason to believe I might not?”

  “To tell you the truth, after your story about the gas bottle and the flare, I’ve half expected to hear that something had happened to you. That would have explained why you didn’t call, and anyway, I figured that nothing short of hospitalization would have stopped you.”

  She laughed. “I did have to stop myself,” she said.

  “If you’re worried about what the city council thinks about us, don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s take them one at a time: Charlie Peterson is a sweet guy and couldn’t care less; Howard Goldman is a mensch; you know what that means?”

  “Yiddish for a sweet guy?”

  “Right. Frank Hessian, the vet, is just indifferent, couldn’t care less.”

  “What about John Westover and Irma Taggert?”

  “They’re the least of your worries, since they’ve been screwing each other for years, unbeknownst to his wife and her husband.”

  “You’re kidding! Westover and that prim lady?”

  “She’s apparently not so prim. Guy I know walked into Westover’s office at the car dealership one day and interrupted John and Irma in the middle of a quickie.”

  Holly nearly choked on her drink. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  From somewhere inside the house, a single chime rang.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Jackson said. He set down his drink, got up and went into the house. It was becoming a little chilly, so Holly followed, bringing their drinks. To her surprise, he went to an umbrella stand beside the back door and retrieved from it a pump shotgun, a riot gun with an eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel, the kind the police use. He pumped the shotgun once, held it behind him, opened the door a couple of inches and peered down the driveway.

  “What’s going on?” Holly asked, alarmed.

  “Visitors,” Jackson said. “Are you armed?”

  “In my handbag.”

  “Get it, please.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  H olly set down the drinks, got the Beretta from her handbag and went and stood behind Jackson, straining to see past him. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Looks like a light-colored truck of some sort,” he replied. “Hard to tell much, it’s getting dark.”

  “Who’s in it?”

  “Can’t see anybody.”

  “Is it coming toward us?”

  “No, just sitting. I can hear the engine idling.”

  Holly changed positions and saw the dim outline of the vehicle. “Maybe it’s not a truck,” she said. “Maybe it’s an SUV, something like my Grand Cherokee.”

  “Or a Ford Explorer,” he said.

  “What’s going on, Jackson?”

  “My guess it’s somebody who’s interested in the lack of continuing good health of one of us.”

  “So who’s after you?”

  “You remember, I told you about my ex-partner?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He’s not the kind to forget.”

  “And you think whoever this is could be after me, instead?”

  “That’s why the Beretta was in your bag, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s department policy for officers to go armed when off duty—increases police coverage. But yeah,” she admitted, “I had that in mind, too.”

  The vehicle continued to sit there, idling.

  “They know I’m here,” she said. “They can see my car.”

  “Maybe that’s why they’re still sitting there,” he said. “They know somebody else is here, not necessarily you.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  “Nice having police protection.”

  She pinched his backside. “Any time.”

  The vehicle reversed back down the driveway and disappeared. A moment later, the chime rang again. Jackson waited for a minute, then closed the door, put the safety on the shotgun, and returned it to the unbrella stand, where the barrel barely peeked out. “I hope you meant that,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The pinch.”

  “Oh, I meant that. That chime is kind of a car bell, then?”

  “Yeah, it offers notice of visitors.”

  Holly returned the Beretta to her bag.

  “How about some dinner?” he asked.

  “You bet. What are we having?”

  “My famous crab cakes.” He walked toward the kitchen, switching on lights.

  “Famous to whom?”

  “To them that has eaten them.” He took several items from the fridge and began to put together their dinner.

  Holly watched with interest. She was a good, plain cook, but Jackson had obviously had a lot more practice. He had half-prepared everything in advance, and in twenty minutes they were sitting at the table consuming a very fine dinner.

  “Your cue,” he said.

  “Oh, terrific crab cakes,” she said.

  “The best you’ve ever had?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good guest. Like the wine?”

  “It’s perfect, what is it?”

  “Robert Mondavi Reserve Chardonnay, ’94, one of the best of the vintage, which is said to be the best ever for California chardonnays.”

  “I believe you,” she said, sipping her wine. “So, how come you’re still single, Jackson?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “We’ll share it.”

  “Never married?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know. When I was in the army I wasn’t much interested in being married to an army man. Too many complications—transfers, assignments, et cetera. And being married to a civilian would have been even worse.”

  “And now that you’re out of the army?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “I’ve had all the time in the world to think about it, but I haven’t, much.”

  “Is there a shortage of single women in Orchid?”

