Not that he felt the slightest amount of envy. Ham, by his own admission, was far too lazy and self centered to bother with resentment over his relative position in life. What others possessed, let them own, and without offense from him. Life was short enough without taking out the precious hours necessary to mourn a meager comparative situation. Besides, he’d expected nothing more, nor nothing less. Reality might bite, but he refused to let it chew him up and spit him out.
Ham, just because he could, hefted himself out of the contours of the lavish seat and wandered over to the wet bar. He perused a selection of wines and beers that peered through a tinted refrigerator window snuggled below a well stocked rack of harder stuff. Spying Moose Head, a Canadian beer for which he had more fondness than budget, he grabbed one, popped it and returned to the comfort and vast expanse of his private seating area. Sipping contentedly, he noticed a magazine rack nearby, snatched up a Sports Illustrated and leaned back with a contented sigh.
Ham, my man, you’re living it.
Not entirely, he discovered. Not yet. For at that moment the steward appeared, handed him an extensive menu and advised him that he could order whenever he wished. Unlike the poor slobs who suffered through first class commercial flight, he—important and demanding beyond words—ate at any time he chose, whenever and whatever his wish.
Those poor freaking slobs. Must be hell.
The menu ran three pages long, an exercise in drool inducing lust. For appetizers, he could choose from an array that included fresh sliced fruits, an assorted paté plate, imported cheeses, gourmet canapés—a culinary mystery described as “handmade canapês of smoked salmon on black bread with horseradish dill dolops, filet mignon on toast points, patê on herbed bread, prosciutto and homemade fresh mozzarella topped with basil and brushetta—and a seafood salad sampler consisting of Maine lobster salad, jumbo shrimp salad, and a jumbo lump crabmeat salad. Entrees boasted a variety of enticing lures, featuring Moroccan lamb chops, grilled Teriaki salmon, Cajun crab cakes, Caribbean grilled chicken and beef tenderloin or beef roulade. Dessert was more decadent yet and he passed it over. If he had room or desire he’d deal with it then.
At the reappearance of the steward, Ham inquired, “So I select one from each if I want? Is that the deal?”
He reddened slightly when the steward struggled, not entirely successfully, to smother a grin. “Sir,” he politely and deferentially informed him, “you may order one, two, or all from any or all of the categories. If you’re still hungry, you can order one, two or all of them again, one, two or several times. It’s whatever you want.”
Commercial first class airline service, my ass. What torment that was.
“For right now, I’ll just take the seafood sampler, thank you.” God, he so wanted to add “that will be all, my good man,” but his tongue remained firmly bitten. He even successfully smothered that thought provoking smirk as the steward hustled to his task.
The steward returned almost before he vanished, rolling a cart containing silverware, a crystal glass sparkling with water, a china cup for coffee or tea “as he might wish,” and the beautiful bouquet of salads, each on its own fine china plate. The steward reached across Ham with a “may I?” and unfolded, not a tiny, flimsy tray, but a huge wooden table, then arranged the setting. Before a groveling Ham could get out a “thank you so very much,” he was gone and Ham was alone with his excess.
Trying not to be obvious, Ham surveyed his fellow travelers to see if they were as deeply greedy as he. Nope. Blake and Russ engaged in whispered conversation, their menus tossed casually aside. Charlie napped, while Lindsey looked to be engrossed in some paperback. Besides himself, only Drew chewed hungrily of the proffered banquet. It was all in the life, he supposed. What one grows accustomed to translates from afterthought to mundanely routine.
Such realization failed to darken his delight at the exquisite gastronomic treat incited by each bite of those various presentations. The special treat of the accompanying Moosehead beer further tickled his palate.
Ham wasn’t entirely unrefined or without pretensions, though he liked to pretend so. He’d heard of the gastronomic orgasms experienced at Colicchio’s Craft Steak at the MGM in Vegas, and Wolfgang Puck’s “Cut” at The Palazzo but those budget busting excursions had heretofore been a long dismissed dream. Though he now intended to indulge himself at least once, he could not begin to imagine that even those culinary celebrations would measurably exceed this lofty experience. On the other hand, he hadn’t yet had the privilege so he’d reserve judgment. After all, he’d though first class was unsurpassable. Imagine that.
