Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (4 page)

“
Sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t get to the beach much.”

“
Might muss up the hair-do,” he deadpanned. “Not good for the image.”

A thrust where it hurt. Much as I hated to admit it, sun, sand, and surf did tend to mess with the Fantascapes image. Our clients went on dreamtime honeymoons and vacations. Employees, including me, did not. Or, rather, I went but seldom had time to look up from the realities necessary to make fantasies happen. And don’t ask why I was suddenly feeling sorry for myself when I had one of the world’s best jobs. Maybe at twenty-seven, with the Big Three-O looming on the horizon, I was going through some kind of crisis. As if I could change the march of time any more than I could stop the sun from setting in the west.

I didn’t want to, actually. With age came wisdom and power. I was just beginning to stretch toward being all I could be. I knew it. The problem was, I wasn’t certain what
all
should be.

As the blood-red sun sank into the gulf, Flint performed his version of an apology for teasing me. He put both arms around me, rested his chin on my head, and hugged me close. My head spun like a whirlpool; my insides threatened to melt into a puddle and drip through the boards into the water below. Lust, pure lust. It was six months since I’d broken up with Tom Delaney, a lawyer in the firm Marybeth worked for. He was a nice guy, pleasant, polite, convenient . . . but he wanted to get married. Flint, I sensed was in the same ballpark as me. Good sex and no complications.

I wiggled, settling back against him, doing a little teasing of my own.

My butt vibrated. If the pier hadn’t had a good strong rail, I might have gone sailing off.
Blasted buzzer!
It was in Flint’s jacket pocket which was, of course, behind me. I knew my face was as red as the last sliver of sun disappearing over the horizon. Macho man chopper pilot flushed to a matching shade, but I suspected it was from trying so hard not to laugh at the look on my face. We settled for heading back to the restaurant at a near jog. This was the Season, and our table would be snapped up by some hungry tourist at the slightest lag in our failure to appear.

We lucked out, ending up at a prime table along the outer edge of the restaurant’s outside deck, with only a wooden railing separating us from the beach. White-capped waves sloshed ashore not more than thirty feet away, while the last beachgoers folded up their umbrellas, picked up their coolers and towels and headed home. I’d hoped I was mistaken about what Flint was thinking, but before he ducked his head into the menu, he flashed me a wicked grin. Great . . . just great.

We ordered a second round of drinks and while sharing a plate of conch fritters, liberally doused with malt vinegar, and finally edged into the obligatory thrust and parry of getting to know each other. By the time our platters of mahi-mahi and grouper arrived, my stomach had stopped doing flip-flops and settled down to a mere heated flutter every time I looked at Flint’s rugged face against a backdrop of sloshing waves and the first peek of stars from the darkening sky. The lights on both pier and deck were dim, a protection for baby sea turtles, who, after hatching in the warm beach sand, are supposed to head straight for the gulf, but can get detoured by any bright light. The murky ambiance wasn’t so bad for romance either. Truthfully, this was as close to living one of my own dreams as I’d been in a long, long time. I might not be thinking long-term relationship here, but the perfection of the night had to be some kind of omen. I mean, hey, could it get any better?

It could get worse. Fast.

“
So that’s what you do?” Flint said. “You’re a wedding planner.”

He sounded so good-old-boy smiling down at the little woman that I nearly choked on my asparagus tips. “Uh, not really,” I managed after a moment. “My mother and my aunt specialize in unusual weddings and my father plans exotic trips for people who want to do something different. Our clients want dream vacations, sometimes things no one has done before. Or something really tough to arrange—like maybe riding a race horse for a lap around a famous track. Mostly, our clients are couples, but we’ve had parents give their children the ultimate graduation gift or honeymoon.”

