Or, I guess I should say, not my style—I’m not one to gush over expensive jewelry—but it was drop-dead, tail-wagging exquisite. The sapphire at the end of the pendant was as big as a peach pit, and I could feel myself swaying slightly in my Keds as I gazed longingly into its glittering abyss.
“For a hundred thousand dollars, it’s yours.”
I turned to find a rugged-looking man in a gray pin-striped three-piece suit, an open collar, and gold chains nestled in the dark hair on his chest. He was handsome, with a small mustache and a five-o’clock shadow, but there was something curiously unsexy about him, like he might make a good villain in a cheesy TV movie.
I probably blushed, because I could feel my cheeks turn warm as I shifted Mrs. Keller’s package to my left side and held out my hand. I said, “Great. I’ll take two.”
He held his hand up and waved it sheepishly. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I may have caught a cold on the plane and I’d hate to give it to you. I’m Wilfred Paxton. Thanks so much for your help with this.”
I said, “Of course, it’s my pleasure.”
He looked down. “Is this…?”
I nodded self-consciously, certain he could tell I had opened it, which of course was ridiculous, but as I passed it to him, I literally felt the smile on my face reshape itself into a kind of nervous, guilty grimace.
“Miss Hemingway, is anything the matter?”
“Who, me?” I shrugged and flashed him my best smile. “No, no, I’m totally fine. It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”
“Yes, I completely understand. Well, don’t let me keep you.” He nodded at the sapphire pendant in the case behind me. “Shall I wrap that up for you?”
I laughed. “I’m afraid I’d never have an occasion to wear it, but I think Mrs. Keller would probably love it. Why don’t you go ahead and send it to her and I promise I’ll pay you back later.”
He grinned, and I noticed his teeth were the same stark white as all the walls and floors. “She seemed rather reluctant to give me her address, so I’m afraid you may have to act as courier again, speaking of which, please do convey my sincere thanks to Mrs. Keller. She’s been very patient about this entire debacle. As you may know, she bought this piece at an antique store outside Tampa, but it had already been promised to a client of mine.”
I shrugged. “Well, these things happen, I guess.”
He smiled. “Yes, it’s difficult to find competent help these days.”
Over his shoulder, I could see Daniela sitting at her desk. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. Mr. Paxton led me over to her, and at one point he placed his hand in the middle of my back, which made the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten, but I tried not to let it show.
“Daniela, give Miss Hemingway a receipt of delivery, please.”
He turned and flashed that toothy smile again. “And thank you so much for your help. My client will be very relieved.”
I nodded. “Of course, I’m more than happy to help. And as soon as I have a hundred thousand dollars I’ll come back and pick up that necklace.”
He glanced at Daniela and then nodded at me, and then disappeared through a door in the back of the gallery. I almost stopped him. I actually took a breath and started to say, Wait. I was dying to ask what the heck that yellow powder was inside that jar, even though I knew if I did it might create more questions than answers.
Daniela pulled a piece of paper from the printer on the corner of her desk, folded it into thirds, and handed it to me. I tried to catch her eye but she avoided me. I was still thinking I might get her to acknowledge that we’d met before, but she was absentmindedly straightening the papers on her desk. As I said good-bye, she glanced at the door Mr. Paxton had gone through.
All the way to the Bronco, I could still feel his hand on my back, and then I had the strangest feeling I was being watched. Sure enough, as I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed two men crossing the street opposite me. One was pale and thin, in a dark suit, and the other was squat and bald, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and they were headed for the gallery. Mr. Paxton was standing in the doorway, his face framed in the oval window, his expression completely blank, almost like he was sleepwalking.
I think on any other day, under different circumstances, I would probably have mulled it over for the rest of the evening, trying to come up with some scenario that explained the oddness of the whole meeting, starting with Daniela’s strange denial that we’d met and ending with Mr. Paxton’s odd expression as I drove away.
But thoughts of Mona’s awful childhood were still in the back of my mind, and I was starting to feel bad that I hadn’t called Ethan back … and not only that, but I didn’t think I was going to anytime soon. It was like a quiet panic building in the pit of my stomach.
The only thing keeping me from pulling over to the side of the road and curling up in a fetal position in the back of the Bronco was the thought of Michael and Paco scurrying around in their kitchen preparing dinner. I could see myself taking a seat on the deck our grandfather built, and I could see Paco handing me an ice-cold beer while Michael spooned something yummy onto my plate. I was thinking maybe hushpuppies and fried catfish would fit the bill perfectly.
With that image in my head, I put myself on autopilot. I’ve crisscrossed this island so many times I could practically do it blindfolded, so all I had to do was keep my hands on the wheel. I barely had to think about where I was going.
Sometimes that’s the best way to get where you need to be.
28
Sarasota has a slew of assisted-living homes and retirement communities, and Bayfront Village is the grande dame of them all, even though its main building is about the ugliest architectural monstrosity this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. The outside walls are pink brick and the roof is red terra-cotta tile, which look pretty nice together, except there are Art Deco sunburst patterns painted in a garish turquoise all along the roof, and that’s topped with rows of Mediterranean arches and faux-gold Gothic spires.
The fake cobblestone driveway rolls up to a Spanish-style covered portico, held aloft by four Greek columns, and standing guard on either side are two fat-cheeked cherubs, each peeing into his own sparkling fountain shaped like a giant clamshell. Let’s just say if Dr. Frankenstein had been an architect, Bayfront Village would be his best-known creation.
But its residents don’t give a hoot about the architecture or the similarly jumbled interior decor, because the services at Bayfront are top-notch. A uniformed valet whisks your car away to some climate-controlled location, the glass doors whisper open like magic as you approach, and Vickie, the concierge stationed at a little gold-leaf desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby, phones up to announce your arrival.
I think it didn’t fully dawn on me what I’d done until the elevator spilled me out onto the sixth floor and I looked down the hall. My autopilot had apparently thought a visit to Cora Mathers was in order.
Normally she’s standing in front of her apartment, waving her skinny arms over her head like an air traffic controller. Right before I knocked, there was a volley of laughter like two tinkling bells from inside.
Cora opened the door and beamed at me. “Oh, my goodness, what a wonderful surprise!”