He polished off the plate and the few remaining drops of beer, blotting his lips to catch the excess. Ruefully, reluctantly, he decided the unexpectedly large portions had left no room for satiating his still remaining greed.
Ham pushed aside the plate, decided to retrieve one more beer—it was a long flight, even at these faster cruising speeds, so it couldn’t hurt, what with his enforced idleness—and helped himself to another Moosehead. As he turned from the refrigerated stock, Lindsey swept past him, returning, he presumed, from the restroom.
Time to work.
Before she snatched up her book to resume reading, Ham approached, indicated the chair opposite, and politely inquired, “Hey, Lindsey, mind if I join you?”
She nodded politely, a graciousness sweetened by a bright smile. “Be my guest.”
He settled in, cradling the beer bottle. “Since you didn’t come with us to the Hale Koa, and you were always out when I was in at the condo, I thought I’d take this opportunity to introduce myself.”
Lindsey’s laugh got right to the point. “No need to sugarcoat, Ham. To interrogate me, is what you mean.”
Ham’s eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. She didn’t exhibit signs of discomfort and her direct challenge was a touch audacious. Unless she possessed nerves coated with steel, she would prove open and possessed of a keen of intellect. If, on the contrary, she had the ability to cover nervousness to the point of invisibility, she would prove to be a potent challenge. Either way, he would not make the mistake of underestimating her by further shining her on.
“Well, that is my job.” There. Challenge met. Open to open.
“Interrogate away,” she invited.
“Okay,” Ham agreed, “why don’t we start with how long you’ve worked for Blake, what it is you do, that kind of thing.”
“I’m what’s best described as a personal secretary, though it extends beyond that, and have been for 12 years. I answer his correspondence—he still gets an enormous amount of fan mail and he insists that each and every one receive a reply. I send a one page letter of thanks with an update of Blake’s activities, which he writes once every couple of months or so. They’re electronically signed, looks like the real thing. Also, I enclose an autographed picture, although there, too, the signature is a copy. Additionally, I see to it that the shopping is done, pay his personal bills, make sure he’s got clean clothes, and basically oversee the house. I even cook most of the time, although Charlie likes to take a stab at it from time to time. And she’s really, really good,” Lindsey added with a smile. A smile that took on the appearance of genuine affection, not the cryptic lines of envy.
Ham glommed onto one essential point. “You pay his bills?”
“Uh huh,” she nodded. “Then I send the invoices, or bills, and the financial information, like receipts and checks paid out, to his accountant. I guess I should say accounting firm, but there’s just one I guy I deal with there, guy by the name of Noel. Anyway, I can give you their contact information if you want.”
“Yeah, I want,” Ham affirmed. “You’re husband also works for Blake? How did you two meet?”
“I met Gordo out here in Hawaii, five years ago. We’ve been married for three.” Her eyes shone as she added, “We got married right on the beach there in Waikiki, at night with tiki lights and the whole romantic bit. Blake had it catered and it was just so wonderful
, a magic night, a dream, really.”
“I take it you and Blake are pretty close?”
Her face froze and anger tinged her cheeks. “I hope you’re not implying what it sounds like you are.”
Ham grinned, at once surprised and amused by the response. “Lindsey, I assure you, with absolute truth and conviction, I had absolutely no such thought in mind. Frankly, and I guess against my usual nature, it hadn’t even occurred to me. For one,” he held up his finger, “Blake strikes me as far too straight to fool around with somebody else’s wife, especially somebody else who also happens to work for him.” Adding another finger to the mix, he assured her, “And you’ve neither said nor done anything that would make me wonder otherwise. So please accept my apology for any implied insult to your integrity. I promise you, it was unintentional.”
“Forgive me,” Lindsey laughed. “Obviously, I’ve been accused before. My mother comes to mind. Which tells you something about her mind,” she frowned. “Anyway, yeah, Blake’s like a father to me. I love him dearly. There’s absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Except that,” she grinned evilly.
