TO HER, THE HOTEL had Charleston vomited all over it. The furniture, the walls, the decor all screamed the Holy City in the late 1700s, early 1800s. Mahogany four-poster beds, beige linens, historic oil paintings of birds and long-dead people hunting foxes and rabbits adorned its walls. The buildings surrounding the hotel’s tan brick facade were painted what most would consider black at first glance, but was actually a color called ‘Charleston Green.’ Poinsett had learned in history class that the paint was the very colorful city’s revolt from using the Union-issued black paint after the Civil War; so the locals added yellow and blue to create the deep black-green still used today. A short walk around the city exposed any visitor to homes which, if they weren’t pink, robin blue, or yellow, were white with Charleston Green.
Inside the hotel, she wandered its hallways looking for this room. Stealing from housecleaning always got results in her experience; and according to the guest list found in the cart, his room was on the fourth floor, facing east. She watched as he left the hotel that morning with some tall brunette with big Texas hair. Girlfriend? Doubtful, since they weren’t staying in the same room. Sister? That was definitely possible, but from what Poinsett knew his sister lived here. Either way, she figured this was her opportunity to taunt him.
As she exited onto the fourth floor she noted this hotel tried to mix traditional fare with a high-end hotel. To her it was Hilton meets a bed and breakfast. Poinsett found the room and slid the stolen white access card she’d picked off of housekeeping into the door. A green light; we are in.
The room was tidy. A carry-on was splayed open between the bed and window, with shoes and a belt sitting on the floor in front of it. Poinsett opened the closet: some pants and shirts, hung way too tidily for her taste. OCD much? Hugo Boss, Armani Collezioni, nice. There were no personal items otherwise, only an iPhone charger on the nightstand next to the bed.
She pulled out a sealed white envelope exactly like the ones she’d used with Whitney and Tony. A red wax seal worked to hold the folded ends together as she placed the note on the tan and powder blue-striped stool at the end of the bed for Mouzon to find. Exiting the room, her phone buzzed in her purple leather purse. Work was calling.
CHAPTER 26
MATSUKAZE WAS THE U.S. premiere of a Japanese opera about a monk who comes across two sister spirits bound to earth until they can be released from their lover’s spell. The irony of the conversation earlier in the day about not being able to let go of the hurt of the past was not lost on Cole as they read the handbill. He had demanded they attend because the sets looked amazing to him on the Spoleto website, and it was a reunion of sorts. The last opera he’d attended was Madame Butterfly, with Ann at the Sydney Opera House several years earlier, so it seemed only fitting their next should be Japanese-themed as well. But he now wondered if subconsciously his mind was telling him to move on.
It was venued at Dock Street Theater, the oldest theater in America, having originally been built in the early 1700s, only to be destroyed several years later in the Great Fire of 1740 that took half the city. According the brochure in Cole’s hand the hotel was built on the site at the heart of Charleston’s French Quarter by the early 1800s. But the 1800s were not kind to Charleston. Between the Civil War and the 7.3 earthquake of 1886, the Holy City was left worn and damaged. It would be another forty-nine years before the theater would reopen in 1937, after the hotel was gutted and remodeled in London style from the architectural remnants of the nearby Radcliffe-King Mansion. Though DuBose Heyward was named writer-in-residence at the theater and together with Gershwin, wrote the opera Porgy and Bess on nearby Folly Beach, it would not be until 2012 that his opera would play at Dock Street. Charleston was changing, but like grapes to wine, it was a slow process.
The theater was wide and shallow, with dark wood everywhere. Walking into the theater, earlier Cole and Ann were escorted to their lower level seats only a few rows back from the stage. Cole liked aisle access, otherwise he felt claustrophobic, his long legs often hitting the seat in front of him. The curtain was still covering the stage as they continued their conversation about work at Ann’s previous employer.
“I’m telling you, they are crazy. You would think with a million senior managers they would have it figured out. But no. All they do is piss off their employees and cash the checks.” Ann spoke with terse words.
“I’m so glad you got out of there. I mean, I know you loved working for that Douglas guy, but he wasn’t able to shield you from the other partners.”
