Nila's Babies

by Jac Simensen

  “Nada—and nobody on this end wants to see anything more about either Margaret Cartwright or the attack in the media. I don’t know how the powers-that-be are gonna spin the missing corpse story once it gets out—and it will get out. Since the attack on Miss Rawlings was widely reported, some pain-in-the-ass newsperson might try to get a follow-up story. Probably be best if you and Miss Rawlings didn’t have anything more to say about Margaret Cartwright.”

  “Is that friendly advice, Mick, or an official request?”

  “Look, Mr. Hale, there wasn’t any authorization for me to tell you about the DNA match on the dead clerk. Since we’ve all been through this together, I figured you had a right to know.” The deputy sounded hurt.

  “Mick, I apologize. I’m really sorry I said that. If it weren’t for you, who knows what could have happened to Nila and the babies!”

  “No apology necessary, Mr. Hale. We’re all getting weirded out by this thing. It’s just that I overheard a reporter asking someone for information on where Miss Rawlings could be reached, that’s all.”

  “I dropped Nila and the girls off at a hotel in Miami earlier this morning, and I’ll be going to Tampa tomorrow and then joining Nila and her sister in Miami. There won’t be anyone here for the newspeople to hassle for the rest of the week. But thanks for the heads-up. I’m on my way home now and will be around until tomorrow if there’s anything else we should discuss.”

  “Right. And good luck with the bar exam, Mr. Hale.”

  “Great memory, Mick.”

  “That’s not what Tyrece says,” the deputy said with a chuckle.

  Gordon closed his cell phone and headed for Castle Key and his empty house.

  ~*~

  Devon placed her smartphone on the kitchen counter. “No delays on Alligator Alley or the interstate. He should be here soon—make sure you’re ready.”

  Hattie opened the refrigerator door and removed a bowl. “And what if he doesn’t want lunch? What if he stopped to eat on the way home?”

  “Wouldn’t matter—he’s the polite, considerate type, so good manners will oblige him to eat your lobster salad. Not so many men are like that—most use their manners as camouflage for their ambition.”

  Hattie smirked. “What else is new?”

  “This one might be different. I’ll know more once I get control over him.”

  “What if he don’t like lobster?”

  “He’s from Massachusetts, and at the party he told us a story about illegally poachin’ lobsters when he was a kid. He’ll eat the salad.”

  Hattie placed lettuce leaves on two plates and then spooned out the lobster salad. “Green plate for Gordon and white for Devon—got that?”

  “Green for Gordon,” Devon repeated, as she used an eyedropper to place six drops of clear liquid onto the lobster salad on the green plate. She replaced the dropper back in the small vial and then mixed the drug into the lobster salad with her index finger. “That’ll do the job. After he eats the salad, he’ll be drooling for sex and thinking with his dick instead of his brain.”

  “Where’d you get that stuff?” Hattie asked.

  “I discovered the ancient formula a long time ago in Alexandria; it was an extract from a poisonous reptile. Worked well, but occasionally had lethal side effects. But back a hundred years ago, some scientists in Germany chemically synthesized a much better formula—a ‘date-rape drug.’ The compound has dozens of street names—Ecstasy is the most common. I paid a chemist to modify the formula to my specifications—to make a drug that provides the same sexually ecstatic, hallucinatory reaction as Ecstasy, but fades away in a shorter period. For a medium-size, adult male like Gordon Hale, six drops ingested with food will quickly get the results I want and wear off in about three hours. Most important, he won’t remember what I did to him while he was drugged.”

  Devon rinsed the empty mixing bowl in the sink while Hattie returned the green and white plates to the fridge.

  “Is this the wine you got?” Hattie took a bottle from the refrigerator.

  “He knows a lot about wine, and this is a special bottle—I don’t think he’ll be able to resist.”

  Hattie examined the label. “Le Musigny,” she said, with the correct French pronunciation. “The rarest and most expensive white wine of the Côte de Nuit. I’ll open it now and leave it on the granite counter to stabilize. The fridge is way too cold to properly chill a great white wine.”

