“We have bars and buffet stations set up on every deck but there is a V.I.P. cocktail party on the fantail,” Blue said. “Mr. Shields will join you there.”
“I’m honored,” Scarne said. “Is Sheldon Shields on board?”
Blue looked at him and smiled.
“No. He is otherwise occupied.”
“I thought he hosted these types of events.”
“Not tonight, apparently,” Blue said easily. “He recently lost his wife.”
“A pity.”
There were only a few people on the fantail, situated just below a deck on which two rakish cigarette boats hung from davits. Most were sensibly congregated near a bar. It was warm for the first week of April but Scarne noticed a couple of space heaters, which would undoubtedly come in handy when the cruise got underway. The guests all seemed to be drinking wine or champagne and Scarne was momentarily discouraged until he saw a tall, auburn-haired woman standing alone at the rail sipping a martini.
“I have some duties to attend to, Mr. Scarne,” Blue said. “Can I get you a drink before I leave? Mr. Shields will be along shortly.”
“I’m fine.”
Scarne was particular about his martinis and after Blue left went to the bar and ordered one to his liking. Then he walked over to the rail and stood next to the woman. He tilted his glass at her.
“Until I saw you,” he said. “I feared this might be a wine-tasting cruise.”
She laughed.
“When you’ve been on enough of these,” she said, “you learn that a stiff drink is the only thing that makes them bearable.”
“Well, I’m not sure that sentiment would go over well in Rwanda,” Scarne said dryly as a steward offered them some smoked salmon. “But I can see where all this could be a burden. Let them eat canapés!”
“Oh, God. You’re right. Listen to me. Marie Antoinette on the Hudson.”
“I’m just teasing you. I wouldn’t worry about the Rwandans.” Scarne adroitly snared a small beef Wellington from another passing tray. “But you might not want to tell Randolph Shields how you feel.”
“Oh, I already have. Many times.” Before Scarne could react to that, she said. “Speak of the devil.”
“Is that anyway to speak of your father, Emma?”
Scarne turned. Randolph Shields could have used a few of his brother’s inches to spread his weight more attractively on his frame. He wasn’t fat, but even his expertly tailored Armani suit couldn’t hide the fact that he’s earned his reputation for good living. But his fleshy face, with its prominent eyebrows, strong nose and piercing blue eyes radiated power and privilege. With him were the city’s billionaire Mayor, Police Commissioner Richard Condon and the President of the City Council, a weasel-faced man named Michael Grubber. A trio of plainclothes bodyguards hovered nearby, as inconspicuous as white rhinos.
“I see you’ve met my daughter, Mr. Scarne.”
“Yes, we were discussing the situation in Rwanda.”
Shields looked confused, but said, “Tragic, tragic. Those poor people.”
He turned to his guests and introduced Scarne, who shook hands with the Mayor and Condon, who said, “Like a bad penny, Jake.”
Grubber, whose face had turned splotchy red, didn’t offer his hand. Rather, he said, “You son of a bitch,” turned on his heel and stormed away, startling everyone except Scarne and Condon.
“What the hell was that about,” Shields said.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have tried to throw him off the balcony at City Hall, Jake” Condon said, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile.
“Man is overreacting. I had a good grip on him. Of course, had I known he would become President of the City Council, I might have dropped him.”
“Too bad,” the Mayor said. “Would have saved me a lot of trouble with the budget. Well, come on Dick. Let’s go smooth his ruffled feathers.”
“I’d better go along too,” Shields said, staring hard at Scarne. “Emma, will you entertain Mr. Scarne for a moment?”
He walked off without waiting for a response.
“I suspect I may not be invited to too many of these shindigs.”
Emma Shields smiled. “It was shaping up to be your only one, anyway. I guess what my father says about you is true.”
“And what’s that?”
“You are trouble.”
“Some women think that’s my most endearing quality.”
“They probably don’t own stock in Shields Inc.”
