by Diane Capri
“I know,” I told him.
“Then why are you so resistant to the whole thing? I’d think Jim’s happiness would be important to you. Isn’t it time for you to show him what you’re made of?”
“Funny. I thought I was.” I took the toast from the oven and added the cheese, returning it to the broiler.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Jim Harper wasn’t much of a father to me. He thought of me as ‘in the way’ when Mom was alive and he wanted her all to himself. And he just left me alone for years after Mom died. If it hadn’t been for Kate and her family, I’d have had nothing resembling a normal life.” I put the cheese toast on the plate and sat across from George at the table.
“All of that was years ago, Willa. People often attempt to repeat their lives and improve on the job they did the first time around. You have the ability to be a hero, here. To show Jim, Suzanne and everyone else that you’re a bigger person than most. To live up to everyone’s expectations of you. Including your own.” George was attempting his personal brand of gentle persuasion. What he meant was I had a chance to live up to his standards.
To George, it was always of utmost importance to do the right thing, the honorable thing; to go one’s own way; “to thine own self be true” and all that.
George thinks the only one we have to please is ourselves, and that we should have exacting standards for our own behavior. This, of course, leads to constant disappointment when others don’t behave as well.
Such as one’s wife when her father marries a woman half his age and begins to act like the father he never was.
I said nothing as I ate my toast and reached for the front page of the Tribune. After a few moments of silence, George got up, put his dishes in the sink, and kissed my head as he walked by to get dressed for the very long day we had ahead of us.
A short while later, the telephone rang twice and I got up to answer it. “Is that son-of-a-bitch, Jim Harper, there?”
A woman’s voice. One I recognized.
“Hello? Sandra? It’s Willa Carson. Dad’s not here right now. Can I help you?” I thought I heard growling from Sandra Kelley in response.
“Yes, you can help me. Did you know your father was in Miami snooping around Gil’s bank this week?”
“Not really, I . . .”
“You can tell him that we don’t appreciate him suggesting that Senior was a thief. Gil is damned upset about it, and so am I. You can tell him that for me.” She was breathing heavily as she spoke to me in loud, angry tones.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about this, Sandra, but I’m sure you both are upset. I’d heard that you were suggesting Senior had embezzled money from his bank, though. Didn’t you expect people to take you seriously about it?”
“You just tell Jim Harper to keep his nose out of our business or he’ll have someone else to answer to!” she actually shouted at me—just before she slammed down the phone.
I looked at the receiver and then replaced it as George came back.
“She hung up on me,” I said.
“I figured that. If I was an eavesdropper, I could have heard the entire conversation from the other room,” he said. “Actually, I did hear every word she said. No surprise. Surely you didn’t think she’d take it well—Jim going into her husband’s bank and asking questions about thefts by Senior Kelley.”
I frowned at him. It was okay for me to be upset with Jim, but I didn’t like Sandra Kelley’s tone. I’d always thought she was more than a little unstable.
“Do you have any idea what your Dad’s been doing in Miami?” George asked.
“He didn’t really tell me. He mentioned last week that he was doing a bank investigation. I didn’t realize he meant Tampa Bay Bank.”
The hordes would descend on George’s restaurant later today. Using my downtime wisely, I headed over to Pass-a-Grille to see The Armstrong Otter Studio for myself. Driving over the bridge from Plant Key to Bayshore Boulevard, I turned left and then right onto Gandy, heading due west. As I drove, I assured myself the visit was not unethical.
Otter had invited me to come over. I didn’t intend to speak to him. And I wasn’t sitting in a bench trial, I rationalized.
Nor did I intend to rely on what I learned to make a decision in any case. Besides that, based on what I’d read in the U.S. v. Otter file, I was the only person in Tampa who had never seen the studio.
Some people, like the CJ, would say my visit had the appearance of impropriety. But so did smoking in my office, which I sometimes did, too. Nothing I said in my imaginary argument convinced me to turn the car around.
