The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  “All right, people,” Ted Casselman said finally. “There’s other news out there. Let’s go report it.”

  As the staffers filed out, Casselman pulled a number of message slips from his pocket. “Seems a few people want to talk to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Cotten said.

  “Leno, Letterman, Oprah, Nightline, The Today Show, People magazine, Larry King, GMA.” He leafed through each one. “Not to mention a ton of religious organizations.”

  “The only way you can top this is to cover the Second Coming,” Thornton said. “You’re a genuine celebrity.”

  “What should I do?” Cotten asked, taking the message slips.

  “That’s your call,” Casselman said. “But it couldn’t hurt showing your face on a few of those talk shows—good for you and the network.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over,” she said. “To be honest, I hope I never see that Cup again.”

  “Never say never,” Thornton said. “Maybe we can talk later?” When she didn’t respond, he turned and followed the last of the staff out.

  She watched him pass through the door, his gait so familiar—long, even strides.

  “I can’t wait to see the ratings,” Casselman said, drawing her out of her thoughts. “But before you hit me up for a raise . . .”

  “Can we talk, Ted?” She motioned to two chairs.

  “Sure.”

  When they were seated, she said, “I need some time off.” She looked into his eyes. “This has been almost more than I can handle.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Can you spare me for a week?”

  “Maybe.” His face gave away that he was only toying.

  “Really, Ted. I need to crash.”

  “Your fifteen minutes worn you out?”

  “It’s not the fifteen minutes. I like the attention. It’s everything that led up to it, starting from the minute the driver dumped me in the desert. I’m drained—I need to regroup. Just a week, Ted. I want to go to Miami. My roommate from college—I told you about Vanessa—the model. I’ll stay with her, soak up some sun, and get all this behind me.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.” He paused for a moment, tapping the ends of his forefingers together. “The Robert Wingate thing—you remember, the guy who is going to throw in his hat for the presidential race?”

  “I thought Thornton was covering it?”

  “He is. But Wingate is giving a get-acquainted dinner for the media in Miami, his hometown, next Saturday. Thornton will be heading to Washington on special assignment—can’t be in two places. We need to be on top of Wingate when he announces his candidacy. If you’ll cover the dinner, I’ll pay for your week on the beach.”

  “I only have to attend the dinner? Just the one evening?”

  “That’s it. And you can take your friend along. Just do two things: observe and see if you can chat with Wingate, get a feel for him, maybe set up an interview. Then document your thoughts and impressions, and send them back to Thornton.”

  “It’s a deal.” She extended her hand, and they shook. “Thanks.”

  “Get with Thornton and let him fill you in on what he’s got so far.”

  “Right,” she said, reluctantly. She’d dealt with Thornton pretty well until now, she thought. No more outbursts. No more crying.

  “Cotten, I know all about you and Thornton. Just do your job and don’t worry. I’ll keep him out of your hair.”

  She threaded her hair behind her ears. “I’ll be fine,” she said, wondering whom she was really convincing. “You’re the best, Ted.”

  “Yeah, I know. Now, return some of those calls and see how many interviews you can get in before you leave. Remember, you’re a celeb. Milk it.”

  As she walked from the conference room, she realized that through all the excitement and celebrating she found herself thinking more and more of John Tyler. Especially when she saw the picture of them together on the newscast. She wondered if he had returned from Rome yet. It would be nice to talk to him.

  Back at her desk, Cotten dialed John’s number, but got his answering machine. Maybe I shouldn’t call anyway, she thought. She hung up before the message beep.

  She lifted the receiver again and dialed Vanessa’s cell.

  “Hello,” the voice on the other end answered.

  “Nessi!”

  “Oh, my God!” Vanessa Perez shouted into the phone.

  “Calm down, girl.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re a certified star. I saw you all over the evening news. I can’t believe it. I’m telling all my friends I know you.”