“I know.” She grimaced with disappointment.
“Well, I can say you certainly sound happier now than when we last we talked about all this.”
“Oh my god, it’s so much better. I love working for PWC. It was just meant to be.” Ann had switched to PricewaterhouseCoopers nine months earlier.
At that moment the theater tone chimed like an old doorbell, warning everyone the show was about to start. Cole leaned back in his seat and Ann slipped her arm between the bend in his, taking his arm. Cole loved their ‘date nights.’ To him, it had been too long.
The lights went dim and the curtain was pulled back. The stage itself was bare. In the middle of the set stood a giant artistic tree that looked more like an icicle dragon. The lighting was dramatic, and emphasized the stark contrasts in the Asian-inspired costumes. Rich blues, greens, and reds were balanced against white.
As the production unfolded, Cole’s mind wandered back to the dream that had been dominating his sleep lately. Unlike the geisha-like faces of the spirits on the stage, his demon remained faceless. There was that hand, just that hand. What did it all mean? Cole’s thoughts were distracted by the pulsing of his phone; someone had just texted him. He ignored it and pushed his thoughts of the dream out of his head, forcing the wall higher. Watching the opera, he accepted that his mind was trying to say, Let it go, move on.
The opera impressed, as both Cole and Ann had expected. Ann commented on the final few acts and the spirits’ pain as Cole and she walked out of the theater.
Halfway out the theater Cole’s pocket buzzed again. Digging around in his suit jacket pocket, he withdrew his phone and half the powder blue silk lining, but that was enough to see the caller’s ID. He flashed the phone’s screen at Ann. “Look: Jackie. She’s calling about what that damn FBI guy had to say, I’m sure of it.” The phone was shoved back in his pocket.
“Okay, total buzz-kill.” Ann responded.
“I know, right? How about this… Let’s go back to the Omni and hang at the bar at Charleston Grill. They have those comfy leather chairs, and we can drink till close and crawl into our rooms without hassle.”
“Ugh, boring. But I think you’re right. Plus, if we still have energy after closing down the bar we can just watch porn.” They both erupted into laughter. Ann was referencing a prior trip to Puerto Rico where they’d landed in a hurricane and had only porn, protein bars, and booze to subsist on for a day. He grabbed her hand and took a step off the grey slate sidewalk onto the cobblestone below. “Yes, my darling, there will always be porn.”
CHAPTER 27
POINSETT WALKED INTO the Rooftop Bar at the Vendue Inn in a low-cut white blouse and navy pinstripe pencil skirt wherein she promptly grabbed a free chair at the bar next to a guy probably ten years younger. Tan boat shoes, khaki shorts, and a purple check shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—typical Charlestonian style. His friend had on burgundy Bass penny loafers, no socks, khaki shorts, and a pink polo. Poinsett caught the glimpse of one of those South Carolina belts with mini-monogrammed versions of the state’s flag of a navy rectangle with a white palmetto and crescent moon.
Turning her attention to the bartender, she ordered a glass of pinot gris. Even for late May it was humid, and a warm wine wasn’t going to cut it. The salt in the air made her feel damp and sticky, but a coastal breeze blowing through the bar offered some momentary relief. From the roof Poinsett could see the steeples that dotted Charleston’s skyline. The ba
r offered a visitor the perfect vantage to see the sights and for a hunter to eye her prey. While in the lobby of Charleston Place, she’d overheard Mouzon and his girl discuss their plans and intentions to hit the Waterfront Park after some ‘fancy-schmancy’ show. It was a little past ten and any show should be getting out soon. She could wait and watch.
Frat-tastic closest to her had his back turned, deep in conversation about some boat he was drooling over earlier in the day. Poinsett heard the word ‘Scout.’ Something about doubled hulls, blah blah blah. She couldn’t see his face but youth wasn’t being wasted on him. His body was firm; even in the dark she could see his individual muscles under his shorts. One left Poinsett with the impression that Mom had been a very lucky woman if father was like son.