  Devon pulled Hattie close and lovingly fondled her butt. “Don’t you mock me,” she gently hissed. “You’re an ignorant girl from New Orleans—stay in character.” Devon kissed Hattie’s lips and then stepped back. “Later,” she said. “Later.”

  Holding the hem of an invisible dress, Hattie feigned a curtsey. “Yes, Ma-Ma,” she girlishly giggled.

  ~*~

  Gordon pointed to the date on the plot plan that lay open before him on the dining-room table. “1999: that’s when my father sold the big house to Mrs. Silk and that’s when this survey was completed. Actually, there are really only three aspects of the survey that require your understanding. The first is the southern property line between this house and the beach cottage, and the northern property line between the big house and the McClatchy estate—those appear to be straightforward. The second is the driveway and the right-of-way granted to the beach cottage. Third is the property line between the Gulf of Mexico, the beach, and the land you own—and that can be a legal quagmire. But most likely, it’s also something that will never be an issue—unless, that is, you have plans to extend the house toward the water, or to erect a fence, or another structure, between the house and the beach.”

  Devon shook her head. “Not likely that I’d ever need to extend the house. Four of the six bedrooms are unfurnished and unused. There’s a lot more space here than I’ll ever need.”

  Gordon grinned. “Never know—you could get married and raise a bunch a kids.”

  “Not possible,” Devon firmly replied. “The kids, I mean—not marriage.”

  “In any case, my advice is to get a local property surveyor to do a current survey and plot plan. You’ve already done business with Dale Connor—I’m sure that he could recommend the best firm to use. If you have any concerns about access to the property and the right of way, Dale could also put you in touch with a local attorney. That probably won’t be necessary, but I’m afraid that a potential conflict-of-interest would prevent me from rendering any opinion.”

  “I understand your position.”

  “As to the Gulf, the beach, and your property ownership and rights, I’d be happy to provide as comprehensive and boring a tutorial as you’d be willing to suffer through. I’ve just had to learn the Florida-specific, high-waterline beach laws for the bar exam and I’d enjoy sharing the pain.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Devon said with a smile. “I’m really not much of a beach girl—I prefer swimming in a pool to the ocean.”

  “In that case, you’re welcome to use our pool while we’re away.”

  “Thanks. I might just do that tomorrow. I enjoy a swim first thing in the morning. I’ve been toying with the idea of puttin’ in a pool inside the walled garden. It’d be convenient and I wouldn’t even have to put up a fence…or wear a bathing suit.” Devon grinned. “So, I’ll take your suggestion and get a new survey. Would you be willing to look it over when the plan’s done?”

  “My pleasure. In fact, if you let me know who’s going to do the new survey, I’ll have my architect get them to do my cottage property at the same time. I think Nila told you that we’re going to renovate the kitchen and baths, and add another bedroom to the old place—it won’t be too long before the twins need their own rooms.”

  Hattie partially opened one of the sliding doors between the sunroom and dining room and inserted her head into the gap. “Excuse me interruptin’ this important meeting, but your lunch is all set up in the great room an’ I jus’ need to know when to take the lobster salad outa the fridge.”

  �
�Hattie’s made her special Louisiana lobster salad for you, Gordon. Kopel’s got in fresh, live lobster especially for us and Hattie’s been cookin’ for most of the morning…You will stay for lunch, won’t you?”

  For a microsecond Gordon visualized the unappetizing baloney, yellow-mustard, and white-bread sandwich he’d planned to make for his lunch. “Great, I’d love to try your lobster salad—lobster’s one of my favorites.”

  Devon stood and slid her chair back from the dining-room table. “Thank you so much, Gordon, for helping me understand all these papers. Daddy always took care of the financial and legal affairs for the family. Fortunately, I’ve had Clarisse to manage important matters for me since he’s been gone. It’s a relief to know that there’s someone nearby whom I can trust.”

  “I’ll go finish puttin’ out lunch,” Hattie said as she fully opened the doors.

  “Don’t forget the wine,” Devon called after her. “I put it out on the countertop—it was gettin’ too cold in the fridge.”

