Body Wave

by Nancy J. Cohen

  “You’ve heard His words. You read them in the Bible,” he said, gesturing. “Y’all must do good in the eyes of our Lord if you expect to enter the pearly gates of Heaven. Surely, what could be more generous than helping those poor unfortunates who are too downtrodden to help themselves?”

  Marla heard a gasp and whirled around. Miriam’s face had turned a ghastly hue. “Turn that off,” she croaked.

  “In a minute.” Marla returned her attention to the television.

  Jeremiah pointed to a map of the southern Americas displayed on a wall behind his pulpit. “Our missionaries in Costa Rica and Brazil bring hope to the people. We provide food for the multitude with our fish farms. Their yields finance our operations so we can offer sustenance to those who embrace the Lord. I know you want to contribute. Your hearts are open to do God’s bidding. We’ll accept your offering...”

  Marla’s mouth curved down in disgust as she shut off the TV. “These shows are all alike. What do you think, Miriam? Do people really fall for his spiel?”

  “Why did you take a job with this family?” The matriarch had recovered her composure enough to fix Marla with a piercing glare.

  “I heard about the opening and needed to earn extra money.”

  Miriam pointed to her designer handbag. “You don’t look as though you’re hurting.”

  “That was a gift.” You’d better change the subject fast, girl. “If you’re finished eating, let’s move into the bathroom. We have a lot to do this morning.”

  “It’s amazing,” Miriam admitted two hours later as she studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her gray hair, that had been blunt-cut and dull, now fluffed in soft waves around her face, which Marla had enhanced with makeup. “You’re very talented, dearie. Where did you learn to do hair like a professional?”

  “A friend who’s a hairdresser taught me.” She wouldn’t call Cutter Corrigan a friend, necessarily. He’d been her best teacher at cosmetology school, but now he ran Heavenly Hair Salon on Las Olas. Marla hadn’t spoken to him in years.

  Someone knocked on the bedroom door. “Mother, are you there?” shrilled Stella’s voice.

  “We’re in the bathroom,” Miriam answered. “Come on in.”

  Stella sauntered into view. “Dear God, what is this mess?” Her gaze widened as she surveyed the cut hairs on the lavatory floor surrounding Miriam’s wheelchair.

  “I’ll clean up later,” Marla said. “Doesn’t Miriam look great?” Winding the cord around her blow-dryer, she started to pack away the supplies that cluttered the small counter space.

  “What’s that smell?” Stella wrinkled her nose.

  “Perm solution. Miriam’s hair was too flat. I gave her some lift with a body wave.” She moistened her lips in anticipation. “Next weekend, we’ll turn you into a blonde,” she addressed Miriam.

  Stella gasped in horror. “These fumes are too strong for her, and you’re planning to put more chemicals in her hair?”

  Marla surveyed the woman’s reddish-brown tint. “You must go to the salon often enough to get your roots touched up. It doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “I’m not frail and in poor health.”

  “Nor am I dead yet, dearie,” Miriam said, her eyes gleaming. “What did you want to see me about, anyway?”

  “I can’t find my cameo. I haven’t worn it in years, but it would go perfectly with this blouse. I’m on my way to a floral design class in Davie.”

  “Why don’t you take bookkeeping instead? That would be more useful than those silly crafts. Then you could help Morris with the business.”

  “I hate math, and besides, you do the accounts.”

  “I won’t be around forever, and my mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be.”

  “Agnes helps you. She’s good with figures. Maybe Morris will hire her after you don’t need her anymore.”

  “Ha! Wishing me dead already!”

  Stella’s face puckered, and her eyes clouded with pain. “I don’t think so. One death in the family is enough.”

  Miriam half-rose from her chair. “I’m so sorry, child. Forgive me. This has been difficult on all of us. We don’t need to bicker with each other.”

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Marla suggested, breaking the silence that followed. “We’ll go out later after it warms up.”