Gandy Boulevard begins at the Bayshore, runs for about five miles as a busy commercial highway, and then becomes a bridge connecting Hillsborough and Pinellas counties.
Gandy Bridge is the third and southernmost bridge connecting the two counties and helping to form the Tampa Bay Metropolitan Area, as the Chamber of Commerce likes to call it.
Until the advent of crass commercialism joined the counties in their search for tourist dollars, sports franchises, and business development, the two counties couldn’t have been more separatist. Today, we’re just one big happy family. Or so the Business Journal would have us believe.
In any event, I passed the beach areas where the thong-bikini clad hot dog vendors used to stop traffic—literally—until they were banned as “unhealthy.” Those women had looked mighty healthy to me, but I easily believed they were a traffic hazard.
The fifty million tourists who visit us every year stop on the entrance ramps before merging on the freeway, turn right from the left-hand lane, and drive the wrong way on Tampa’s many one-way streets to make driving a death-defying experience. We don’t need one more traffic problem.
My opinion had absolutely nothing to do with my own personal appearance should I ever have considered wearing a thong-bikini. Really.
Once I reached I-275, I could put the pedal to Greta’s metal and speed down to exit 4, the Pinellas Bayway. For a mere fifty-cent toll each way, this little stretch of highway connects St. Petersburg with St. Pete Beach, just north of my eventual destination.
Between here and there is Eckerd College, the road to Fort DeSoto Park, and quite a few golf courses next to high-rise condominiums. All of that passes before the Intra-Coastal Waterway that separates the mainland from the barrier islands, including St. Pete Beach and Pass-a-Grille, further south.
The Bayway ends right at the doorstep to my favorite famous old hotel, the Don CeSar. The Don was built in the 1920s and, as I said, was a vacation spot favored by Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, among other flapper era swells. During World War II, the Don served as a hospital for recuperating RAF pilots. A recent multi-million dollar renovation brightened up its pink and white, birthday cake exterior.
The Don’s current owner was an insurance conglomerate. They created a spa and resort that welcomed guests who would visit for a few hours instead of a few weeks. A sign in the lobby said, “You don’t have to stay here to play here.”
That philosophy had done much to return the Don’s financial situation to the pink, too. We’d been invited to several weddings and parties here the last few years, and they were always beautifully done.
I turned left at the Don and drove under the second-floor entry way, traveling at the staid twenty-five miles an hour required on Pass-a-Grille Way, down to Eighth Avenue and the business district.
Being a Saturday in the middle of the high season, there was no hope of finding a good parking spot. I cruised up and down the short one-block street a couple of times before resigning myself to the ravenously hungry parking meters at the beach side on Gulf Way.
Overstaying the meter here can cost thirty dollars or more. The local paper boasted the amount of increased revenue the town collected from over-parked tourists each year.
I walked back to Eighth Avenue from the Gulf side and realized that I might never have really looked at these little shops before. There weren’t many of them
, but the shops they had were quite nice.
A hair salon with a small lending library; an upscale sportswear store, two gift shops that didn’t have a single pink flamingo in the window but displayed pottery, oil and watercolor works by local artists.
On the south side of the street was the famous jeweler, Evander Preston’s place. The beautifully painted Chinese red doors had a doorbell on the left doorjamb and a sign beneath it listing Preston’s “hours of availability.”
On the north side of the street was Armstrong Otter’s gallery. It wasn’t as impressive as Preston’s, but it had the same look about it.
Otter’s door was painted a bright green and his doorbell had a sign listing his hours. He was open “by appointment” on Saturday from ten until two o’clock. It was eleven-thirty.
I pushed the lighted nose of a Newfoundland, hearing the discreet chime of the bell inside.
A woman opened the door. “Welcome,” she said, “have you been to Armstrong’s before?” When I told her I hadn’t, she said, “Only the jewelry is for sale. Everything else is for your viewing pleasure. Please look around and let us know if we can help you.”
