When I stepped through the entrance, I realized why.
‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,’ I said under my breath.
The foyer was huge, with a vacated hostess stand to one side. The only light came, faintly, from sconces on the dark walls. Although, no more illumination really was needed. Young women, in short dresses layered in sequins and spangles of various types, were everywhere. Female walking/talking mirror balls, most of them heading to or from the restroom. Though why any bothered was a mystery to me. They all seemed to be grooming on the fly. Applying lip gloss, tidying their hair. I even saw one woman pulling a set of tweezers out of a tiny clutch bag. I wondered what kind of plucking emergency had sent her scurrying from the dance floor.
Where the foyer and bathroom brigade had contained mostly women, inside there seemed to be a more even ratio of men to women. If spangly dresses were
de rigueur
for women, the men of Sapphire seemed to have, for once, more options. Suits drew even with sports jackets. Just a nice pair of slacks, dress shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled up seemed comfortably in the competition.
Some clubbers were already pairing off, but others ranged in packs, drinks in hand, surveying the crowd. Still early, I thought. Plenty of time to rove individually, cut someone of the opposite sex – or same sex, as the case might be – off from the herd and engage them for a minute, an hour or even a lifetime.
By 1 a.m., I wagered, the now-nearly vacant dance floor would be pulsing with people. Some moving with the percussion of the pumped-up house music, others dancing to the beat of their hearts.
Or, let’s face it, wallets and purses.
I slowly did a three-sixty, trying to get my bearings. In fact,
any
bearing, singular. The walls and ceiling were nearly completely covered with mirrored glass panels, the tables surrounding the dance floor seeming to march on to infinity. Left of the entry . . .
‘Hey, honey,’ a voice said.
No, not the man of my dreams.
I turned to see MaryAnne Williams, who was wearing a long-sleeved version of the requisite spangly number.
I was
seriously
underdressed.
Well, no matter. I was there to work. ‘Hi, MaryAnne –’ giving her a hug – ‘I was running late, so I didn’t have time to change.’
A small fib, but one I hoped could be first accepted, then forgiven. If my funeral plan called for burning in hell, I figured that far worse transgressions were already ledgered into His Big Book of Sins under my name.
‘You’re not at all late, Maggy, and you look wonderful.’
When you normally saw somebody in jeans and a T-shirt, I guessed pretty much anything was an improvement.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked, motioning me toward a bar stool. ‘I had a chance to ask around and I think you’ll be interested in what folks told me.’
‘About Brigid?’
‘And more.’
‘Evening, ladies.’ A bartender with red curly hair and freckles put cocktail napkins in front of us.
‘I’ll have a tonic and lime, Benjy,’ MaryAnne said. ‘Oh, and this is the woman I was telling you about?’
‘Maggy Thorsen,’ I said, extending my hand to shake his.
‘A pleasure.’ Benjy reciprocating. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Red wine?’
He slid a laminated twelve-inch long menu card to me.
‘Oh, I don’t need this,’ I said, sliding the ‘wine list’ back toward him. ‘Whatever you have by the glass.’
A faint smile from Benjy. ‘But, ma’am, these
are
what we offer by the glass.’
‘All of . . . ?’ There had to be twenty-five different entries, many with prices I could easily have mistaken for by-the-bottle tags.
‘Maggy, Sapphire has a wonderful wine selection,’ MaryAnne said. ‘Benjy, show her the full wine list.’
The artifact he held up looked like a leather-bound Manhattan telephone directory. ‘Would you like to look?’
‘Uh, no. Thanks,’ I said, and read off the cheapest red atop the by-the-glass offering.
‘You don’t want that Pinot, Maggy. It’s dreck. Benjy, bring her a glass of the Cakebread Cab,’ MaryAnne commanded, sounding more savvy club-owner than Southern belle.
‘Will do, Ms Williams.’
‘I love red wine,’ I told MaryAnne as her bartender slid a balloon-bowl glass from the overhead rack, ‘but I’m afraid if I don’t recognize a bottle from the shelves of my grocery store, I’m lost.’
OK, maybe an exaggeration, but I figured it was an acceptable – even slick – way of reminding MaryAnne that my wallet was considerably thinner than hers. If I wasn’t mistaken, the wine she’d ordered for me was listed at twenty dollars. American. Per glass, plus tax and tip.
‘Not to worry, my dear. You will
really
enjoy this wine, I think, and it’s my treat. Despite the fact I don’t drink it anymore, I love wine and I’ve taken take great pride in layering Sapphire’s wine cellar.’