  “If you find my cameo, let me know, will you?” Stella said, her shoulders sagging as though she were drained. “I must be losing it. Can’t seem to find lots of stuff these days. Last week, I lost my best pen.”

  You look like you lost more than that, Marla thought sympathetically. Maybe Kimberly’s loss was just now beginning to sink in.

  Morris arrived while Marla was pouring a cup of tea for his mother in the parlor. “Everything all right?” he said in his gruff manner.

  “We’re fine,” Miriam answered, looking spry in a turquoise pants outfit. She grinned at him, her false teeth giving her an even smile. Marla had transferred her from the wheelchair into a high armchair.

  “What happened to your hair?” Morris said. “You look different.”

  “Marla spruced me up. She wants to take me to the mall this afternoon.”

  “What?” He couldn’t have looked more astonished if he’d swallowed a live grouper.

  “It’s not that cold out today,” Marla explained. “I’ll bundle her up, and we’ll park in one of the garages at Galleria. Just in case, I’ll take some of her medicines along. Miriam is sturdier than you think.”

  “We’re going shopping for cosmetics,” Miriam said in a childishly eager voice.

  Her tone made Marla think of Brianna. Had anyone taken the girl under her wing in regard to makeup and other feminine advice? She didn’t know if Brie would accept her guidance, but next time they were together, she’d offer it.

  “Will you join us for dinner later?” Morris asked his mother.

  “If I feel well enough, sonny.”

  “I enjoyed our discussion on coffee growing when I was here last Thursday,” Marla said, mentally refocusing. His plantations were in Costa Rica and Brazil, same places as Jeremiah Dooley’s missions. Maybe she could learn more about the family business. “Are the coffee cherries edible?” she asked with a naive smile.

  Morris leaned his elbow on the fireplace mantel. “They’re not really cherries in the sense that you mean.”

  “How so? Does coffee grow on trees, or is it a plant?”

  A hint of amusement seeped into his eyes. “Let’s start at the beginning. The three most cultivated types of beans are arabica, robusta, and liberica. Arabica beans taste better because they grow at higher elevations. They account for nearly seventy percent of the world’s coffee production.”

  “I remember reading somewhere that they come from Africa.”

  “That’s true, the first arabica coffee plant was discovered in Ethiopia. However, Africa and the Far East account for only forty percent of the market share. Columbia, Brazil, and Central American countries produce the rest.”

  His cadence of speech increased, as though she’d wound up a toy that needed to spend its energy. “We plant the beans in moist, fertile soil. Seeds germinate six to eight weeks later. At this stage, healthy seedlings are transplanted to nurseries. When the plants reach two feet high, we remove them to our plantation. Here it takes up to five years for the tree to mature. It can grow as tall as twenty feet, but usually we prune them to stay under twelve feet on average.”

  “What does the tree look like?”

  “It has glossy evergreen leaves and blooms with fragrant white flowers.”

  “The tree bears fruit?” Marla refilled her client’s teacup from a silver service set on a cocktail table.

  Morris nodded. “After blossoms appear, it takes six to nine months more for the trees to produce the rich red berries that we call coffee cherries. The size of the cherries depends on the amount of water received during the sprouting process, so plenty of rainfall is desirable. Ripened cherries are handpicked. Harvesting c
an take as long six months, so unripe cherries have a chance to be picked later in the season after they mature.”

  “Where does the coffee bean come from?” Marla glanced at the matriarch. Miriam seemed content to watch her son, pride glowing on her face.

  “In the center of the cherries are two seeds. These are the green coffee beans,” he explained. “The pulping process removes pulp and debris, then the beans are fermented using either a wet or dry technique. The wet fermentation process gives the beans more acidity, while the dry method gives them more body.”

  “Which one do you use?”

  “We wash the beans. The drying method is too dependent on the weather, and you get more debris.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Each bean is covered by a thin parchment skin. A huller removes this parchment and polishes the beans. They’re sorted and graded by standards set for coffee roasters, with Grade One being the best quality. The higher the altitude where they’re grown, the hardier and better the coffee bean. Lastly, the beans are roasted.”

