“Everyone grab a red bikini,” I said. “I don’t care what kind it is. Our tag is Do it in the red. All of us should wear red.”
Ollie did that frown that went from the tattoo on his head to his chin. “How do we know that’s what we’re supposed to do, Zoe? Maybe we’re supposed to shoot someone in the face with ketchup or spray-paint their food red as they’re trying to sell it.”
“I’m sure it’s the bikini colors. See? Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. It’s the bikinis. We’re going to get something for figuring it out.” Uncle Saul picked up a red bikini with a halter top and twirled it around on his finger. “I’ve admired these on many shapely women over the years. I’ve never thought about wearing one myself.”
“Whatever.” Ollie shook his head. “Let’s find the most revealing bikini we can for Delia. I’ll start over here.”
“You look for your own, big guy,” she told him. “I know what works for me. I don’t need your help.”
After that was over, we were boring to the cameraman, who moved to where Bobbie’s daughter was trying on blue string bikinis. Bobbie either didn’t get the tag idea or was going to ignore it. She was looking at yellow bikinis.
With our plan in motion, I set about finding a red bikini for me.
The thing about bikinis is that they only look good on you if you have a perfect body. By perfect, I mean tall, thin, and shapely. I was only privileged to be in that last category. I got the shapely part from my mother, but tall and thin wasn’t me. I didn’t look bad in a nice one-piece. Bikinis scared me.
I definitely didn’t want a string bikini. Not that any of the other types hid anything. Some of them were barely patches held together by almost invisible string. I quietly picked out a red halter-neck top with a modest bottom.
Ollie and Uncle Saul were having a hard time—not surprising. We found bikinis that would fit both of them. No doubt they wouldn’t be particularly flattering, but that’s not what the producers had in mind.
It was too bad Chef Art didn’t have to wear a red bikini, too. He probably would’ve dropped that brilliant idea if that was the case.
“I’m not shaving my legs—or any other part of my body except my head—for this race,” Ollie told me.
“I don’t think anyone expects you to,” I assured him.
“I personally plan to strangle Chef Art when this is over,” Uncle Saul said. “Of all the stupid—”
The ministers from Our Daily Bread were fussing and feuding like a bunch of schoolboys. It seemed that the race had finally found their soft underbelly.
“Don’t criticize yet,” I said. “Chef Art might have set this up to get Delia delivering biscuit bowls in a bikini, but it might get our competitors so upset that they lose their edge, too.”
Uncle Saul shrugged. “So be it. I’ll be glad to get back home.”
I hugged him. “Have I said how much I appreciate you being with me through all of this?”
“You don’t have to say it, Zoe. I love you, and we’re family. That’s what family is for.”
“I don’t want to be part of a family that requires its members to wear a red bikini,” Ollie interrupted.
I looked up at him. He was at least a foot taller than me. Sometimes it was easy to forget that this man was a tough ex-marine who was still in fighting shape. He was such a sweet person.
“You don’t have to wear if it bothers you too much,” I said. “You can sit this one out. No one will think less of you for it. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Like I’d do that.” He hugged me, almost lifting me off the floor. “A man can gripe, can’t he?”
“Yes, he can.”
Delia had her bikini. We were ready to go. There was still so much going on in the bikini room that we were able to walk out unmolested by any of the camera crew.
“What?” Uncle Saul grinned. “No deep questions about what red bikinis mean to us or what our plans are for tomorrow?”
I laughed. “Not when you’ve got a bunch of angry ministers trying on bikinis.”
“Good. I’m hungry, and I need a drink.” Ollie sniffed. “I smell food coming from that way.”
Chef Art still had other plans. He was waiting close by when we emerged. “Hey. We’re still going out to eat some decent food, right? My limo is waiting.”
Uncle Saul and Ollie glanced at each other and then high-fived.
“All right,” Ollie said. “Let’s go.”
“I’m right behind you.” Uncle Saul slapped him on the back.
“Let me run up and stash these bikinis.” I was nervous about losing one of them before tomorrow. I gathered Ollie’s and Uncle Saul’s with mine.
“I’ll just go up with you and drop mine off, if that’s okay.” Delia smiled with a hint of blush in her cheeks and whispered, “I don’t like my clothes to touch other people’s clothes.”
I smiled back at her, after I pushed the elevator button, thinking she was joking. “You’re serious?”
“Yes. It’s a habit of mine, I guess.” She shrugged. “It’s a thing I learned to do when I was a kid. It’s hard keeping clothes to yourself when you have five sisters.”
We got in the elevator and I hugged her. I could see she was uncomfortable even discussing it. “That’s okay. We all have weird things about us.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“Oh. You mean like my weird thing?”
“Yeah. What do you do weird—besides sleeping with your evil cat?”
“Is that weird?” I’d never thought of sleeping with Crème Brûlée as weird. “No. I was thinking about when I quit my job to run a food truck.”
“I think sleeping with the cat will do.”
The elevator door chimed and opened. We went to our room and dropped off the suits. I gave Crème Brûlée a little hug and a kiss on his nose.
We went back down in the elevator. The men were waiting in the bar. I wished Miguel was there, too. How long could the police talk to him about what happened to Alex?
When we got into Chef Art’s limo, I took the opportunity to ask him if he’d heard anything about Miguel.
“Zoe, I only called my lawyer while I was waiting for you and Delia. We talked about it over dinner, remember?”
“This is stupid. I don’t understand why they keep interviewing him.”
“Maybe because they think he killed someone?” Ollie said. “I’m not saying he did. But the police can get pretty nasty when they think you’re lying to them.”
We went out for drinks at a private club where everyone knew Chef Art. We all had a little too much to drink knowing someone else was driving us around town. Uncle Saul and I talked about what he had planned for the biscuit bowls the next day. I was surprised and pleased by his choices.
Chef Art was welcomed with a big hug from his friend who owned the exclusive restaurant where we went for dinner afterward. He ordered champagne, and we all had elaborate meals with wine.
By the time we’d stopped for drinks again after dinner and then gone back to the hotel, I was a little on the wobbly side. The elevator seemed to be going in the wrong direction. Delia wasn’t as affected by it. She helped me get on and off the elevator with a smile.
“You aren’t used to drinking so much.” She took my key card after the third time I couldn’t open the door.
“Not so much.” I grinned at her. “Thanks.”
“Can you make it to bed by yourself? I’m going back out for a while with Ollie.”
“I’ll be fine. Good night, Delia. I hope our clothes never touch.”
She laughed at me and closed the door on her way out.
I was getting undressed, but my shoes were proving difficult. Someone knocked at the door. Hoping it was Miguel, I ran for it, almost tripping over my own feet.
It wasn’t Miguel. It was Macey Helms. I looked past her for Marsh, but there was no sign of him.
Great. Like I can talk straight about who killed Alex right now.
She had a strange expression on her face. At least I thought she did. I hoped it wasn’t me, and I was imagining that she looked odd.