Realizing I was babbling, trying to explain a totally frivolous business to a SWAT team sergeant, I looked past Flint’s shoulder toward the end of the fishing pier . . . and saw something else entirely. A vision of nearly ten years ago, when Doug was graduating from college and Jeff and I were still hitting the books. Mom and Dad sent the three of us to Peru to do the whole archeological bit from north to south, ending with approaching Machu Picchu by a four-day hike through the high Andes on the Inca Trail. After that, I’d never doubted the wonder, the power, of making dreams come true. Once-in-a-lifetime experiences were worth the effort. But how to explain that to a rock-solid Calusa County sergeant whose head skimmed the clouds only when he was chasing a bad guy with his chopper?

Flint leaned forward, his big blue eyes catching the reflection of the candle that was dancing in its glass chimney on our table. “That takes care of the family,” he said, waggling an eyebrow, “but what do
you
do? Other than commandeering the SWAT team, that is.”

Did I really want to call myself a troubleshooter? I was afraid he’d laugh. “I–ah–help out,” I replied lamely.

“
Apprentice Fairy Godmother?”

“
Something like that.” Maybe I should tell him I was a gofer. That wouldn’t sound too intimidating.

“
Jeff says you mostly do society weddings, all over Florida. Don’t you ever get tired of the frou-frou?”

I would, if I went to as many of them as Mom and Candy did. “I get to do a lot of different things,” I told him, keeping it vague. “I help with my Dad’s business too.”

The server cleared our plates, took our dessert order. Deliberately, I let the conversation lapse, once again looking past Flint’s shoulder toward the fishing pier, now not much more than a black shadow looming over the still-visible white caps. I frowned, my eyes squinting as they attempted to penetrate the darkness. There was movement on the pier, not far from where Flint and I had stood earlier, gazing at the sunset. Not fishermen, not seniors out for an after-dinner stroll. I stared, not quite believing my eyes. A
fight
on the Golden Beach fishing pier?

Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Two silhouettes wrestling with each other, bouncing from one side of the pier to the other. Merging into one hulking black shadow, stumbling apart . . . crashing back together.

“
What?” Flint, seeing my face, turned to look behind him.

The entwined writhing shadows staggered back toward our side of the narrow pier, jerking and swaying like some contemporary ballet, performed behind a scrim. Four arms shot up, forming a desperate triangle with the bodies below. Hands fought for control of . . . something. A small package? A gun? A knife?

Whatever the object was, it went flying. Over the side, I thought. Flint shoved back his chair, barreled past the crowd at the Tiki bar on the run. The fight now had everyone’s attention, with diners leaving their tables to crowd close to the deck railing. I stayed where I was, held fast by a feeling I sometimes get. Instinct, intuition . . . whatever, I’d learned to pay attention.

The massive double shadow rammed into the pier’s side rail. It looked like one of the combatants had gotten the upper hand and had the other by the throat. Then everything froze as the man on the bottom caught sight of Flint heading purposefully toward them. Screams echoed around me as the two bodies plunged twenty feet into the sea below.

I kicked off my sandals and vaulted over the side of the deck, landing in the sand on the run. It was high tide, and I hit the water fast. Dear God, but the gulf was cold in March! Tourists had to be crazy to swim in it. Fifteen feet out, I paused, listening, searching the dark water. Heard splashing . . . gurgling. A heartfelt “
Bozhe moi!
”

Huh?

“
I’m coming!” I shouted and stroked hard toward the anxious mutterings ahead. I slammed into something that resembled a whale. Or at least a manatee, Florida’s beloved sea cow. “You okay? Can you swim?” I asked.

“
Not good. Not like water,” said Viktor Kirichenko, clinging tight to one of the pier’s support posts.

“
Where’s your buddy?”

“
Buddy?” I could picture his blank stare, even though I couldn’t see it.

“
The man you were fighting with,” I enunciated clearly.

“
Thief. Bad man. Good he drown.”

Yeah, sure. I’d place my money on good old Viktor as the man on top in any fight. Even if he couldn’t swim. “Okay,” I said, “you’re going to have to trust me, Viktor. I can get you to shore, swimming from one post to the next, but only if you trust me. You grab me and try to use me as a lifebuoy, we both go down. Understand?”

