Sis Boom Bah

by Jane Heller

  “You’re only saying that so I’ll have sex with you later.”

  “Will you have sex with me later?”

  “No.”

  “Will you have sex with me now?”

  “Ray. I’m preparing for the role I’ll be playing tonight. I’m trying to get in character.”

  He laughed. “You’re already a character.”

  “In character. It’s an acting term.”

  Ray came across the room (which took about three steps, since the room was the size of a closet) and put his arms around me. I did not resist. “You’re gonna be terrific. We’re both gonna be terrific,” he said, nuzzling me. “And if we aren’t, at least we’ll die with our best duds on.”

  I smiled. “I feel better now. Thanks.”

  At seven-thirty, Sabrina’s cousin Serena took us to the famed Lyford Cay in her Buick, which was as beat-up as my Pontiac but didn’t stall or knock or overheat, and had a trunk large enough to hold Ray and me without causing us serious bodily harm. I’m not saying it was the smoothest ride of my life—I still have black-and-blue marks on my butt—but it got us where we needed to go.

  During the trip, I mulled over everything Reggie and Sabrina had told us about the exclusive enclave where they had worked for so many years.

  A lush eleven-hundred-acre community on a small peninsula at the western end of the island, Lyford was the setting for the old James Bond film Thunderball. Legend has it that the film’s star, Sean Connery, was so captivated by the place that he purchased a house there. But Connery is only one of a number of international luminaries who belong to the club (Prince Ranier of Monaco is another). Over thirteen hundred members hail from thirty-two countries, the common denominator being money—lots of it. Sabrina giggled when she told us that the couple she and Reggie worked for, the Baron and Baroness, thought nothing of spending $20 million to buy their house but complained bitterly when they were forced to pay $14 for a club sandwich. She also got a kick out of the way the members dressed: faded and tattered clothing during the week; tuxedos and ball gowns on Saturday nights. I tried to imagine Barry Shiller in anything other than his Armani suits and gold jewelry, and wondered how he fit in with this crowd.

  At some point in my musings, Serena’s Buick came to an abrupt halt, and I heard her roll down her window and speak to someone.

  “We must be at the gate house,” Ray whispered. “She’s talking to the guard.”

  I closed my eyes and thought of Sharon then.

  We’re coming, I said silently. We’re going to save you. Hang on.

  The car jerked forward. I squeezed Ray’s hand. “We’re in.”

  We kept moving for another few minutes, then Serena stopped the car and shut the engine off. She got out of the Buick, scurried to the back of the car, and opened the trunk.

  “Are you both all right?” she asked.

  “Fine, thanks,” I said, my white uniform soaked with sweat, as were Ray’s shirt and pants.

  She helped us out of the trunk and explained that we were standing in front of the entrance to the Yacht Club and that Barry’s house was just down the road.

  “That one?” I said, motioning toward an enormous pink structure the size of a hotel. It was, by far, the most ostentatious house on the block. Very Barry.

  “Yes, my lady,” said Serena. “But I’d better leave you now. The security guards patrol every street. If they find out I let strangers inside, I might lose my job.”

  “Yes. Yes. You go,” I said. “We’ll take it from here, Serena.”

  “What about later?” she said. “How will you get back to Reggie’s?”

  I glanced at Ray, flummoxed. I’d overlooked that minor detail, hoping we’d have gotten Sharon out of Lyford by the end of the evening and would be on a plane back to Florida.

  “Is there any way you could swing by and pick us up at a specific time, Serena?” said Ray, who was wearing a watch, along with his butler’s outfit.

  She shook her head. “It would arouse suspicion for me to return, Mr. Scalley, but Reggie could come for you. He still has friends on the security force.”

  “Perfect,” said Ray. “Tell him to meet us here, in front of the Yacht Club, at ten o’clock. If, for some reason, we’re not here at ten, he should call the police.”

  “The police?” I jumped in. “Ray, we decided we weren’t—”

  “What if Barry gives us more than we can handle?” he cut me off. “He may not be thrilled that we’ve flown in for a little visit. Personally, I wouldn’t mind knowing the police are on their way if something goes wrong.”