She had been caught lingering a little too long; his buddy had seen her staring and was seen filling him in. He did that under-sloop look to his left to inspect his stalker. There was a huge grin on his face as Poinsett turned away, intentionally a bit too slowly. Her quick impression was this guy got laid, a lot. Sun-bleached shaggy, curly hair crowned a square and tanned, chiseled face. His lips were juicy and red from too much sun.
“Tourist?” He engaged her.
Turning on her stool to face him, she replied to his weak attempt to start a conversation. “In town for the weekend to catch some of the Spoleto shows and events.” She said, while taking a casual look around the room as if to say, ‘you’re not important enough for all my attention, yet.’
“Nice. Where are you from?” Frat-tastic was intrigued.
“Mobile. It was supposed to be a girls’ weekend, but my friend had to bail at the last minute. My ticket was non-refundable, so here I am.” She gave a half-hearted frown.
“It’s a perfect time a year to be here. It’s not too hot and you’ve seen all the azaleas and wisteria.”
Was this joker really trying to carry on a conversation about flowers? He was correct on that point. The flowers matched the homes, matched the people, on fire with color. “It really is beautiful. Are you from here?”
“Grew up on the IOP, that’s the Isle of Palms, just north of the city. A senior at the College of Charleston now.”
Poinsett feigned interest, leaning onto hear more. “Oh? What are you studying?”
He smiled and then continued. “Economics, but I’m really hoping to get recruited by the Braves.”
Ah, that explains the thick, muscular arms. A vision of him shirtless over her, propping up his chest with those arms on either side of her, flashed across her mind.
“Doesn’t Charleston have a team?”
“Nawh, not a major league team. We have the Riverdogs, but they’re affiliated with the New York Yankees, new blood and all. Bill Murray from the movie Caddyshack owns the Dogs, and you see him down here at a game every once in a while. So that’s cool I guess. But I’m a Braves man.” His accent got thick as Poinsett played dumb. She knew the city had a team that was once called the Rainbows, an apt name, she thought, for the colorful city.
“Wow. Very nice. I’m sure you’re a great hitter.” With this she brushed his forearm as she returned her empty wine glass to the bar top. He grinned in invitation.
He pulled back in an effort to puff his chest. “I’ve been known to hit a home run a time or two.” The sunglasses that had been previously placed on the back side of his neck fell, pulling the Croakies snug against his Adam’s apple.
“I bet you have.” She returned a playful grin as she watched him tug the black neoprene strap down his chest to resituate his glasses.
“Would you like another?” he said as he turned on his stool to face her completely, thoroughly engaged now. His friend was working hard in the corner on some blonde with a glittery top and cheap heels.
“Sure, that would be nice, another pinot please.” She waved at the bartender.
“By the way, I’m Jackson. I don’t think I properly introduced myself.”
“Katie here.” Poinsett pulled the name out of her ass; it sounded like some sorority girl’s name Jackson would think was hot. It was also the name she selected to use with her girlfriends when they wanted to be naughty by alias. The conversation continued on, with ‘Katie’ glancing over the railing to spy Mouzon if he came. It wasn’t important that she see him. She just liked observing her prey a few times before taking them down.
CHAPTER 28
“YOU KNOW WHAT? Fuck the hotel, let’s hit the park for a walk and then a night cap at Blind Tiger like we originally planned.”
“There’s the Cole I love! Now we’re talking.” They were halfway to the hotel when they took a left onto Queen Street towards the harbor. Queen would turn into Vendue and intercept the park, but only after passing the Rooftop Bar.
As they approached Waterfront Park they could see one of the newer icons of the city, a giant pineapple fountain. The pineapple had been a symbol for the city since colonial times. Some man said pineapples represented hospitality and welcome, everything Charleston is known for, and the city said count us in for one of those. So it obviously made sense to place a giant one in a park in the middle of the tourist area.
This one was concrete. With a circumference of about fourteen feet, it resembled two round waffles, one tiered higher than the other, and their edges curved up. If it wasn’t for the large ribbon-leafed head at the center top, one might be led to believe Charleston invented the Belgian waffle. And Cole wouldn’t put it past his hometown to make a run at yet another accolade.
