Sex in a Sidecar (14 page)

The B&T is Fantasyland for adults. The initiation fee to the private club is fifty thousand dollars, fifty thousand dollars just to swim, play tennis and eat…all the things that can be had at public facilities. The rich will do anything to get away from the rest of us, won't they? They must think poverty is catching.

As well as swimming in a pool or swimming in the gulf and playing tennis, the members can have a massage, a pedicure or manicure and get their hair done. This year it was all artfully wind-blown hair for women who had names like Babs or Billy or Barbie, cute little names like that, anorexic women with cute little names and long red nails, women who came out of the beauty salon looking exactly the same.

The entrance to the B&T is very understated. Just a small white sign with dark green lettering you could easily miss that says Jacaranda Bath and Tennis Club. Underneath it says Private. Like the Tradewinds, this is a hard place to get into without an invitation.

I stopped at an itty-bitty guardhouse that looked like it was out of a movie set in a country where people yodeled. A guard in a navy-blue uniform came out of his shelter and leaned over to look in the car. The tag on his shirt said his name was Karl-Heinz Brott. It gave me a smile.

The man took his job seriously. After assuring himself I wasn't sneaking in a carload of terrorists or illegal a liens, he checked my name off a list on his clipboard and pushed a button in the guardhouse. The red-and-white-striped barrier went up. I noticed a camera on the guardhouse and two more in the trees along the drive, better security than at the Cypress Island Bank where all my worldly wealth resided.

The tree-lined drive climbed up to the man-made hill and came out in front of a grand Italianate building. Broad white steps led up to double glass doors. Clay's little Miata seemed to sigh gently as I turned off the key. At last I'd taken her somewhere worthwhile. She was home.

Inside, the marbled foyer was bigger than my apartment out by the airport, with a curvy ornate wrought-iron stairway going down to the beach level. There was also a glass and wrought-iron elevator discreetly off to the right and straight ahead I could see a formal dining room with a view of the gulf beyond. A polite woman, sitting at an elaborately carved desk with only a phone to occupy her, pushed a button and spoke softly into the phone.

Terry Wainwright raced up the stairs to meet me. He was as thin as a whippet and just as quick in his movements. We'd worked together at the Sunset and always got along but his easygoing manner hid a firecracker temper. He did not suffer fools gladly and I wondered how he was dealing with the spoiled customers at the B&T.

Terry said, “Hi,” and jogged back down the stairs without waiting to see if I followed. At the bottom of the stairs he pointed to glass doors, curtained in sheer white material, at the end of the hall. “Hair and nails,” he said and then opened a door on his right. He stepped aside for me to enter a beautiful library, its walls paneled in books and old botanical prints. The faint odor of perfume lingered in the air. A half-dozen bridge tables were set up in the center of the room. “If you ever have to close, always check this room well at the end of the night. This is where the customers sneak away to for a bit of the naughty or to sleep off the last brandy.” He was out the door again.

We entered an informal dining room with a bar along the back wall furthest from the beach. A pretty room, furnished in natural wicker with bright green and yellow cushions, it held about twenty glass-topped tables with fresh orchids in bud vases.

“This is where you'll spend most of your time,” Terry told me. “The bar serves the dining room, the pool and the beach out there. No one ever has to stay sober at the B&T. Booze enough for all and easily accessible.” “My kind of place,” I said.

The west wall had three large open arches. He pointed to them. “At night or on chilly days walls of glass slide across in front of the arches.” At the moment the room was comfortably cool and dim, in contrast to the bright tropical sunshine outside. “I'll show you how they work.”

A little bird flew in the open doors and sat on a palm peering around in as much amazement as me. Terry shooed the bird back out towards the sun and I stepped forward to see the infinity pool blending into the turquoise of the gulf.

“The pool is one story above ground level and not built into the beach,” Terry explained. “The patio and the pool are actually on the second floor.”

I could see broad stairs on either side of the pool leading to the beach.

“On beach level are all the services, the kitchens, the laundry and mechanical.”

We went to the bar and Terry started stocking a fridge with beer bottles as he said, “This is a cakewalk.”

“It makes me nervous when people tell me something is going to be easy.”

“Not a problem,” he said, racing through the system.

“Most of the sales are by chits rather than cash. You fill in the product and the customer signs a chit. Just don't forget to get their numbers.”