  “Mr. Scalley is right, my lady,” said Serena. “I worked for Mr. Shiller. When he gets angry, he isn’t a gentleman.”

  I nodded, realizing they were both right. “When my sister gets angry, she’s no picnic, either.”

  After Serena took off, Ray and I stood there, planning our next move. I said that we ought to sneak over to Barry’s house, find Sharon, and, when he wasn’t looking, drag her out of there. Ray, on the other hand, brought up what Serena had told us—that Sunday nights at Lyford are cook’s night off and that everyone (even cold-blooded killers, presumably) goes to the seafood buffet at the Yacht Club. His theory was that we should wait for Sharon and Barry to leave the house, because it would be far easier to kidnap Sharon while Barry was helping himself to a Bahamian lobster.

  I was about to concede that his strategy sounded more reasonable than mine when we were nearly run down by a procession of golf carts, all carrying hungry members en route to the seafood buffet.

  “God, these people are dangerous after a few cocktails,” I said, remembering something else Serena had told us: that golf carts were the mode of transportation around the club.

  “Watch out. Here comes another one,” Ray warned, pulling me out of the way. “And another.”

  “I guess we’re in the flight path,” I said. “Why don’t we step—”

  “I say there! You two!” a woman called out to us, waving her floppy straw hat in our direction.

  We froze.

  “You there!” she said, striding toward us. She had stringy blond hair with gray roots, tanned and freckled skin that she didn’t bother to even out with makeup, and a lockjaw that suggested Locust Valley or, perhaps, Darien. Aside from the pearls around her neck, she was dressed like a bag lady. What’s more, she was redolent with Tanqueray. “I’m Mrs. Croft, the chairwoman of the dining committee, and you must be the two they sent to help serve tonight.”

  She did not wait for a reply. She simply assumed we would follow her inside the Yacht Club, and toddled off. When she turned around, to see if we were behind her and discovered we weren’t, she clapped her hands and said, “Come, come. People are arriving.”

  Ray and I looked at each other and shrugged. “After you,” he said. We hurried to catch up with Mrs. Croft.

  “There you are,” she said, weaving a little as we continued toward the club. “You’re both rather light-skinned, I see. Not natives, are you?”

  “No, my lady,” I said. “We’re part of a cultural exchange program between the Bahamas and the United States.”

  “Ah, a sort of Peace Corps, is it?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Enchanting,” she said and kept weaving.

  By the time we made it to the buffet, the calypso trio was already belting out “Matilda,” and a few hundred people in rumpled clothing were polishing off their umpteenth drink.

  “All the men look like George Plimpton,” I whispered to Ray.

  “All the women look like him too,” he whispered back.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs. Croft, steering us behind the mile-long buffet table. “Do try not to pile a lot of food on each plate, will you? It isn’t gracious. Besides, the shrimp are awfully expensive this year.”

  We nodded and started serving. At first, I was worried that one of the members might be sober enough to question what our lily white asses were doing behind that table, but none did. And the other ser
vers were too busy dishing out clams and mussels and crabcakes to pay any attention to us.

  “Hey, sweetheart. What do you think of my red pants?” boomed the loud drunk to whom I was serving peas and rice.

  “They’re real snappy, sir,” I said. “The same color as your eyes.”

  Ray elbowed me.

  “Do you see Sharon anywhere?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I don’t see Barry, either.”

  “Then keep shoveling the grub,” he said. “The night’s still young.”

  I kept shoveling the grub—until I did see Sharon and Barry, sitting down at a table for two. My pulse raced as I observed them. Barry, in an effort to look nautical for the occasion, was wearing white slacks, white patent-leather shoes, and a blue-and-red-striped shirt with a large gold anchor on it. Sharon, well, never mind what she was wearing. The important thing was that she was alive, with no apparent bruises or cuts or post-traumatic tics that I could detect without my distance glasses.

  “Ray,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He was chatting up Sean Connery.