Scarne didn’t have a witty comeback for that, and was relieved when several couples walked over to them. Amid air kisses Scarne drifted a few feet away and studied Emma Shields. She was a very pretty woman with an angular, athletic frame. She wore her rich hair long, a style that often does not work in a woman in her mid-30’s, as Scarne guessed her to be. It worked for her. Her face radiated intelligence and a bit of mischief. She wore little makeup and was dressed sensibly for the weather. The night air and slight breeze brought out color in her cheeks. When she was alone again he approached her.
“Why do I feel as if I’m going to walk the plank tonight?”
“Perhaps because you should. My father thinks you are taking advantage of Uncle Sheldon.”
“Do you?”
“I’m very fond of my Uncle. And I loved Josh.”
“More than your portfolio?”
Emma’s face hardened.
“Grubber is right. You are a son of a bitch.”
“You brought up your stock position in the company, Ms. Shields. I’m a simple gumshoe hired to find out what happened to your dear cousin. If that means trampling on people’s sensibilities and jeopardizing Wall Street’s next big scheme, so be it. You can help or hinder me, but that won’t change the outcome. I’m going to find out.”
“I suppose that means you are going to Miami.”
“Yes. And Sheldon tells me you and Josh were close. I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions.”
Before she could reply, they were interrupted by Randolph Shields.
“Will you excuse us, Emma? I’d like a word with Mr. Scarne in private.”
“Of course, Dad.” She extended her hand to Scarne. “Will you be joining us for the cruise up the Hudson? We sail at eight.”
“I think Mr. Scarne…”
“Has other plans,” Scarne finished.
***
Randolph’s stateroom was the size of a large hotel suite but still managed to be dominated by the famous circular bed, which was covered by a thick, dark red comforter. Photos of Randolph Shields and various dignitaries and beautiful women were arrayed on walls and ledges. The two men sat opposite each other in leather lounge chairs.
“How much is my brother paying you?”
“Don’t beat around the bush, Mr. Shields”
“I asked you a question.”
“None of your business.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”
“I seem to be having a good week.”
“Then it’s a deal?”
“No. I sense a conflict of interest.”
“How much do you want?”
“To do what?”
“Drop this nonsense about my nephew.”
“Let me ask you something Mr. Shields. How do you know your brother hired me?”
“It’s wasn’t all that hard. He withdrew a considerable amount of cash from his office account. I have contacts at the Federal League Club.”
Probably monitors his calls, too, Scarne thought.
“My brother is sick...delusional. Understandable, with what he's been through. I have to protect him from making a fool of himself....or being taken by some shyster looking for a big payday.”
Scarne stood.
“Thanks for the drink Mr. Shields. You've got a nice little boat. I think I’ll go below and visit the galley slaves.”
Shields stood and blocked Scare’s way.
“Victor Ballantrae is a respectable businessman and a valu
ed friend. I won’t have him harassed by a cheap gumshoe.”
“Just for the record Shields, I'm an expensive gumshoe. Do you need Ballantrae's dough so badly, you'd risk covering up your nephew's murder?”
“You arrogant son of a bitch!”
“We seem to be reaching a consensus on that.”
Shields jabbed Scarne in his chest.
“I loved Josh. He and my Emma grew up together, like brother and sister. But his death was an accident! And if you don't drop this lunacy I'll make your life miserable. I'll get your fucking license. I promise you.”
Scarne didn’t like to be touched. Or threatened. The combination was too much. Blood roared in his ears and everything seemed to take on a reddish haze. His mind barely registered a knocking sound, growing more insistent. Shields saw something in Scarne’s face that made him stagger back. The knocking grew louder and finally the stateroom door flew open. It was Emma Shields, with a worried-looking steward standing behind her.
“Daddy, is everything all right?”
Randolph, his face red, turned to her.
“Scarne was just leaving.”
***
On his way off the yacht, Scarne spotted Dick Condon at a buffet table.
“Where’s the Grubster?”
“Last I saw, he was getting smashed on the poop deck, or whatever they call the goddamn thing.” Condon laughed. “I thought he was going to poop his pants when he saw you. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
“I was invited by Randolph.”
“This have anything to do with your lunch with his brother?”