“Gordo knows better?”
“Oh, of course he does,” she laughed. “Good heavens, if I were looking to stray it damn sure wouldn’t be with somebody old enough to be my grandfather, I don’t care how rich and famous he is. And Gordo knows that. He knows my tastes and he knows me very, very well. No secrets there, about the past, for either of us. You know what I mean?”
“What does Gordo do for Blake?”
Lindsey’s ample chest bulged with pride. “Gordo takes care of everything, literally everything. There’s nothing in the compound he can’t fix or maintain. He takes care of the cars, the boats, the main house and the guest houses and the grounds. He drives Blake wherever he needs to go—Blake rarely drives, usually only his VW Bug that he keeps out here, but not even that very often.” Lindsey paused, shook her head in mock rebuke. “I keep saying ‘out here.’ In my mind, I guess I’m still in Hawaii. It’s tough to go back to that snow, even if I do miss Gordo.”
“Yeah, about that,” Ham questioned. “Why doesn’t he come out with you? Or does he, usually?”
“When he can, in the summer, sometimes we take a vacation for a week or two, and we almost always come back to Hawaii. It’s where he was born and where his heart is. My heart, too, for that matter. But he can’t really leave the place at Tahoe during winter. That’s when pipes burst and all manner of things can happen, what with the heavy snow fall. He refuses to leave during the worst of the winter. He’s afraid the whole place will go to hell without him. It’s his indispensable man syndrome,” she smiled. “And he’s probably right at that.”
Ham took a sip from the bottle, easing into the next part. “Let me ask you this,” he finally said. “What happens to you and Gordo if something does befall Blake? What’ll you guys do then?”
Lindsey burst into unexpected laughter, genuine, real amusement, then laughed some more at Ham’s abashed response. Pulling herself together, she nodded and offered her take on the question. “I was waiting for that and wondering when you’d get to it. Do I have an incentive, or does Gordo have one, to off Blake, right? Well, yes and no, I guess is the best answer. The real answer is never, forget it. I’d never recover if I lost him. Period. Unlike with my own dad, who I had a love-hate with, there’s only love with Blake. So no, not from a personal standpoint. From a financial standpoint, I’m in his will, he’s told me that, and I can’t say I’m real surprised. That is quintessential Blake. As for how much, if you want to know that you’d have to ask him. As for Gordo, there’s nothing there for him alone, but then Blake’s only known him for a few years and he’s pretty conservative with that kind of thing. And besides, I think whatever he’s left in my name is intended to benefit the both of us anyway, so I can see that he wouldn’t divide it between the two of us. I mean, what would be the point, right? Now…does that answer your question?”
“Mostly,” Ham admitted. “Last thing. Where would you guys go? Wouldn’t you lose your home?”
“I doubt it,” Lindsey replied. “I rather suspect that the compound would go to Charlie and I think she’d keep us on. You can’t run a place like that alone and me and Charlie are more like sisters than friends. She likes Gordo, too, so I don’t see that anything would really change. Except that the place would be more like a morgue,” she frowned. “That aside,” she summed up, “I don’t need the money, I don’t want the money, we have everything we could ever need just living and working for Blake, and any inheritance wouldn’t replace that. Satisfied, Detective?” She pointedly picked up her book and flipped it open. “If not, ask Blake.”
Ham was enough of a detective to take a hint. “Thanks, Lindsey, I appreciate your candor. And your time. And I mean it, it was nice to finally get a chance to talk to you. I can see why Blake has a lot of faith in you. You’re okay.”
“Thank you, Ham, you’re very sweet to say so. And let me say to you, I’m counting on you, just like Blake and Charlie.” Her eyes shone with earnestness when she added, “So don’t let us down. Don’t let me down.”
Although Lindsey’s laughter must have echoed through the cabin, the plane’s gentle drone had probably drowned out their conversation. Even as he approached Blake and Russ, he heard only muted sounds, words verbalized but not understood, and he passed on by, not wanting to interrupt with nothing more important than a few questions that could and would easily wait. Instead, he plopped down in the chair facing Drew, who had just begun to dig into whatever else she had ordered from the steward. Some kind of beef, by the look of it. Some kind of delicious smelling, sauce drowned beef that watered his mouth and caused his brain to demand a feeding. Alas, his stomach, full beyond satiation, rebelled at the thought. Much to his unrelenting sorrow.