Benjy returned with the big glass, about an inch of a lovely wine between red and purple in color glowing in the light from the pendant fixtures also suspended above the bar. ‘Before Ms Williams took over the wine-buying, people would ask what wines we had, and I’d have to recite, deadpan, “red, white and blush”. And then blush myself.’
I laughed and took the glass he’d set in front of me. I swirled its contents as Benjy filled a rocks glass with ice, tonic and a freshly cut wedge of lime for MaryAnne.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Try it.’
And so I did. Carefully. At twenty bucks the inch, I wasn’t about to chug this puppy. And the vintage was, admittedly, heaven come to earth. I’d definitely not be finding this wine on the shelves of Pick ‘n Save during my lifetime, and probably not during that of my son, Eric.
‘Taste the black fruit?’ MaryAnne asked eagerly. ‘And there should be some roasted coffee and dark chocolate tones, as well.’
Danged if she wasn’t right. ‘I do. And . . . and –’ I sniffed the wine – ‘caramel?’
‘Bravo,’ she said, taking a sip of her tonic water. ‘Your good palate deserves better than grocery-store stock, though I have to say there are some very drinkable wines available for under ten dollars the bottle.’
But those weren’t wine/coffee/dessert melded seamlessly in one lovely mouthful. I set down the glass so I wouldn’t guzzle its remaining contents. ‘MaryAnne, I know you’ve quit drinking. Does that include wine?’
‘Sadly, my dear, yes. Alcohol, by any other name, is still alcohol. At least in my case.’
‘So how can you know the way this –’ I nail-tapped my own glass and it gave off a regal ping – ‘tastes?’
‘I read, study. And I supplement that information with opinions from people like you, who have a palate and a nose. Not, by the way, the same gauges. For example, many won’t be able to detect those caramel notes.’
‘Well, any time you want an opinion,’ I said, taking another seductive but cautious sip, ‘I’m your woman.’
I set the glass down, suddenly feeling guilty about deriving such pleasure from something MaryAnne obviously loved, but couldn’t touch. ‘Isn’t it difficult, though, being around wine – even studying it, as you say – when you can’t partake yourself?’
‘Strangely, Maggy? No. I’d describe it as cooking my family a great dinner when I’m dieting. You are enjoying the wine, which validates my decision to buy that one and place it prominently on Sapphire’s list in the first place. And choose it for you, in particular. It keeps me . . .’ She seemed to be searching for a word.
‘In the game?’
‘Exactly.’ MaryAnne beamed at me and resettled on her stool. ‘I imagine it’s not much different from your desire to find out how and why Brigid Ferndale ended up in such an undignified state at your place of business. Your need to feel in control of your destiny. In the game, as you say, even if it's more your sheriff's bailiwick than your own.’
I hated to think what Pavlik would say about murder investigation as sport, though Sherlock Holmes certainly viewed it that way, with his ‘Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot’.
But then, Holmes was a fictional character.
I swirled some more Cakebread Cab. ‘Did you say you’d found out who Brigid was with on Monday night?’
‘I did.’ MaryAnne nodded toward the bartender, who was washing out glasses. ‘Benjy saw them.’
‘Really?’ Wow, interrogating employees was easy when the boss sat next to you and subpoenaed the witness.
MaryAnne said to Benjy, ‘I told Ms Thorsen that you’d seen Brigid Ferndale on Monday night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time was she here?’ I asked.
‘I checked when the sheriff’s deputies questioned me.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Ms Ferndale opened her tab at eleven ten and settled up at . . . uhm, twenty minutes past midnight.’
No surprise that Pavlik’s people had already been here, asking the same questions I was. The negligible difference might be that I was familiar with the Brookhills community, though – glancing at the milling mass of spike-heeled lasses and hair-restored lads – not
this
aspect of it.
‘An hour and ten minutes, then?’ I asked Benjy. ‘That doesn’t seem very long.’ Unless Brigid had met someone. And left with him. Or her.
‘It’s not, for Bri–’ a sideways cut toward MaryAnne – ‘for Ms Ferndale. Most nights she’d clock in around eleven and stay ’til last call.’
Well, I suppose Sarah’s apprentice could always come in late or sleep at the Kingston Realty office the next day. After all, who’d be there to know? But . . .
‘Did you say “clock in”?’ The phrase made me wonder if Brigid mightn’t have had a second job.