  “Right, Ma-Ma,” Hattie laughingly called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.

  Gordon rose from his chair and smiled. “Your Hattie is quite a character. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her before.”

  “She is, isn’t she? I’ve known her for years; Hattie and Myra were our next-door neighbors where I grew up in New Orleans. Mommy was an alcoholic and Daddy was always traveling and seldom at home—mainly to avoid fightin’ with my mother. When I got fed up with my mother’s drinkin’ and carousin’, Hattie and Myra were my support group. Actually, Hattie more so than Myra. Then, when I was a teen, sometimes Mommy would bring home some scary guy and I’d go next-door and stay in Myra’s spare room ’til he left. I had my own key and, when Myra went to Castle Key during the winter, I’d stay at their house more than at my parents’ house. Just before my parents were killed in the car crash, it got to the point where I had more of my clothes and things at Myra’s house than in my own bedroom.”

  “You never came to visit Myra here in Florida, at this place?”

  “Never—I was too busy at LSU to travel. I was—maybe still am—a pretty serious student, and had just begun my doctoral dissertation when my parents were killed. Then, Myra died. I had no siblings or blood relatives to share the trauma, so that kinda knocked the wind out of my sails. Hattie was destitute and homeless and I was a wealthy, confused orphan, so I decided to take the two of us to a horribly expensive spa in the Caribbean for the better part of a month. They did a great job toning up Hattie’s body and an even better job on my mind. Let’s go in for lunch and then we can talk some more.”

  Devon linked her arm into Gordon’s and they walked through the sunroom to the entry hall and grand staircase.

  “I see you’ve decided to keep Myra’s picture collection on the wall.” Gordon sounded surprised.

  Devon nodded. “Still thinking about what I’m gonna do. I did take your suggestion and asked Mr. Kopel to get someone to appraise the pictures. His man is comin’ over next week. If you’re interested, I’ll go over the appraisal with you when you get back from Miami.”

  “I don’t know much about art, but I’d be interested to know more about your collection. I’m sure Nila would be interested, as well. Did she tell you that she’s an artist and an artist’s model?”

  “She never mentioned it—she does that as a career?”

  “She’s quite talented, but she’s also very modest about her talent. I’ll get her to show you some of the sketches she’s done—they’re really good. After our wedding, I plan on actively encouraging Nila to get more serious about her art—perhaps someday put on a one-woman show. I really think she’s that good.”

  “At our little party, Nila told everyone that your wedding will be here, on Castle Key. Is that right?”

  “We decided to do it outdoors at the Castle Hill Inn. She’s started working with the inn’s wedding planner and they’ve tentatively decided on sometime during the first two weeks of October, toward the tail end of hurricane season. You’ll come, of course—and Hattie, as well.”

  “Why, thank you! We’d love to come to your wedding.”

  “Good. I’ll make sure the two of you are on the guest list.”

  Devon turned to the imposing, eight-foot-high double doors at the end of the hall. They had been painted an antique cream, with the edges of the interior panels highlighted in gilt. “Do you recall what the great room looked like in your grandparents’ day?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I was very young when my parents and sister and I visited my grandparents—probably five or six. We always stayed at the beach cottage, so I don’t have any solid memories of this old house. Later on, when Mother, Mary, and I visited Mrs. Silk for tea, I don’t think we ever ventured beyond the sunroom. Wait—I do remember a few things. My grandmother always called the big room the ballroom, not the great room. On the far end, there were windows that looked out onto the beach and the ocean.”

  “Very good,” Devon said with a smile. “Is that all?”

  “No, I remember the floor. It was a dark wood and very shiny; I used to slide on the floor in my stocking feet. It was almost like sliding on ice.”

  Devon reached for the gold-plated doorknob. “In all the time Myra owned the house, this room was never used. Clarisse sent me some photos before she started redecorating and it was pretty much as you describe. Come have a look.”

  ~*~

  The great room was the same rectangular shape and size as the sunroom wing on the opposite end of the house, but the ceiling was higher—twenty feet or so at the apex. Standing just inside the tall entry doors, Gordon looked around the room and then shrugged.