“
Da, da.”
I wished I could see his face. I mean, if he panicked, we were done for. Straight for the bottom, like the Titanic.

I explained the principle of the chin tow, hoping he understood. This was a lot closer to the man mountain than I’d ever wanted to be, but what the hell . . . a life was a life. Even if I was beginning to wonder if Viktor’s was worth saving.

“
Laine?
Laine?
”

“
We’re okay,” I called up to Flint, “but come down to the beach for back-up.” Mighty convenient that my genuine need coincided with my desire not to step on Flint’s macho manhood.

It was a bit like towing an eighteen-wheeler with a scooter, but neither Viktor nor I was the type to panic. We made it back to the beach almost before Flint did. “What happened to the other one?” I asked.

Flint shook his head. He looked up at the people crowded along the deck rail above. “Anybody see what happened to the other guy?”

Murmurs. Shaking heads. Silence.

Flint groaned and reached for his cell phone. There went our date. It was Search and Rescue, interviews, reports. The county deputies would have to hunt for whatever the men were struggling over, too. Flint wrapped me in his jacket and, trailed by the curious crowd, we climbed the sand dunes up to the restaurant, where the hostess found us a corner in the now sparsely filled dining room. I shivered while Viktor continued to insist he’d been mugged. Which was possible, but, as Flint pointed out, the public pier in front of the most popular restaurant on the central gulf coast didn’t seem like a wise choice for a crime.

“
Bad guys like foreigners,” Viktor told him. “Easy target. Dumb ox, that’s what he called me.”

Oh, Viktor, if only I could believe you. Would a body wash up in the morning, straight into a crowd of spring-breakers? A row of mommies and toddlers? A swath of resident seniors?

In the end, Flint—who knew all the deputies, as well as the detective who came hard on their heels—got me off the interview hook until morning. I was chauffeured home in a patrol car and told to report to the South County Sheriff’s Office in the morning.

Viktor had to stay there, dripping all over the restaurant floor. Maybe I’d postpone my call to Fantascapes favorite art professor. The Fabergé egg fantasy was looking more like Humpty Dumpty.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . .

Too bad. I kinda liked the big brown bear.

As first dates go, my evening left something to be desired.

Chapter Three

Sunday morning. Through slitted lids I glared at the sunshine trying to penetrate the draperies over my two bedroom windows. Another glorious day in paradise, a quiet moment punctuating the frenetic height of the Winter Season. Downtown Golden Beach on a Sunday is saved from the silence of the tomb only by the faithful attending services at the Catholic church a block up the street. Everything else is shut up tight, with only an occasional car cruising by on the usually busy street outside our building or on Main Street, a block to the south.

Between our building and Main Street, with its picturesque shopping district, is a nicely landscaped park, which doubles as a central parking area. Main Street—unlike the dinky little street below my apartment—is boulevarded, with swaying palms and perfectly mulched flower beds extending the seven blocks from the Tamiami Trail to the Gulf of Mexico. Since our small city’s economy depends on tourists and snowbirds—part-time residents from “up north”—the Chamber of Commerce works overtime to make everything look as appealing as possible.

A lot more appealing than my apartment carved out of two rooms that once housed young military students. I suppose I could afford something more sleek and modern, but you can’t get any more convenient than living above your office and being able to walk to nearly every kind of shopping. The park across the street even boasts a gazebo where concerts are presented on a regular basis—everything from band classics to jazz and folk. To hear the music, I only have to open my window.

So why should I live in some fancy condo? I wasn’t here half the time any way.

Damn! I winced, snuggled down and hugged my pillow, wishing it were Flint. How could I lie here, smugly contented, when last night’s date had gone so far south my first chore after coffee was a drive to the South County Sheriff’s Office? Not the way to spend Sunday morning. Not even in the same ballpark with the personal fantasies I’d had about this weekend, with last night maybe stretching . . .