  “Did you tell her about the poisons you put on the plants?” demanded Florence from the entry.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morris’s mouth curved downward as he regarded his sister. “Pesticides are necessary to control insects.”

  Florence sashayed into the room, her slim figure looking svelte in a pastel pink suit enhanced by enough jewelry to open a store. “If you grew the plants in their naturally shaded habitat, nature would take care of the bugs. You wouldn’t need chemicals, plus you’d preserve the tree canopy where migratory birds nest. Good morning, Mother. Hello, Marla,” she added in a condescending tone.

  “I remember Barbara said you’re helping with a fund-raiser,” Marla said.

  “Yes, it’s for a worthy cause.” Florence patted her hair, swept into a classical French twist. “Did you know birds are losing their habitats to high-tech farms at an alarming rate? Without their shade canopy, coffee plants exposed to the sun need more fertilizer. Those farms lack natural predators that control insects, making pesticides necessary. There’s more erosion, toxic runoff, and loss of trees. Our organization promotes shade-grown coffee production that preserves the forests.”

  “You’re not considering the practical applications,” Morris protested. “Our methods produce higher yields. Besides, you should support your own plantations. That’s where our money comes from.”

  “Blame your wife for involving me. Barbara says our company could just as well invest in traditional coffee farms.”

  “We don’t have enough capital right now.”

  “That’s your problem. Mother, I just wanted to see how you felt this morning. I have to meet Elise Addison at the country club. She’s putting together a cookbook that we’ll sell at the fashion show.”

  “Elise? You mean Stan’s neighbor?” Marla blurted. When all eyes turned to her, she realized her mistake. “I mean, Kimberly used to play tennis with her. We’re, uh, acquainted.”

  “Really?” Florence raised an eyebrow. “I’ll ask her about you.”

  Bless my bones, now you’ve done it. Quick, change the subject. “Have you noticed your mother’s new hairdo?” she said in a bright tone.

  Florence’s eyes rounded as she swung her gaze to the matriarch. “Why, Mother, I thought you looked different! I love it. What have you done?”

  Miriam wagged a finger. “Marla fixed me up. Next week, she’s promised to turn me into a blonde. I’ll have to tell Agnes to take lessons from her.”

  Oh joy, Marla thought. That’s just what Agnes needs to hear.

  ****

  “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to play my part,” Marla told Dalton the next day during their drive to Tarpon Springs. “Someone in Miriam’s household will expose me, and I’ll be fired. I hope they don’t summon you to arrest me.”

  “Why would they do that?” He gave her a bemused glance.

  “For taking a job under false pretenses, or for invading their privacy.” Nervous laughter bubbled from her throat. “I had a good time with Miriam yesterday, wheeling her around Galleria Mall. We bought a few things at Macy’s and ate lunch at a café. Miriam encountered one of her friends. I’m afraid she’ll hate me when she discovers our game.”

  “You really like the woman, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Marla folded her hands in her lap. “She’s sharp-minded, retains a sense of humor, and has interesting stories to tell when anyone bothers to listen. It’s a shame her family doesn’t treat her better.”

  They sped past the Miccosukee Service Plaza on Alligator Alley, heading west toward Naples before veering north on I-75. Evergreens mixed with sable palms and cypress trees in the flat landscape bordering the highway. Winter was the best season for spotting wildlife in the Everglades, especially birds. Besides the usual graceful egrets and white ibis, she caught sight of an anhinga and a great blue heron feeding by a slough.

  After searching in vain for alligators sunning on logs, she shifted her gaze to study the fluffy clouds overhead. Where else could you enjoy an infinite blue sky with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view? A sense of primeval peace pervaded the place, from its eastern fringes hedged by sawgrass, on through the Big Cypress National Preserve.