  “Spectacular,” he said, “but not at all what I remember. It looks like the lobby of one of those expensive boutique hotels, the kind you see popping up like mushrooms in New York and Boston.”

  Devon pointed to the west-facing wall. “You were right about the windows overlooking the beach and the water—the originals were much smaller. The new windows are impact glass, to protect against windstorm damage.”

  “Do you mean hurricanes?” Gordon asked.

  Devon frowned. “I don’t say that word. When you name a thing—say its name—you’re calling it to come.”

  “Never heard that before.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “The ancients always avoided using the proper names of devils, because to use their names was to summon them. That’s why there are so many substitutes for the name of the evilest of creatures: Beelzebub, Old Nick, Old Scratch, Lucifer, Mephistopheles—the list would fill a dictionary.” Devon abruptly changed the subject. “And you got the dark-colored wood floor right, as well. I thought it might be mahogany, but the builder told Clarisse it’s stained walnut. She’s covered over most of the flooring with carpet, but left the wood exposed over there in the back corner—a dance floor, for when I start giving parties. I love to give parties—you’ll come, of course.”

  Devon turned toward the far corner that faced the large windows. “Let me show you my special place.”

  They walked around a grouping of chairs, tables, and couches, toward an oasis of tall palms in huge, ceramic pots.

  “The trees are live?” Gordon asked.

  “It’s an experiment. We’re waiting to see if there’s enough light comin’ through the new windows to keep ’em healthy. So far, so good. The men from the nursery are optimistic, but when the sun dips down lower in winter, we may have to put in some plant lights.”

  Devon circled around the palms and extended her arm toward the carpeted space between the windows and the trees. “Whadya think?” she asked.

  “Impressive video monitors.” Gordon nodded toward the three 120-inch screens abutting each other on the wall that ran perpendicular to the windows. “You must watch a lot of TV and movies.”

  “They’re high-def monitors—mainly for Clarisse’s light shows, but you can display movies and TV, too.”

  “Light shows?”


  “I think I told you that Clarisse is an artist, as well as my decorator as well as my financial manager.”

  “You did, but I haven’t seen any of her work on your walls. I take it she doesn’t do paintings?”

  “Clarisse does light shows—both live performance art and digitally synthesized audio/video displays. I’m her patron: I bankroll most of her expenses and am the primary sponsor for a show she does in Miami Beach during the annual art festival. While she’s become well known in her field, her work isn’t something the average person will ever encounter—nor is it ever gonna make her rich.”

  “It’s none of my business—but you really are quite wealthy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m always havin’ a competition with my trust fund,” Devon said with a broad smile. “It seems to generate more money than I can spend. For as far back as I know, my ancestors have made their living from mining, mining for precious metals. I’m the principal owner of several active mines. We trade gold and silver for whatever currencies are in use when we need to buy anything. As I told you, Clarisse manages all our financial activities; she always has.”

  “Sorry I was so direct. I don’t usually pry into other people’s personal business.”

  “Pry away. I’m just a simple, rich, Southern girl who’s trying to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.” She pointed to the long, cream-colored, fabric-covered sectional that faced the windows and monitors. “Sometimes Hattie and I will watch a movie here in the evening, though not often TV. I find TV boring. We’ve gotten in the habit of having our afternoon cocktails, and sometimes dinner, here as well while watching the sunset.”

  “You two have an interesting relationship.”

  Devon moved to the small, circular table that was set for two, with a white-linen tablecloth, china, crystal, and silver. “Please sit right here by the green plate; green for Gordon,” she said, smiling. “Hattie’s gone to a lot of fuss to impress you; I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. And yes, you’re right—Hattie and I have a most unusual living arrangement. When we’re here alone together, we act like close friends—sometimes, even a bit like mother and daughter. We eat most meals together, but as soon as there’s anyone else in the house, Hattie takes on the role of cook and maid. Understand—this is her choice, not mine. She has a clear vision of her place in the world and would be most uncomfortable changing. Would you like to pour the wine? I’m afraid I don’t have a proper ice bucket yet, but I think you’ll find the temperature about right.”