  “Will you please calm down.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I want to swing down for a visit. Are you going to be home next week or are you off to some exotic—”

  “I’m free for the weekend, but I’ve got a shoot coming up in Nassau at the first of the week. But it’s only a two-dayer. You can hang out, and then I’ll be back.”

  “Sounds great. Then I’m coming down, if it’s all right.”

  “It’s perfect. Excellent timing. There’s going to be a huge festival—kind of like a mixture of Calle Ocho and Fantasy Fest. They’re calling it Miami Phantasm Jubilee—a half million people dancing in the streets partying their brains out.”

  Cotten waved at two staffers who came by to congratulate her as she said, “Sounds like just what I need. I’ll fly in Friday night. Saturday evening I’ve got to attend a political dinner. I can get two passes if you want to be my date—very high-end stuff. After the dinner, I’m free.”

  “I guess I can be good long enough to get through some highbrow dinner.”

  “I’ll rent a car and come straight to your apartment. What’s that club on SoBe you told me about?

  “Tantra’s—it’s wild, Cotten. Think you’re ready?”

  “More than you know. Love you.” Cotten hung up. She missed her friend and desperately needed a change of scene. A good mix of relaxing and partying might help her stop thinking about Thornton . . . or John Tyler.

  Cotten looked at the stack of message slips on her desk. She slowly went through the pile before deciding on three. “Here goes,” she said, picking up the phone.

  the secret garden

  Cotten drove her rental car down the long, tree-lined entrance to Vizcaya, James Deering’s palatial villa on the shores of Miami’s Biscayne Bay. The Italian Renaissance-style mansion, built in 1916 on a 160-acre estate, contained Deering’s collection of art and furnishings reflecting 400 years of European history. Over the decades, Vizcaya had hosted popes, presidents, and kings. Tonight, it would be the majestic backdrop for a man wanting to run for President of the United States.

  “This place is incredible,” Vanessa Perez said, sitting in the passenger’s seat. She finger-combed her long black hair. “I’ve done a dozen photo shoots here, but I still get goose bumps.”

  Millions of tiny lights lit the gardens and villa giving Cotten the impression of a star-filled wonderland. Every twig and branch twinkled in the soft breeze from the bay.

  “It’s magnificent,” Cotten said. The lights, the fountains, the breeze, all reminded her of Rome and the evening at the Coliseum.

  White-shirted valets opened the car doors. Cotten and Vanessa got out and made their way up the regal steps of Vizcaya’s west facade—a grand entrance between two stone towers connected by a low wall with old world Italian grillwork.

  They entered the reception room and picked up their name tags. The hum of voices and rustling of formal attire filled the air.

  In her tight little black dress and spike heels, Vanessa was a sexual magnet, Cotten thought, as men glanced in their direction.

  One man stepped in front of them. “You look absolutely elegant, as always,” he said to Vanessa.

  His suit—Cotten guessed it cost more than
she made in a month—hugged his tall, slim frame.

  “Thanks, Felipe.” Vanessa shot him the same smile that had graced the cover of so many magazines. “I want you to meet my best friend, Cotten Stone from SNN. Cotten, this is Felipe Dubois, the editor of Deco Dining.”

  “Of course, Ms. Stone,” Dubois said, a look of sudden recognition on his face. “I saw you on Oprah. What an experience you had.”

  “Meeting Oprah or finding the Holy Grail?” Cotten said, shaking his hand.

  “Both, of course,” Dubois said, laughing heartily. “Do you believe it’s real, the Grail, I mean?”

  “I’m no expert, but the evidence seems convincing. At least that’s what the Vatican says.”

  “Vanessa, where have you been hiding this gorgeous creature?” he asked. “She should be right there on the cover of Vogue next to you.” His hand moved with a flourish, and he spoke with a drawl at the end of his words, as if they were taffy and he had to pull them slowly from his tongue.

  “I’ve tried many times to get her to come over to my way of thinking.” Vanessa winked at Cotten.

