But the focal point of the bathroom was a fish tank. And I don’t mean a nice little tank on a stand with some goldfish and a couple of snails. I mean a humongous aquarium that took up an entire wall from floor to ceiling, with fish of every size, shape, and color swimming around in wide, slow circles, opening and closing their mouths in that eerie way fish do.
Artfully arranged around the inside of the tank were pieces of coral almost as tall as me, and holding court at center stage was a life-sized, brightly painted, porcelain mermaid. She had violet eyes, light pink skin, and flowing red hair, with a turquoise bikini top over melon-sized breasts, and a long blue-and-green tail that spread out across the floor of the tank. She was sitting on a gold-and-black treasure chest looking over her shoulder with a coy purse to her lips, like a pin-up movie star.
“These are goldflake angels,” Mrs. Harwick said, pointing out a group of slender, butter-colored fish congregated at the base of the mermaid’s tail. “And that sinister-looking creature hovering around the treasure chest is a dragon eel—very rare species, my son had it brought over from Japan. Priceless! And there’s a dozen butterfly fish, seahorses, rabbit fish, damsels, a porcupine fish, ten albino tangs…”
She turned and gave me a meaningful look. “Anybody can get yellow tangs. These are albino tangs. I’d say there’s at least three or four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of fish in this tank. Roy thinks I’m out of my mind to spend so much money on them, but they make me happy, and that’s what it’s really all about it, isn’t it?”
I must have still been staring openmouthed at the life-sized mermaid, because Mrs. Harwick laughed and said, “Isn’t she fabulous? We found her in the islands. Roy, what island was it again?”
Mr. Harwick was standing in the bathroom doorway staring blankly at the tank. He wore a black, three-piece, pin-striped suit and a wide maroon tie. He must have been at least a foot shorter than Mrs. Harwick. He had thin hands and a balding pate, which he had skillfully camouflaged with jet black hair combed over from the back of his head, but I could tell that in his younger days he had probably been quite handsome. He wasn’t a big man, but he had the air of someone who is accustomed to getting his way, a man with power and money.
“Barbuda,” he said without blinking.
“Oh, Dixie, Barbuda is fabulous. Have you ever been?”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud, not just because the idea of traveling to some far-off exotic island was not exactly in my budget, but also because I had absolutely no idea where Barbuda was. “No,” I mumbled, “but I’d love to go sometime.”
“Honey,” Mr. Harwick growled, “why don’t you show her how you feed the fish?”
The aquarium was flanked on either side by two large pocket doors that slid open to reveal a hidden walkway around the back of the tank. There was a built-in cabinet with an impressive assortment of aquarium supplies: fish food, water testers, medications, and dozens of different-colored bottles filled with all sorts of chemicals and water conditioners. On the wall directly behind the tank was a collection of nets of various sizes, as well as a couple of long poles with hooks on one end to move shells and things around inside the tank. Mrs. Harwick led me up several narrow steps to a platform at the back of the tank and slid open a panel on the top.
“Sprinkle it,” she said, gracefully waving her heavily bejeweled fingers over the surface of the water, “from one end to the other. You don’t just take a handful of food and plop it down in one place like a fool. It has to be spread across the surface to mimic the way it is in nature.”
I was pretty sure there wasn’t a single creature in this tank that thought it was living free in the open ocean with a golden toilet, a crystal chandelier, and a tarted-up mermaid nearby, but I didn’t say a word. From our vantage point, I could see down the mermaid’s cleavage. There was a tiny hermit crab nestled there, snug as a bug in a boob.
“I’ve written out the feeding instructions for you,” Mrs. Harwick said, stepping down off the platform. “It’s really quite simple, so I’m sure you’ll do fine. I probably don’t need to tell you this but, if you do have to put your hands in the water for any reason, I’d recommend taking any rings or bracelets off first, the water is probably not the best thing for…”
She trailed off as she glanced down at my hands, which of course had no rings or bracelets of any kind. She blushed a little, and I got the feeling that in her world a woman whose hands aren’t decked out in gold and jewels is a woman to be pitied.
As if she were trying to make up for some indecorous offense, she extended her left hand out to me. There was a sparkling wrist cuff about an inch wide around her wrist.
“This one’s got about two hundred diamonds on it, and I promise you that Japanese eel will swallow just about anything!”
She laughed, and I nodded enthusiastically. How true! I thought. The last thing a girl needs is a Japanese eel eating her diamonds.
Mrs. Harwick closed the pocket door, and I followed her out of the bathroom and down a short hallway lined with mahogany dressers that led to the master bedroom. There was a king-sized canopy bed, draped in folds of yellow and red silk, with white tassels at each corner the size of overfed guinea pigs and an arrangement of pillows leaning against the headboard that can only be described as epic. The second-floor hallway was wide enough to drive through in a Cadillac, and everywhere I looked the walls were covered with big, expensive-looking paintings, the type I’d only ever seen in school trips to the museum. There was a wide curving staircase of white marble that led down to the main entry, where two life-sized statues of Roman gods guarded the arched entrance to the sprawling living room. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there were even a couple of Picassos hanging over the sofa.
Mr. Harwick was standing at the bar, pouring himself a drink. There was a cat circling his feet and rubbing itself against his ankles.
“And this,” Mrs. Harwick said, waving her arm at the cat dismissively, “is Charlotte.”
I’ve always had a special place in my heart for Siamese cats. They’re smart as a whip and intensely loyal, and their origin is steeped in mystery. Some historians believe they were a favorite of the kings and queens of ancient Siam, where their name meant “moon diamond.” All it took was one look in Charlotte’s sparkling azure eyes to know why. She was long and sleek, with a dark, silver-tipped chocolate coat.
“We call her Queen B,” said Mrs. Harwick.
I knelt down and held out the back of my hand for Charlotte to sniff—my standard cat greeting. She took one step back and hissed.
“The B does not stand for beautiful.”
I grinned. “Are you saying Charlotte has a bit of an attitude?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Mr. Harwick said, “Don’t take it personally. She’s that way with everyone.”
He scooped Charlotte up in his arms and cooed to her, “And the B stands for baby, because that’s what she is, my baby.”
I had to chuckle at the sight of a grown man in a business suit babbling like a little girl at a fluffy Siamese cat. Animals have an uncanny way of bringing out the sweet side of even the most hard-edged customer.
Mrs. Harwick shuddered like a minister finding a roach clip in the collection plate. “That cat is not your baby.”
Charlotte chose that moment to hiss again. She squirmed out of Mr. Harwick’s arms and ran into the kitchen without so much as a “nice to meet you.” I feel that way myself sometimes, so I didn’t take offense.
“Bit of an attitude problem,” Mr. Harwick said. “I’ll show you where we keep her food.”