  “Ray,” I hissed, amazed that he could be starstruck at a time like this.

  When he didn’t answer yet again, I pinched his arm.

  “Ouch,” he yelped. “What’s the—”

  “Over there,” I said, nodding at Sharon and Barry, neither of whom Ray had ever met. “They’re the ones who look way over-dressed.”

  Ray took care of Mr. Connery and his wife and turned his attention to Sharon and Barry. “Do you want to just go to their table and grab her? Sort of like a hit and run?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I popped a shrimp into my mouth and hoped Mrs. Croft wasn’t watching.

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Deborah,” Ray offered.

  “I’m still thinking. Have a shrimp while I decide. They’re delicious.” I handed him one and treated myself to another. “Oh my God. Look, Ray. Sharon’s getting up. She’s walking this way. She’s moving onto the buffet line.”

  “And Barry’s staying put for some reason. Maybe he’s allergic to seafood.”

  “No. Sharon’s probably making up a plate for him. She’s so servile when it comes to men.”

  “Come on. Let’s go for it.” Ray took my hand and led me around to the front of the buffet table, where Sharon was picking up a napkin and a set of utensils and humming along with the calypso trio.

  Ray hooked one of her arms, while I hooked the other. “If you follow us, my lady, we’ll give you a peek at the desserts,” I said, attempting a Bahamian accent and keeping my head down.

  “My sister’s the dessert freak in the family,” she said, struggling to wriggle out of our grasp. “With a waistline to prove it.”

  I tightened my grip on Sharon’s arm. “Then your sister would surely enjoy the Concorde chocolate meringue cake,” I replied, re-calling that the confection was Lyford’s specialty, according to Sabrina—its recipe straight from Maxim’s in Paris. “We’ll show you where you can taste it.”

  “But I haven’t even had dinner yet,” she protested as we marched her farther and farther away from the crowd, until we reached a private area, behind a cluster of palm trees.

  “Dinner is the least of your problems, Sis,” I said in my own voice.

  She stared at me. “Deborah?”

  “Yes, and don’t scream. They don’t care for scenes at Lyford.”

  She continued to stare, her mouth hanging open in an entirely unflattering manner. “Why are you dressed like that?” she asked, after deciding that I really was me. She pointed at Ray. “And who’s he?”

  “His name is Ray Scalley and he’s a friend of mine from Stuart,” I said. “He came here to help me persuade you that the man you think is going to propose marriage to you is a murderer who is going to kill you the minute you’re no longer useful to him. As I tried to tell you the other day, Sharon, Barry’s already killed Jeffrey and his nurse. What’s more, he’s in up to his eyeballs in money laundering.”

  “I don’t believe this,” she said, tossing her head with disdain. “I simply do not believe this. If you flew all the way to Nassau to ruin my happiness, then you’re more pathetic than I imagined, Deborah. You’ll obviously stop at nothing to—”

  “Your sister came here to save your life, damn it,” Ray fumed. “She risked her own safety to protect yours. In my book, that’s about as loving and unselfish as a person’s capable of. So if I were you, I’d listen up. I’d pay attention to every single piece of advice she’s giving you. And while I was at it, I’d thank my lucky stars that somebody in this world cares enough to keep you from getting yourself killed. Do you read me, Sharon?”

  She looked stunned, as if she’d been slapped.

  “Ray’s big on lectures when he first meets people,” I explained, hoping to smooth things over. I had enough to deal with without those two going at it. “You should have heard the one he gave me about my toilet. But he’s right, Sharon. I did come here to save you from Barry. I did it because I love you—and because your son asked me to.”

  “Norman?” she squeaked, her lower lip quivering.

  “Yes. He said he was suspicious of Barry, and, according to the evidence Detective Gillby is gathering, he had good reason to be. He made me promise that I’d watch out for you. I gave him my word that I would.”

  Sharon’s heavily foundationed face cracked then, her tears staining her little Versace number.

  “What have I done?” she sobbed, falling into my arms. “How could I have given my heart to a murderer?”

