Back in the Igloo, Phil said to Helen, “Where did you get your clothes for tonight?”
“Goodwill,” Helen said. “My dress didn’t cost as much as your socks.”
At seven thirty, they met in the Coronado courtyard. Helen whistled when she saw Phil in his James Bond suit. The navy silk-and-wool blend had the patina of money, a soft, expensive glow. Phil’s long silver hair, pulled into a low ponytail, looked burnished. “You’re stunning,” she whispered.
“And you’re always beautiful,” he said, “but why are you sunburned?”
“So I’d look like a real tourist. I sat out by the pool this afternoon without sunscreen.” Helen had on a cute, rather garish red-flowered polyester sundress with white sandals, white earrings, and a white purse with a big red flower.
Margery joined them, wearing a purple pantsuit with Miami Rocks in rhinestones on the chest, plus sparkly purple earrings, and a light cloud of cigarette smoke. “Say one word about this pantsuit and you’re both dead. I’m only wearing this because I’m on the job.”
“You look perfect,” Phil said.
Margery snorted.
“For your part,” he added. “Stay in sight at the club, and Helen, don’t forget to scratch your right ear if you see Donna.”
Helen watched him drive off in his rented red Ferrari, then waited until Margery finished her Marlboro. “Are you armed?” Helen asked.
Margery patted her purple purse and nodded. “Let’s go.” Helen fired up the Igloo for the night’s adventure.
The White Lady was an Art Deco building on the beach. The white neon sign featured a glamorous white blonde in a thirties-style evening gown. Helen pulled up at the valet stand, and noticed Phil’s rented Ferrari parked out front. She knew her Igloo would be banished to the back lot.
Inside, the White Lady was an ice cave: The frosted glass bar was an ice floe, the crystal lights and clear glass tables shimmering sculptures, and the walls glittery white. The cocktail lounge was the last word in cool. A platinum blonde in a sequin gown like a snowdrift played soft jazz on a white piano.
Helen saw Phil sitting alone at the bar, his silver hair spotlighted by a crystal light, his navy suit and overcomplicated watch shouting, I’m ridiculously rich! The blonde bartender smiled and set a frosted long-stemmed martini glass in front of him.
Shaken, not stirred, thought Helen, and wished she were sitting beside her husband. The Tom Ford suit fit perfectly, making his shoulders broader and his waist narrower.
She and Margery took a tiny table in the shadows where they could watch Phil. They ordered their drinks from a bleached blonde. When she brought their white wine the server asked, “Where are you ladies from?” Helen knew their disguises had worked.
“Would you take our picture, please?” Margery asked, and handed the server her cell phone. She and Helen smiled and approved the second photo. Margery switched her phone from camera to video mode, and propped it on the white leather drink menu to video Phil at the bar.
Only a few tourists drank the signature White Lady. The other customers, who looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion shoot, downed martinis and sized up one another with restless, feral eyes.
Helen watched her husband flirt with the bartender until a curly-haired brunette in ruffled peach lace teetered over on matching sky-high heels and sat next to him. Phil glanced at Helen. Her headshake was nearly imperceptible: Donna wouldn’t wear a cheap dress. Phil rudely turned away from poor Lacy, and she slid down a seat and started a conversation with an older man sporting a diamond pinkie ring.
Helen and Margery’s server was hovering at their table: They were drinking too slowly. Helen ordered Kobe beef sliders and Margery asked for truffled french fries to continue camping at their tiny table. Two more women approached Phil, a sleek redhead and another brunette. Phil caught Helen’s small signals and ignored the women until they went searching for better prospects.
Helen and Margery munched their fries as they watched the spectacle. “I agree with the food critic who said truffle oil on fries is an abomination,” Margery said. “A french fry should be appreciated for its greasy perfection.”
“Agreed,” Helen said. “And this slider has as much chance of being real Kobe beef as I do of winning Miss America.” The food criticism didn’t stop either woman from stuffing her face.
Helen watched another woman glide toward Phil. The sizzling blonde looked like a forties movie star, right down to the blood-red lipstick and the bombshell hair draped over one eye. She wore a slinky black off-the-shoulder Zac Posen dress and pink Manolo Blahnik cage sandals sprinkled with rosebuds.
Helen touched her right ear: Donna! Phil gave the dramatic blonde a warm hello. She sat down and gave him a siren’s smile.
“I thought Donna was a brunette,” Margery said.
“She’s had a good dye job. She wore those same shoes the night she went after our client, and that’s a dress Will bought her. See that small brown splotch on her shoulder? I think that’s the birthmark. Keep an eye on Phil. He looks like a coconut fell on his head.”
The bartender delivered a pair of martinis while Donna admired Phil’s overpriced watch. Helen felt a flash of rage. “He’s definitely enjoying his job,” she said through gritted teeth.
“He’s undercover,” Margery said, crunching the last fry. “And doing a good job of reeling her in.”
Helen signaled the server for their check while she watched the pair clink their frosted glasses and sip. Donna reached for Phil’s silvery ponytail, giving him a generous view of her cleavage.
“He’s taking in that mountain view like he’s never seen breasts before,” Helen said.
“He’s a red-blooded male,” Margery said. “I think she just slipped him a mickey. I’ve got it on my cell phone.”
Their server handed Helen a bill for $72.13, and Helen tried not to look surprised. She gave the woman a hundred-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change.” Instead of a brilliant white smile, the server said, “Just a moment, please.”
Phil and Donna chatted and flirted until Margery said, “Phil’s in trouble. Look. He’s holding onto the bar like he’s seasick. Time for us to move.”
Helen and Margery surged toward the door, but a large man in a white suit materialized — a bouncer. He was about the size of a box truck, but sturdier. In fact, he looked like he lifted them in his spare time.
Helen saw Donna signal the bartender for the check and leave four twenties on the bar top, while keeping one arm possessively around Phil’s shoulders. Whatever Donna had given Phil, it was fast-acting. His face was almost as white as his hair. Donna helped Phil off the bar stool, and kept her arm around him.
Helen was frightened. “We have to go, Margery,” she said. “Donna’s leaving with Phil.” The bouncer blocked her way. “Please, sir,” Helen said. “My aunt is sick.” Margery fell forward and landed on the man, grabbing his lapels.
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” he said, prying Margery’s hands off his suit. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No!” Helen said. “Aunt Margery has these fainting spells every so often. She just needs fresh air.”
“We’ll get her outside as soon as the server returns,” he said. “Now, if she’ll sit down a minute, the server will be right back.”
But she wasn’t right back. Their server went to the bar by way of Des Moines. Helen’s stomach twisted as she watched a definitely disabled Phil and a sprightly Donna leave the bar. There was no sign of their blonde server. Helen saw the bartender check their hundred-dollar bill with a special pen, and cursed herself for not bringing smaller bills. What was she thinking? She knew large bills were suspect, especially in tourist places. Her carelessness could cost Phil his life. Where was he? She couldn’t see her husband anywhere in the White Lady. Helen’s heart was thumping hard against her ribs.