  “Not really. I’ve managed to stay reasonably busy in the evenings. Am I the first guy to hit on you?”

  “You hitting on me?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Yeah, you’re the first. Well, I did catch our esteemed city council president looking at my tits a couple of times.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Jackson said. “Considering that the alternative tits were Irma Taggert’s.”

  “Oh, he would have looked anyway,” she said smugly.

  “Don’t be smug.”

  “I’m smug about only a few things,” she said.

  “What else?”

  “I’m a very good pistol shot. I’m smug about that.”

  “Great. What else?”

  “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

  “I can’t wait.” He got up and took their plates to the kitchen. “You want some dessert?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I’ve got freshly made apple pie, à la mode.”

  “I’ll have the p
ie, hold the à la mode.”

  “Smart girl,” he said. Shortly he returned with two plates, one à la mode.

  “I’m not as skinny as you are,” she said. “A girl has to watch her figure.”

  “Don’t worry, John Westover and I will do that for you.”

  “That’s a load off my mind.”

  They finished their dessert and Jackson produced two cups of espresso. They sat on the sofa before a fire, drank their coffee and watched it get dark outside. When they had finished, Jackson took her face in his hands and kissed her for some time.

  “You taste like espresso,” she said while he moved his kisses to her neck.

  “You taste like girl,” he replied, moving down. “Everywhere, so far.”

  “That’s good.”

  “You smell good, too,” he said, pushing his prominent nose between her breasts.

  “I bathe.”

  “You do a good job.” He began working on her buttons.

  “If you keep that up, you’re going to have to make love to me,” she said.

  He didn’t stop. Now he had unhooked her bra and had a breast in his hand. “Shall I throw you over my shoulder and take you upstairs?”

  “I’m still ambulatory,” she said, standing up and removing her blouse and bra. “But not for much longer. My knees are getting weak.”

  He held her against him and kissed her some more, taking her buttocks in his big hands and pulling her toward him. Then he took her hand. “This way,” he said, leading her through the living room and up a flight of stairs to a large bedroom with a large bed, both of them shedding clothes along the way. Daisy followed, her claws clicking on the hardwood floors.

  “Lie down, Daisy,” Holly said. “Time to go to sleep.”

  Daisy lay down and rested her head on her paws, watching them.

  “Good dog,” Jackson said, struggling with Holly’s jeans.

  “I hope to god you’ve got a condom,” she said as he laid her on the soft bed, “because I foolishly didn’t bring anything.”

  “Not to worry,” he said.

  And she didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  24

  H olly heard the surf before she opened her eyes. Then she sat straight up in bed. Work! She fell back. Saturday, thank God. She reached for Jackson as she had done several times during the night, but he was not there.

  Daisy came and nuzzled her, poking her nose under Holly’s arm and lifting so that she could get underneath.

  Holly heard the rattle of pots from downstairs, so she got up, washed her face, took Jackson’s terry-cloth robe from a hook on the back of the door and padded barefoot downstairs. Jackson was scrambling eggs.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Afternoon? What time is it?”

  “Just past ten. That’s afternoon for me.”

  “You’re not working today, are you?” she asked.

  “Nope. I’m spending the day with you.”

  “Good call,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

  He turned and embraced her. “You feel better on this side of me.”

  “Mmmm,” she agreed.

  “Dog food under the sink,” he said. “I was hoping Daisy would be here for breakfast.”

  Holly fed the dog and let her out.

  “Eggs are ready,” Jackson called. He put the eggs, with bacon, toast and orange juice, on the table, then set down a pot of freshly made coffee. “Hope you’re hungry.”

  “You bet,” she said, digging in.

  “You’re a girl with a healthy appetite.”

  “I’m not a girl, but you’re right about the appetite.”

  “You’re a girl to me.”

  “I’ll take that in the best possible light,” she said.

  “What do you normally do in the mornings?”

  “I run, then I work. Normally. What do you do?”

  “The writer Max Shulman once said that exercise destroys the tissues; I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “You don’t enjoy exercise?”

  “Not for its own sake. I enjoy tennis, golf, and sex.”

  “I’m acquainted with your enjoyment of the latter,” she laughed.

  “I reckon we burned a lot of calories last night. I’ll think of that as the moral equivalent of my morning run.”

  “That’s the kind of slippery thinking a lawyer can get away with,” she said, “but not a police officer. On the other hand, maybe I could skip the run today.”

  “We could always burn some more calories,” he said.