As I said, I’d been to Preston’s shop before, so I expected Armstrong Otter’s copy to be similar. Otter displayed an eclectic collection of autographed and personalized lithographs, hand-thrown pottery, brass sculptures and, on the walls, a few photographs of himself with celebrities.
There were pictures of Otter with Donald Trump, Ted Kennedy, Jimmy Buffett and other celebrities with ties to Florida.
The jewelry itself was avant-garde in most respects. Stashed behind glass, on the walls, and in jewelry cases near the discreet cash register, several different artists were credited with design.
The most interesting display was one entire wall of jewelry devoted to designers Otter employed who had, at various times, won the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts’ Emerging Artist Award.
After I’d been looking for about twenty minutes, the rail-thin hostess who’d greeted me returned. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’m unfamiliar with Mr. Otter’s work. Can you tell me a little about it?”
She handed me a small brochure with “Armstrong Otter” inscribed in gold calligraphy on a bright green cover embossed with the head of a Newfoundland, a large, black dog that closely resembles a St. Bernard.
Reciting what sounded like rehearsed lines, she began, “This tells Armstrong’s story and gives you some examples of his work. He’s probably most well known for nurturing new talent and allowing promising young designers to create new pieces under his tutelage. Armstrong and his protégés have won many national art prizes. The piece he plans to submit to the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts is in this display.”
She directed me to a glass case in the middle of the room. In a voice that she might have used to introduce the Hope diamond, she whispered, “This is Gasparilla Gold. Isn’t it fabulous?”
The piece was even more spectacular than it had looked in the photograph Otter showed us. The gold and jewels sparkled in the center of a white background. It was smaller, though, than it had looked in the photo.
“Do you think this piece will win first prize?” I asked her, feigning an equal level of reverence.
“Oh, we hope so,” she gushed. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
I glanced briefly at the brochure she’d given me. “I see Mr. Otter is also well known for collecting and reselling ‘Jewels of the World.’ What are they, exactly?” I hoped my voice contained just the right mix of interest and curiosity.
“Let me show you,” she said, as she led me to another cabinet on the opposite wall. “Here are several examples of what you’re talking about.”
She’d pointed to a photograph. “As you can see, this is a picture of Princess Grace of Monaco, wearing a sapphire necklace. And here, below the picture, is the necklace. Here’s another one: a picture of Princess Diana with a pearl ring on her pinky. The ring is right here,” she pointed to the ring as if I needed guidance to see the obvious.
Burying my annoyance at her patronizing attitude, I said, “This is amazing. How did Mr. Otter acquire such wonderful pieces? Aren’t they dreadfully expensive?”
And, I was thinking, aren’t they assets that could be attached to satisfy some of those claimants in the criminal case pending against Otter?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tampa, Florida
Saturday 11:45 a.m.
February 17, 2001
THE STICK-SKINNY SALESLADY smiled her own Grace Kelly smile, a slight bending of the lips with evident amusement. “Oh, Armstrong knows absolutely everyone.”
I studied the pieces more carefully now and asked, “Does Mr. Otter have any jewelry worn by Marilyn Monroe?”
“I’m sure he must have. He knew Joe DiMaggio quite well. I would be surprised if Joe hadn’t sold Armstrong some of her pieces. I could ask him for you, if you’d like to leave your card.”
“Hmm,” I said. “How much would something like this Princess Diana ring cost?” The question was indelicate, but this was a store, after all, where things were for sale.
She gave me the look that said, “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” and coughed a little behind her hand. “Armstrong makes all sales of his ‘Jewels of the World’ himself. You’d have to discuss that with him.” Apparently, she’d decided I was a deadbeat looker, not apt to haul out my credit card. When the bell sounded again, she said, “Would you excuse me for a moment, please?” and left me for a more promising customer
I wandered around a while longer. There really was something to see in every nook and cranny. I started to wonder how I’d been in Tampa all this time and never known this place was here. Or that its occupant was so famous.