Scarne tried to avoid lying to Police Commissioners whenever possible.
“I’m doing some work for Sheldon.”
“Not for Randolph?”
“Actually, he just threw me off the boat.”
Condon stared at him.
“It’s complicated. But don’t be surprised if you get a call from him. In the meantime, can you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Isn’t your pal Timoney still the police chief in Miami?”
“Yeah.”
“Give him a call and see if he can put in a good word for me with the local homicide cops and the medical examiner’s office down there.”
Scarne could almost see the light bulb go on above Condon’s head.
“Sheldon’s kid?”
“I told you it’s complicated.”
“I didn’t think you could piss off any more people in this city, but I never fail to underestimate you.”
***
Once ashore, Scarne headed to a line of cabs still dropping off guests.
“Mr. Scarne!”
He turned to see Emma Shields walking toward him.
“I'm sorry about what happened,” she said when she reached him. “I'll have Nigel call you a car.”
“That’s not necessary. I'll catch a cab. I'm just glad I wasn’t keelhauled.”
“We stopped doing that years ago.” She smiled. “At least inside the 12-mile limit. Can I ask you a question, Mr. Scarne?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think Uncle Sheldon may be right...about Josh?”
“I wouldn't take his money if I didn't think there was a possibility. What do you think?”
“I don't know what to think.”
“Emma!” Randolph Shields was standing at the top of the gangplank. “Our guests are waiting.” Some of those guests looked surprised and embarrassed at the tone of his voice.
“When are you leaving for Miami?” Emma Shields said.
“Wednesday morning.”
“I’m teaching some courses tomorrow at the New School but I’ll have a break at lunch. Can you meet me?”
“Just say where and when.”
“Noon, at the Rose Café in the Village? It’s at Fifth and…”
“I know it. I’ll see you there.”
She headed up the gangplank and Scarne made sure to look at her legs the entire way. He probably would have done it anyway, but the thought of “Randy” Shields watching him gave him a perverse, if childish, pleasure.
CHAPTER 12 – BABY’S BREATH
The beauty of Georgia is wasted at 80 miles per hour. So, after a lunch at a Cracker Barrel – a chain restaurant, to be sure, but ridiculously satisfying – Garza left Interstate 16 at Dublin and headed southeast on local roads. That prompted a steadily stream of robotic remonstrations from his already programmed GPS system, which didn’t suffer fools gladly. But it eventually threw in the towel after one desultory “calculating new route.”
Garza decided to put the top down on the convertible and really enjoy his new route, which would add at least 45 minutes to the trip to Claxton. Then he’d have another 30 or so to Statesboro. But Bradley Cooper wasn’t going anywhere. Nor was he expecting any visitors. Garza figured he’d arrive by 3 P.M., when most residents would presumably be sleeping off their chicken, soft rolls, gravy and Jell-O.
The speed limit on the local roads was 55, but could suddenly drop to 35, even 25, in and around small towns. Wary of speed traps, he paid attention. There was no hurry. The rich red Georgia earth was speckled with green, and variegated buds sprouted on trees and bushes awakening from winter. The air smelled sweet and the horses in the pastures seemed to be having a lot of aimless fun. At one point he pulled over and walked over to a fence near where a mare and her foal were grazing. They were beautiful animals and from the look of their glistening black coats well cared for. The mare’s tail was swishing back and forth slowly. The little guy’s tail was going a mile a minute.
Garza had hoped for such a moment and had come prepared. He emptied a few Cracker Barrel sugar packets into his palm and stuck it through the fence. He was surprised at how quickly the foal bounded over to him. His was undoubtedly not the first hand through that particular fence. The foal, which had a white star on its forehead, lapped the sugar as the mare watched cautiously. The baby’s tongue was warm and surprisingly soft. It almost tickled. Garza kept very still and made no sudden moves when he opened more packets. Sensing no danger, the mare eventually sidled over and began nuzzling his hand as well. She towered over him. She didn’t interfere with her foal’s treat until Garza moved his hand under her muzzle. A mother, after all, is a mother. Her tongue was rougher and he could feel her teeth. Her breath was hot against his palm. He produced more packets, wishing he had some apples or carrots. Or even some fruitcake. They probably would love that. But it might not be good for them.