  She laughed. “Mind if I finish breakfast?”

  “Not if you hurry.”

  “Jackson, the car or truck or whatever it was last night—could it have been a Range Rover?”

  Jackson thought about that. “Let’s see, a Range Rover looks kind of square from the front, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Maybe it could have been, I don’t know. Could have been anything big—pickup, SUV, whatever. Why a Range Rover?”

  “What do you know about a real estate development called Palmetto Gardens?”

  “That’s easy: almost nothing, which is what most people know about it. I know it’s a superprivate, superexclusive retreat for the super-rich. When they were building the place they hired local contractors to do the basic work—roads, sewers, electrical and phone—and locals seem to do all the basic work on the houses—foundations, framing, roofing. But they bring in their own construction people for the finishing work. There was stuff in the papers about that early on; there was some resentment that more local jobs weren’t being created, but their public relations people came back with some very detailed answers about what the development was doing for the community at large—number of jobs, money spent in the town, their contribution to the tax base. It was very impressive, and it pretty much squelched any opposition. The city council backed them up, too.”

  “Have you ever been inside the place?”

  “No, and neither has anybody else I know.”

  “I have.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. I was driving around a couple of weeks ago, getting to know the geography and the neighborhoods, but when I tried to drive in there I got stopped cold.”

  “Well, it is private property, I guess.”

  “Yeah, but the head of security came out and gave me a tour of the place.”

  “What was the place like?”

  “Like you’d imagine a superexpensive place would be: a lot of facilities for apparently only a few people. What heaven would be like, if it had been designed by a real estate developer.”

  “Oh, I remember, too, that the local real estate agencies were pretty pissed off not to get a piece of the action on property sales. They don’t work with local agents at all. But what has all this got to do with Range Rovers?”

  “The head of security, a guy named Noble, was driving one, and I saw a couple more while I was there. The security force drives them.”

  “Noble? What’s his first name?”

  “Barney.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Huh?”

  “You remember, I told you my ex-partner, the ex-convict, now works for a Miami security outfit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s called Craig and Noble. Jack Craig is a former Miami police captain. Barney Noble is, or was, his partner.”

  “You think that means something?”

  “Let’s see, what could it mean? That maybe my ex-partner sent Barney Noble up here, under cover, to off me?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I think it’s just a coincidence. I’ve never even met Noble, or anybody else from that place, come to think of it.”

  “What’s your ex-partner’s name?”

  “Elwood Mosely, a.k.a. ‘Cracker.’ I never heard him called anything else.”

  “Description?”

  “Six-two, two-twenty-five, bright red hair, pale complexion.” He thought for a m
oment. “Ugly.”

  “You think he could be around here?”

  “Who knows? After last night, maybe.”

  “I could pull his photograph out of the system and have a watch put out for him.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing that could backfire on you with the council—doing favors for a…what am I to you?”

  “A lover.”

  “That’s the word I was looking for.”

  “You’re a citizen. Write me a letter on your law firm letterhead saying that you’ve had previous difficulties with the guy, and you’ve heard he may be in town, and could we keep an eye out for him.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Can I use your phone? I usually call my dad on Saturday mornings. I’ll use a credit card.”

  “Sure, and don’t worry about the charges; I’ve got the ten-cents-a-minute deal.”

  Jackson cleared the table while Holly sat on the living-room sofa and used the phone on the coffee table. She dialed Ham’s number and waited. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

  Jackson came and sat down beside her. “Nobody home?”

  “Apparently not, but it’s strange—Ham has an answering machine that picks up on the third ring, but it didn’t pick up.”

  “Probably he’s out somewhere and his machine is broken.”

  “I guess so,” she said. “I’ll try him again later.”

  Jackson kissed her on the ear. “How about burning a few calories?” he breathed, loosening the tie on her robe and finding a breast.

  She turned toward him and let the robe fall open. “You’re a regular maniac for exercise, aren’t you?”

  “You betcha,” he said, pulling her down on the sofa.

  CHAPTER

  25

  T hey showered together, then went for a walk on the beach. It was warm and breezy, and Daisy seemed to go berserk, running at top speed, disappearing into the dunes, then tearing across the beach and running into the surf. Jackson found a stick, and Daisy loved chasing it.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “A small town in Georgia called Delano.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “About forty miles east of Columbus.”

  “That’s funny, I was born in Columbus—or rather, at Fort Benning. I grew up on half a dozen military bases, from Fort Bragg to Mannheim, in Germany.”