Still…
“Give a starving man a bite?”
“Order your own,” Drew replied, not looking up, too focused to bother. “There’s plenty, all you gotta do is ask.”
“Unfortunately, I overdid with that damn seafood salad.”
“So what’s the big deal? Order one, take a bite and send it back. Tell ‘em it’s too tough, a real piece of garbage. Whatever.” Stuffing another bite into her mouth, she muttered, “It’s not like they can kick you off the plane. God, this is good.”
“Drew…”
“All right, all right, all right. But just one.”
She stabbed a piece and proffered the fork to Ham. One bite indeed. “This is absolute heaven,” he sighed, chewing slowly, wishing for the effect to never pass. “I could live on this damn plane.”
“You and me both,” Drew said as she stuffed even more into her open maw, intent it would seem on washing it down with a rapidity that was much less lady-like than etiquette would demand. Still chewing, stabbing at the others with her fork, indicating their empty tables, she mumbled, “I can’t even imagine what it takes to get so jaded to such opulence. But I’d sure as hell like to find out.”
“I suppose asking for a doggie bag would be considered gauche.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Drew replied, moving to mop up excess sauce with sourdough bread, “take whatever you want. I won’t rat you out to Blake as long as you grab a bunch for me.” After a pause to sip at the wine, she added, “May as well pick up a few bottles of this stuff while you’re at it.”
Ham grinned affectionately at his old friend, patted her cheek in answer and left her to bask in culinary delight. Back at his seat, he leaned his head against the oversize oval window, huge by airline standards, and gazed at the darkness as it rushed to enfold them in its greedy arms. Purple in front, blending to inky black beyond, and framed by a bursting and brilliant orange, it thrilled him with its terrible and frightening beauty.
The plane’s friendly drone reached out to greet its arrival and soon was cocooned within its inky depths. Despite the brightness of the cabin, the empty nothingness outside and the delightfully drowsy hum of the low pitched engine
s forced his eyes to blink, to droop, and finally to close.
Until he felt a presence heretofore unseen and unfelt.
Ham tried to open and refocus his eyes, and when he finally succeeded those tired eyes popped with surprise. “Martina? What the hell are you doing here? How the hell are you here?”
“I can be anywhere, dear. And I’m here to ask you a question.”
Startled by her apparition, he glanced around to see if the others were equally amazed. His shock deepened when he realized that nobody paid them the least attention, but instead were focused on their own petty interests.
“Don’t worry yourself, dear. That can’t see or hear me.”
“I have got to be dreaming,” Ham muttered.
“Yes, dear, you are. This way I can keep it private, just between the two of us. Like I said, I have a question for you. I’ll require an honest answer, which you might not give if everybody else could hear you respond.”
“Okay,” Ham grinned. “I’ll go along with it. It’s kind of fun, really. You didn’t leave with us—unless of course you were invisible—yet here you are and you’re telling me I’m dreaming you anyway. So sure, by all means, let’s have a conversation. You first, Alice.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, dear. It doesn’t become you. Anyway, I’m here to ask one simple question. Do you believe?”
“Believe what? That you’re here? That I’m dreaming? Sure, I believe both since the former can only be true if the latter is as well. As I recall from high school algebra, it’s what they call a necessary and sufficient condition. Or something like that. Maybe it’s not sufficient, now that I think of it, but it’s damn sure necessary. Anyway, sure, whatever your question is, yes I absolutely believe. Now go away.”
“Do you remember this statement?”
In his mind, he heard himself ponderously intone what he’d hoped he’d never again relive. “Hope is an aphrodisiac, it seduces, induces, tempts us to challenge fate. Fate and life. We’re here to suffer, to redeem our sins, and to seek bliss is a damnation of our souls. Remember this: hope is just a four letter word.”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 19