I don’t usually think of myself as isolated, but maybe I was. Partly, it was that I don’t wear jewelry that much, myself. What I do wear regularly are a few good pieces that were given to me, mostly by George.
Although I find gems interesting and beautiful, my usual lifestyle doesn’t allow elaborate jewelry. I look at the constant streams of catalogues that make it to my mailbox at the office but, otherwise, I’m woefully ignorant on the subject.
When the sales lady, or whatever her title was—curator?—didn’t come back after a while, I took my brochure and left. I couldn’t stay gone from home forever. Even with a few hundred people around, George would surely notice.
But the trip over here had been a nice break for me. I took advantage of it just a short while longer.
I zipped my jacket, turned up the collar, and stuffed my hands into my pockets. I walked on the beach from Eighth Avenue up to about Seventeenth and back. Then, I returned to the Hurricane restaurant and went inside.
The waitress seated me inside, on the second-floor balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. She took my order for a grilled grouper sandwich with lettuce and tomato, claimed to be the best in the bay.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bright green Armstrong Otter Studio brochure while I awaited my lunch.
The brochure was sealed with a gold crest sticker in the shape of Newfoundland, and I recalled that I’d noticed the same crest on the door of Otter’s studio. Pulling the sticker open, I then had a sort of envelope that had five flaps and a few four-by-six cards inside.
On each of the cards was an example of jewelry creations by several of Otter’s protégés, with both the designer and the pieces described on the back.
The flaps of the envelope contained short comments about Otter, himself. Mostly promotion pieces about his training, awards and commitment to creative jewelry design.
The “Jewels of the World” were mentioned only in a short paragraph that said: “Armstrong is pleased to be able to offer select customers a limited number of truly special Jewels of the World owned by the most gracious women of our time. By appointment.”
Nowhere on the promotional material was a disclosure that the jewels might be faux.
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br /> What I did see were several pieces of jewelry I recognized as belonging to a number of Tampa socialites.
For instance, the diamond and black pearl drop earrings set in platinum were worn by the Queen of Ye Mystic Krewe last week during the Parade of Pirates. And the last time the CJ and his wife had been at the cancer foundation fundraiser she’d worn the large Atocha coin set in diamonds and sapphires on a platinum chain around her neck.
The prices for these pieces weren’t listed, but I’d bet my greatly devalued stock portfolio that they weren’t cheap.
When my sandwich arrived, I put the brochure aside and spent a fairly leisurely forty-five minutes enjoying the Gulf, the sand and the sunshine. I left reluctantly, walked down the beach and back to where I’d parked Greta—only to find a neon green envelope holding a parking ticket on the windshield.
When I returned to Minaret, the members, friends and family of Minaret Krewe had already begun to fill George’s again for makeup and pre-festivities revelry. I pulled her over to the side and surreptitiously slipped the electronic key to the valet on my way through the front door. The valet would park Greta later, after he took care of the paying guests.
The makeup artists were again set up around the lobby and the perimeter of the dining rooms. Pirates and wenches in various stages of preparation wandered around, carrying drinks and unlit cigars. Some had heavy, gold-tone coins in small bags hanging from their waists, and most had the brightly colored beads they would throw to the crowds later draped around their necks like Floridian stoles.
I noticed Gil Kelley and his wife Sandra making the rounds, gleefully preparing the men and women who were brave enough to participate in what the weatherman was calling one of the coldest nights of the year.
By the time the parade was in full swing, the temperatures would be down into the high thirties. These costumes were clearly meant for warmer weather and I saw some of the women, in particular, attempting to find a suitable wrap for their bare shoulders and legs.
When George and I had agreed to be in the parade tonight, I’d had no idea it would be so cold. But we couldn’t demur now, so I trudged upstairs to find my costume and to discover whether I’d saved some long underwear from my prior life in Detroit.