“It has nuts,” he said to the mare. “Might not agree with your little fella. Besides, I’m not coming back this way.”
At the sound of his voice the mare twirled a huge brown eye toward him, dipped her head and nickered, as if in appreciation at his thoughtfulness. Garza knew he was anthropomorphizing; horses weren’t as intelligent as they looked. But it was a charming moment nonetheless. Not for the first time he wondered what, if anything, animals thought. He had, by necessity, spent many hours with people whose cognitive faculties had deteriorated to the level that basic awareness could not be assumed or proven. Was this horse now more “intelligent” than those poor sods in the nursing homes he visited? Garza realized he was teetering on a rationalization. He reached up and rubbed the mare’s neck.
“Stupid,” he said.
The mare’s nostrils flared.
“Not you, beautiful. Me.”
Garza left the pasture reluctantly. He checked his watch. He hadn’t meant to stop that long. But the interlude had been worth it. He loved horses. When he wasn’t fishing much of his youth had been spent riding the mountains, meadows and hills of Cuba. Again, memories flooded back, but no regrets. He had come to believe that there was no place on earth as beautiful as the American Southland in spring.
Garza abandoned his sightseeing to make up some time, but slowed when he reached Vidalia, home of the famously sweet onions, as the de rigueur billboard announced. He smiled. Sometimes it seemed as if every town in the South was famo
us for something. If it wasn’t a Civil War battle (pardone! The War for Southern Independence), it was some form of produce.
He was startled from his reverie by a pair of motorcyclists who overtook him just as he left the town. They roared by him, cutting in front so closely he had to brake. Neither wore helmets.
“Organ donors,” he muttered.
His normal good humor was restored when he reached the outskirts of Claxton (Population: 2,391 the welcome sign stated) and spotted the familiar 50-foot water tower with its “Fruitcake Capital of the World” slogan. Claxton, he knew, was famous for only two things: fruitcake and a meteorite that crushed a resident’s mailbox in 1984. He’d read someplace that the mailbox, the only one in history believed to have been hit by a celestial object, brought $83,000 at auction.
Garza wasn’t interested in meteorites. He turned off Route 301 onto Main Street and three blocks later pulled into the parking lot of the Claxton Bakery. He visited the bakery whenever he was in the area and knew the Claxton story by heart. How the bakery was started in 1910 by an Italian immigrant named Salvatore Tos, who made a special fruitcake for Christmas. How Tos sold the business to his longtime apprentice, Albert Parker, when he retired in 1945. How Parker decided to concentrate on “old family recipe” fruitcakes rather than compete with supermarket bakeries sprouting up after World War II.
A brilliant move, as it turned out. The Claxton Bakery and its rival Georgia Fruitcake Company (started by another Tos apprentice) have since shipped millions of fruitcakes all over the world. The United States military is one of their largest customers. That, Garza was sure, generated plenty of jokes about fruitcakes being used as weapons. Certainly a Claxton fruitcake dropped from a drone on some Taliban fighter would do the trick!
Most civilian customers, including a thousand charities that sold Claxton fruitcakes at fundraising events, probably ordered them through the company website. Garza occasionally did as well. But he also liked to visit the store, where he could soak in the ambiance and sample new products. Like most Cubans, Garza had a sweet tooth. He was always bugging Christian to remind his sister to send extra Stollen at Christmas. He’d received his first American fruitcake as a gift, and now considered himself an aficionado. He had come across no finer fruitcake than the ones made in Claxton. He ate them, gave them as gifts, shipped them to relatives back home, left them in every nursing home he visited and expounded the glory of the recipe to anyone who would listen. Christian naturally bore the brunt of his enthusiasm, and often reminded him of the time a bar of the dense mixture of nuts, candied fruit and pound cake in Garza’s carry-on was mistaken for plastic explosive by airport security.
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