In the ‘hospitality’ industry’s oldest profession.
‘Just a figure of speech,’ Benjy said, proving he really
could
blush. ‘Brigid would always stop by the bar when she arrived, order a drink and leave her purse with me.’
‘Her purse?’ There was an edge of displeasure in MaryAnne’s voice. ‘Benjy, you open a tab with just a charge card,
not
the whole handbag. What if her wallet had disappeared and she claimed you’d stolen it? The club –
my
club – could be liable.’
Now Benjy was bright red. ‘Brig . . . Ms Ferndale wouldn’t do that.’
‘So says you,’ MaryAnne snapped. ‘Edict, from this moment to the end of the world: you do
not
store customers’ personal items behind my bar, do you understand?’
‘Yes’m.’ The bartender looked miserable. Yet another nice, young man duped by a conniving pretty woman.
I cleared my throat. ‘Benjy, did Brigid meet someone here Monday night?’
‘Well, like I told Ms Williams and the deputies, Ms Ferndale tended to wander. That’s why she didn’t want to carry . . .’ Benjy glanced at MaryAnne and left it at that.
‘When you say “wander”. . . ?’
‘We called it cruising in my day,’ MaryAnne said. ‘Working the room.’
And with no visible handbag, Brigid probably got showered with free drinks by all hopefuls for the duration. Shrewd of her.
‘Did you see who she might have wandered to?’ I asked.
‘Well, that’s the odd part. Monday night, Ms Ferndale stayed close to the bar here. Said she was meeting someone later. I knew she’d been looking for a new job, because she hated the wom–’ another glance at MaryAnne – ‘the one she had.’
Even I would have to concede that Sarah Kingston was, at best, an acquired taste. ‘So you had the impression the person Brigid was waiting for was going to offer her a job?’
Benjy frowned. ‘I don’t know that. She didn’t seem to be sure. Something about her needing to be a . . . rainmaker?’
‘Meaning bring in new clients,’ MaryAnne said. ‘That explains why Brigid would bad-mouth Sarah when I’d call. That little snake in the grass wanted to hijack me from Kingston Realty and carry my house listing along to a new firm.’
‘Were you going to jump ship?’ I asked.
‘Are you kidding?’ MaryAnne snorted. ‘Brigid spent three or four hours a night minimum in this club alone. Do you think I’d trust Ms Swinging Disco with the sale of my two-million-dollar home?’
The mental reactions of Maggy Thorsen, in the order they overwhelmed her:
Holy shit. Two million dollars?
And then:
MaryAnne, given the amount of time Sarah had spent at Kingston Realty lately, you already
were
trusting Brigid with selling your home. You just didn’t know it.
I said, ‘OK, Benjy. What time did this person Brigid was waiting for show up?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but it was busy for a Monday, so I had other customers to serve.’
‘And pretty girls’ handbags to mind?’ From MaryAnne.
I prompted Benjy. ‘So, Brigid came in a little after eleven . . .’
‘And about fifteen, twenty minutes later, a woman came in and asked for Brigid, so I pointed her out.’
Hadn't he just said he'd been too busy to notice? ‘What did this new woman look like?’
Benjy shrugged. ‘Blonde hair, very slim.’
Without really needing to, I looked around. His description captured half the women currently in Sapphire. ‘Dressed like all the . . . regulars?’ I pointed to the dance floor which was now filling up.
‘Not even close. This woman was wearing jeans.’
‘You let people in jeans through the velvet rope?’ I asked MaryAnne.
She shrugged and pointed to a woman in her early twenties crossing the room in skinny jeans, an off-the-shoulder cream-colored top, and the aura of original sin. ‘Honey, those go for a thousand dollars the pair. Makes it kind of hard to diss them.’
Bet my mom-jeans would be ‘dissed’ plenty. ‘So, the two of them spoke?’
‘Yes. It seemed to me like they’d already met, but didn’t really know each other, if you know what I mean?’ Benjy glanced nervously at MaryAnne.
I could guess what he was thinking. The more information Benjy gave me, the less it would seem her bartender had been doing his job that night.
I turned to MaryAnne and whispered. Her eyes narrowed, but she appeared to understand. ‘OK, Maggy, I’m going to do some paperwork. Benjy, call me in the office if she – or you – need anything.’
I gave her a hug. ‘MaryAnne, thanks so much.’
‘I expect to hear every word he has to tell you,’ she murmured in my ear.