  “Because you’re a romantic,” I said, patting her sympathetically. “You’ve given your heart freely over the years. Too freely.”

  “I didn’t give it to you,” she said wistfully. “I hated you.”

  “I hated you too,” I reassured her. “More than I can express.”

  “I’m sure you did, although I probably hated you more than you hated me,” she said. “I can’t begin to describe how much I hated you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said, “because I hated you with every—”

  “Cool it, both of you,” said Ray. “Barry’s getting up from his table and he’s not heading for the seafood buffet.”

  Sharon and I wheeled around.

  “Where’s he—”

  I stopped when I realized that Barry must have spotted us, figured out we were on to him, and decided to beat it.

  “He’s running toward the marina,” Sharon said, wiping away her tears and her drippy black mascara. “To his yacht.”

  “I’ll tell security,” said Ray. “They’ll send the police after him.”

  “That’s the ticket,” I said. “Let them deal with Barry. The important thing is that you’re safe, Sharon. Sharon?”

  Her eyes had a glazed look, as if she’d finally snapped. Shaking her head, she yanked off her stiletto heels and flung them across the ground. “Can’t run in these fucking things,” she muttered.

  “Sharon,” I said, concerned about her mental state. More concerned that usual. “What are you doing?”

  “Going after that asshole,” she said. “I’ve had it with men taking advantage of me, promising me the moon and leaving me with zippo. I’ve had it!”

  I grabbed her. “You can’t—”

  “Oh, yes I can!” she said, prying herself loose. “You two sit back and wait for the police to catch him if that’s what you want to do. But not me. No way. Bye-bye.”

  In her bare feet and skin-tight dress, Sharon took off in hot pursuit of Barry.

  Obviously, Ray and I couldn’t let her chase a murderer by herself. As we made a mad dash after both of them, I wondered how it was possible that we had come to Nassau to rescue my sister, and yet she had now put us in danger.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Fortunately, the marina was lit up like a proverbial Christmas tree, the maze of docks relatively easy to navigate. As we were tearing after Barry, I couldn’t help but notice how turquoise the water was, even at
night, and how clear.

  There was, of course, a bit of consternation among the diners at the seafood buffet as the three of us raced between the tables, en route to the marina, knocking over plates, glasses, a Baroness or two. As we zoomed past Mrs. Croft, she waved her straw hat at us, shouted “God bless America!” and passed out.

  And then there was the tiny problem with the limbo. The leader of the calypso trio had just lowered the bar and sung the refrain of the ever-popular limbo song (“How low can you go!”), while a crowd of people had lined up to take their turn. The only way for us to get around them was to get ahead of them. Ray went first, slithering under the bar like a contortionist. I went second, crawling on all fours, which everyone thought was hilarious. And Sharon, complaining that her back was bothering her, simply removed the bar, which everyone thought was cheating.

  Still, we managed to keep Barry in sight, although he was definitely gaining on us.

  “His yacht is over there!” Sharon said breathlessly, pointing at the enormous phallic symbol called “Blue Waters,” which also happened to be the name of the corporation that owned Heartily Hirshon, the Laundromat in Riviera Beach, and Barry’s Boca manse.

  We watched in frustration as he charged ahead and ultimately made it to his yacht. He climbed aboard the hundred-plus-foot vessel and untied the dock lines, then disappeared inside.

  “If you’re really determined to confront this guy,” Ray told Sharon, “we’ve got to get onto that boat before he leaves the marina.”

  “Oh, I’m determined. Trust me,” she said. “But he’s not leaving so fast. He gave the captain the night off.”

  “Yeah, but he obviously has the keys with him,” said Ray. “He must be planning to skipper the boat himself.”

  We hustled as fast as we could and had just gotten to the slip when we heard Barry power up the engines.

  “No! He’s going!” I said, as determined as Sharon was to make life miserable for the weasel, now that the adrenaline was pumping.

  “Not without us,” Ray vowed, clinging to the yacht’s boarding ladders. “I’ll climb up first, then pull you two up.”