  “Behave,” Cotten said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to mingle. Nice to meet you, Felipe. Nessi, I’ll see you at our table. The number is on your ticket.”

  As she walked away, she glanced back to see a half-dozen men surround Vanessa Perez, vying for her attention. Cotten found it amusing that most of them never realized they had no chance.

  The mansion was arranged around a central courtyard in the style of a sixteenth century Italian villa. She wandered across the crowded courtyard, through a number of high-ceiling rooms, and finally emerged on a grand stone veranda running the length of the villa and overlooking the bay. A smooth jazz trio played at one end while guests chatted, sipped champagne, and munched on smoked salmon and stone crabs.

  As she wove her way through the attendees, a nagging headache reminded her of the previous night. She and Vanessa had started the evening with a spicy dinner and giant margaritas at Tequila Blue before moving on to Tantra’s. From the moment they walked in, Cotten felt the sensuality of the place—fresh cut grass floor under her feet, the scent of jasmine, the waterfalls, people smoking glass hookahs of Middle Eastern tobacco, the long mahogany and copper bar, the New Age music. Vanessa said the club was the hotspot for South Beach’s beautiful people, and true to her word, they passed Janet Jackson and her bodyguards just leaving. After hours of dancing, downing Cuervo 1800 shots and flutes of champagne, more dancing, more shots, and propositions by as many females as males, Cotten finally called it quits. Taking a cab back to Vanessa’s beach apartment, she left her friend with two Dolphins cheerleaders trying to become fire-eaters with a box of matches and a bottle of 151.

  The soft jazz, combined with the fresh breeze coming in off the bay and across the Vizcaya balcony, soothed her headache. Cotten stood by the railing, looking down at the expansive ground-level patio covered with dinner tables and a dais for the honored guests. A small group gathered to the side around a tall man in a pinstripe suit. He had an obvious flair for attracting attention and seemed to enjoy it. His mannerisms and body language suggested plenty of self-confidence. He was either a uniquely charismatic individual or had been well coached, or both. He already looked presidential, she thought. She stood intrigued as she watched Robert Wingate, the perfect candidate.

  When the dinner seating began, Cotten joined Vanessa.

  The menu was lavish, including crispy whole red snapper with coconut rice and spicy red curry sauce.

  “This is delicious,” Vanessa said, sipping her white wine. “Wingate must be made out of money.”

  “It would seem so,” Cotten said, wondering just how deep his pockets went. His speech would start soon, and she looked forward to hearing if his voice matched the rest of his commanding presence.

  They chatted with others at their table, most of the talk centering around questions about the Grail. Every now and again, Cotten glanced at Wingate. As the dessert of caramel rice pudding topped with fresh mango and currants was brought to each guest, she noticed someone, whom she assumed was an aide, approach him. The man whispered into the candidate’s ear. Wingate’s perpetual smile faded.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Wingate looked in the direction of Vizcaya’s classical gardens—acres of paths and fountains that wound among a maze of rare, exotic flowers and plants. Standing, he made what appeared to be apologies to those at his table and moved toward the gardens.

  Ted Casselman had asked Cotten to observe, and that’s what she intended to do. “Be right back,” she whispered to Vanessa as she stood and headed through the sea of tables toward the gardens. Following Wingate on a parallel course, keeping the candidate over her left shoulder about a hundred feet away, she entered the spider-webbed paths that weaved among fountains, pools, and cascades. Although the gardens were lit, much of it was torchlight throwing flickering patches of light at her feet and reflecting off the sculptures and decorative urns along the path. Passing through a double grotto, Cotten entered the high-walled Secret Garden, a private place where Deering family members were known to retreat from the formality of the main house. It was the same garden where in 1987, millions of television viewers around the world watched as Pope John Paul II and President Ronald Reagan met during the Pontiff’s first visit to America.