“Isn’t it a great night?” Ann was locked arm-in-arm again with Cole as they walked lazily toward the pier that overlooked the Wando River, which separated Charleston from Mt Pleasant and the Patriot’s Point battleship museum with its massive aircraft-carrier turned-museum. As a kid he had played in the tight, grey corridors of the ship while his aunt and adopted mother, Ava, worked the ticket booth at the front gate. Cole could see it all as if he were walking the tight corridors just then. He and Jackie got lost routinely trying to locate the best spots to hide aboard the old aircraft carrier, connected to the real world only by a long, thin pedestrian bridge that traversed fifty feet of water and swarms of bull sharks.
“Damn, my feet are killing me. My ankles aren’t conditioned for heels on these cobblestone streets. I’m glad the four-inch heel thing hasn’t caught on in Atlanta like it has here. I would die.” Ann slipped off her heels and put them in her right hand as she maintained her left arm’s tight wrap around Cole’s. Now walking in her bare feet upon the wooden plank pier, she asked, “Cole, do you miss the South?” He knew what she really meant to ask—Do you miss me?
As Cole and Ann reached the end of the pier, he grabbed her hands to dance. “Brown-Eyed Girl” was playing in some distant bar. Hand in hand, Cole stepped back and brought their hands together in front of them, then twirled Ann inside and back out again. They were Shag dancing, the local dance.
Unlike the Charleston, which had fallen out of favor some time ago, the Shag had maintained its hold on locals. It made sense that a swing-style dance which encouraged bare feet in the sand and holding a mixed drink would arise from the lowcountry of the Carolinas. The dance was born up the coast from Charleston in Myrtle Beach, quickly spreading and fostering a generation of music and ultimately a movie. Groups such as the Drifters, Embers, Catalinas, and the Temptations, along with the likes of James Taylor and Van Morrison, all had songs considered “beach music” suitable for Shagging. There were books highlighting the dance, including Pat Conroy’s Beach Music. The Shag was bred into Charlestonians and percolated up whenever a beach song caught their ears.
Ann’s cheek rested against Cole’s as he brought her in tight, with his arms wrapped around her and hers around his. They swayed as Morrison spit out some “la la la’s.” They were reunited, even if it was just for a weekend. As the music wound down, Cole let himself momentarily feel just how much he missed Ann and Charleston. It truly was a wonderful place to be for him. As they always did, Cole and Ann pretzeled, an intrica
te move of hand tying that ended with him deeply dipping Ann. They laughed as she stood and then they hugged. He had never responded, but she was satisfied with his answer to his question. The city’s charm had penetrated and now washed over them like the salt breeze.
CHAPTER 29
POINSETT HAD SEEN it all from her rooftop vantage from across the palmetto and live oak-studded wind-scaped park. Mouzon and his girl had been twirling like seniors in a Viagra commercial for several minutes. It repulsed her, and she liked the idea of ending that in a bloody mess. Run down there and just do it. Perhaps she would make Mouzon watch as she took down the girl first with one quick slash of her scalpel. She longed for a more engaging hunt. Regardless, she had seen enough for now.
“Would you like to get out of here?” she said as she turned to Frat-tastic again.
“Uh, definitely.” Poinsett got the impression that he had just said ‘score’ in his head.
Jackson was clearly loving what he was seeing as he sat on the edge of her bed admiring her flowing red hair. ‘Katie’ had an incredibly flat stomach that rivaled his own ripped abs. She stood in front of him, between his legs. His shirt had been removed as soon as the door closed and he was now lifting off her thin white blouse. Earlier in the night he had enjoyed that he could see that Katie was lacking a bra. He didn’t know how much older she was, but it clearly did not reflect in the perkiness of her breasts.
He cupped them as she finished pulling her blouse over her head, having not bothered to unbutton it. They were firm and ample. He rolled his thumb over her right nipple; she moaned with her eyes closed and threw her head back. He moved in and cupped his mouth over her left nipple, lashing it with his tongue. She was obviously enjoying herself as she placed her hands on his head and began to curl her fingers in, pulling him in closer to raise his arousal. He moved his left hand slowly around her body to her back and began feeling for a zipper on her skirt. Once found, he patiently pulled it down until it stopped.
The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) Page 10