  “Have you thought about how we’re going to present ourselves at the Ministry of Hope?” she asked. “Will you mention that you’re investigating a murder? Do we even know Jeremiah Dooley will be there?”

  A devilish grin transformed Dalton’s craggy face. Marla’s toes curled with warmth. Seated beside him in his car, she was acutely aware of his presence and his sideways glances in her direction. Her heightened senses detected every movement he made and recorded every expression on his face.

  “When I phoned them, I said we’d watched Dooley’s show on television and were considering a major contribution,” Dalton replied. “I said we hoped to tour their facility and meet personally with the minister before writing a check. After I mentioned the word donation, doors opened.”

  Marla chuckled. “Well, I hope I look the part of someone rich enough. I wore pants because I knew we’d be sitting in the car most of the day.” She’d brought along a rust-colored blazer to go with her silk eggshell blouse and black slacks. Gold button earrings and a Rado watch were her only accessories.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Struggling against his seat belt, Dalton reached inside his trousers pocket and withdrew a small object that he handed to her. “Here, you’ll need this.”

  Marla fingered the black velvet box. Her jaw dropped when she opened the hinged lid and saw the ring inside. Tiny diamonds surrounded a brilliant purple stone in a white gold setting. “What’s this?” Her voice held a tremor.

  “I told them we were engaged. Put it on your left finger.”

  Too stunned to protest, Marla slid the unexpected gift on her ring finger. It fit perfectly. Don’t get too excited, she told herself. This was merely a loaner, part of her disguise.

  “You can keep it,” he said casually. “Consider it another Valentine’s Day gift.”

  “Amethyst is my birthstone,” she murmured, “but I can’t accept this, Dalton.” Her words faded on her lips as she regarded his smoldering gaze.

  “I want you to have it, regardless of how things turn out between us.” His hand snaked over to pat her thigh. “You know how I’d like them to turn out, or should I say turn on.”

  Speaking of turn-ons, the weight of his hand on her thigh did strange things to her body. Her imagination took flight, and she imagined his touch creeping northward. When he began lazy circles with his index finger, her breathing quickened.

  “Stop that,” she said, swatting him away.

  “Why? You like it when I touch you, and Brianna isn’t here to interfere this time.”

  Marla moistened her lips, acutely aware of how handsome he was in his customary charcoal suit. Stretched across his broad shoulders, the jacket made him look like a football star. His coal black hair, parted at the si
de, revealed silvery highlights in the sunshine streaming through their windows.

  “I’d rather talk about the case,” she said, effectively changing the subject. “Florence mentioned she knew Elise Addison. They’re working together on a fund-raiser benefiting some bird society. What I find interesting is that their goals conflict with the Pearl family business.”

  “How so?” Gripping the steering wheel, Dalton reverted to his businesslike demeanor. Up ahead was the toll booth situated before the highway turned north toward Fort Myers. He veered into the SunPass lane.

  “Morris’s wife, Barbara, promotes shade-grown coffee. She got Florence interested, and now they’re dragging Stella into the loop to do centerpieces. In traditional farms, tall shade trees protect the smaller coffee plants from the sun, provide mulch, and harbor natural predators that control insects. At large plantations, many of these trees are being cut down in order to increase production. Barbara’s group supports organically grown coffee because it preserves the tropical forests. The tree canopy serves as a refuge for migratory songbirds. Morris, on the other hand, could care less. He’s converted his plantations to high-tech farms that abuse the environment.”

  Dalton’s face folded into a puzzled frown. “What does this have to do with Kimberly?”

  “Morris’s plantations are located in the same countries as Jeremiah Dooley’s ministry operations. That may or may not be a coincidence.”

  “Was the deceased involved in this conservation cause?”

  “No. According to Stella, Kim’s most recent hobby was genealogy. I wonder if Stan found anything in her files.” She chewed on her lower lip, oblivious to the scenery whizzing by.

  “Where do you want to stop for lunch?” Dalton asked after an interlude of silence.