  Catching glimpses of Wingate, Cotten was able to keep up with him. Delicate lighting hidden among the surrounding hedges and vines gave the scene a van Gogh, Night With Stars, appearance.

  As Cotten watched from the shadows, Wingate stopped at a small circle of limestone benches surrounding a Florentine fountain with stone fish jumping and spraying streams from their mouths. He came face-to-face with a man dressed in street clothes, not the formal attire of the evening. The man handed Wingate what Cotten thought was a business card. The candidate held it up to catch the light and read it. They spoke for a few moments—Cotten getting the impression through their gestures and body language that the discussion was heated. Over the white noise of the fountain, she thought she caught a fragment of an argument. At one point, Wingate stabbed his finger toward the man’s face, then pitched the card at him like a Frisbee. It whirled on the air for a moment before cart-wheeling to the ground.

  Wingate turned and moved hastily down the path, back toward the villa. The stranger watched Wingate leave, waiting a few minutes before leaving.

  Once the crunching of his steps along the gravel path faded, Cotten snatched up the business card. She stole a quick look at it, then fell in behind the unknown man, keeping her distance. He moved briskly to the central courtyard, the reception area, out through the mansion’s front entrance, and into a waiting limousine.

  Cotten stood on the steps until the black limousine’s taillights vanished before she headed back to the dinner.

  “Are you all right?” Vanessa asked as Cotten slipped into the seat beside her. “I was getting worried.”

  “I’m fine.” Cotten dropped the card into her small sequined handbag. “Just making some business contacts. Did I miss anything?”

  “Only Chris Matthews from MSNBC. Very cool guy. He actually stopped and said hello. Other than that, just a couple of boring politicians giving some speeches.” Vanessa nodded toward the stage and podium. “Your guy disappeared for a while, but he’s back and about to make his case.”

  Cotten watched Robert Wingate thank the state senator who introduced him.

  “Good evening, my friends of the press,” Wingate said after stepping up to the microphone. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here on such a glorious night in South Florida.”

  * * *

  “This is SNN correspondent, Cotten Stone,” the aide said.

  Cotten and Vanessa had waited in the reception line for about ten minutes when their turn came to meet Robert Wingate.

  “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Stone.” Wingate extended his hand. �
�Congratulations on your exclusive coverage of that amazing Grail story. It’s not often that a reporter gets to make the news and then report it. Great job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I caught some of your appearances on the talk shows, too. You’ve become quite a celebrity.”

  “It’s been fun to share what happened with so many.” Cotten turned to her right. “I’d like you to meet—”

  “Another celebrity,” Wingate said, shaking hands with Vanessa. “It’s impossible to stand in a grocery checkout line these days without seeing you on a magazine cover, Ms. Perez.”

  “Somehow, I can’t imagine you standing in a checkout line,” Vanessa said.

  “You might be surprised to find I’m just an ordinary guy.” Wingate met her smile with an equally enchanting one. “Are you Cuban?”

  “My parents were born in Cuba. I’m a Miami-Jackson Memorial Hospital-born American.” Vanessa’s chin rose slightly.

  Cotten flinched. Wingate had picked on Vanessa’s pet peeve—being proud of her Cuban heritage but not liking people to assume she was anything but American.

  “Then we’re both native-born Floridians—rare birds in these parts,” Wingate said.

  Before Cotten stepped away, she said, “Could I schedule an interview with you, Mr. Wingate?”

  “I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more,” he answered. “Give me a call.”

  Then as if changing TV channels, he turned to the next person in the reception line and said, “And how are you tonight?”

  The candidate’s aide motioned for Cotten and Vanessa to move on.

  “He’s definitely charming,” Vanessa said.

  “Just another politician,” Cotten said. But something had upset him in the Secret Garden. Had she discovered a crack in his perfectly polished veneer?

  “Can we go have some fun now?” Vanessa asked, pretending to tug at Cotten’s arm.

  “I’m ready.”

  priestess