He slipped around the end of the bar and danced towards the door to the hall, waving me on. “I'll show you where you get supplies.”

In the locked supply room he picked up a box cutter and slit the lid of a carton of Johnnie Walker. “Might as well take these back with us.” He took out two bottles of scotch. “The clipboard over there is where you sign out stock. Put down two bottles of JW and sign your initials.”

I did as instructed.

Terry locked the door behind us and took the two bottles of scotch to the downstairs bar. He put the two bottles on the bottom shelf under the counter and pushed them way back.

Now call me paranoid, but I've been done over too many times in my life not to notice little things like that. Alarm bells began clanging in my head. Terry and I'd always worked well together the season he'd spent at the Sunset but we weren't bosom buddies or anything.

“C'mon,” Terry said, already on his way. “We'll take the elevator up to the fourth floor. The offices are there along with three suites for members who stay over.” “Sweet,” I said, following him. “Home away from home.” He pushed the button for the elevator. “Absolutely, and when you play one martini, two martini, three martini floor, there's always someone to catch you and drag you off to bed.”

All of the large elegant guest rooms with baths overlooked the gulf.

“With guests staying overnight, there has to be staff on hand all night so there's also three small staff bedrooms up here.”

“Who lives in?”

“Me, as head of bar services, the chef and Julian Fotheringham-Bliss, the general manager. The staff bedrooms look over the front of the building.” On the run again, Terry said over his shoulder, “I'll take you to meet Julian Fotheringham-Bliss and you can sign the paperwork.”

“Whoo! That's quite a handle.”

He stopped at the door to the offices, his hand on the door, and grimaced, “Don't let Old Peculiar bother you. He may chase you but he couldn't do anything even if he caught you.”

“Are there any members I should watch out for?”

“All of them. We have whiners and seducers, complainers and lechers…the whole nine yards.”

“Oh, lovely.”

The offices look out to the tennis courts and the squeak of tennis shoes and the thunk of balls was constant. I don't know how they could stand it in there. And Terry was wrong. The wolfish glint in Fotheringham-Bliss's eye told me this dissipated man wasn't past being dangerous. Smarm might just give way to force in this guy. Could he wrap a cord around a woman's throat and choke her to death? I decided then and there I was never going to be alone with him. The other thing I guessed right off was that the man was a drinker. Big-time! His face was cross-hatched with the fine net of purple veins of the dedicated drinker and his coarse uneven skin was covered in a damp sheen.

“Terrence said you were a great bartender, but he didn't tell me how nice you are to look at.” Julian Fotheringham-Bliss's deep, cultured voice spoke of England, a high-tea accent, but it was a beer-stein body I saw when he stood up and came around the desk. Overweight, bloated even, he was just above my height, maybe another inch, making him about five foot eight. The well-cut dark navy blazer and gray slacks didn't hide the extra pounds. His tiny feet were encased in highly polished loafers with tassels. He offered me a perfectly manicured hand, damp and hot to the touch. He covered my hand with his other one, an uncomfortable and intimate gesture.

“A beautiful woman behind the bar is sure to put the bar revenues up.”

I pulled my hand away from his and had the worst urge to wipe my palm along my leg. I looked at Terry and raised an eyebrow.

“Paperwork,” Terry said. “She needs to sign.”

Julian frowned at Terry. “Sit down, Ms. Travis. You may go, Terrence.”

Terry gave me a soft lift of his shoulders. “Come to the downstairs bar after,” he told me and hustled out the door.

I gave Mr. Fotheringham-Bliss what he needed for his personnel records, turning aside the personal questions he kept slipping in. He was good at the come on but I've been fending off men since I was twelve and I'm a pro at survival. I've even learned to do it without giving offense…unless I want to. Still his interest in me set my skin prickling.

We agreed I'd start with the lunch shift the next day. As I rose to leave I asked, “Did you know Bunny Lehre?”

He looked as if he'd just bitten into something nasty. “Why do you ask?”

“Something she mentioned.” Liar, liar pants on fire. “She said she had a seasonal membership here.”

“Well,” he said. He licked his fat lips. He didn't like my question but couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to tell me to mind my own business or keep on my good side a little longer just in case he got lucky. Yeah, that was likely to happen when hell froze over. I rolled back my shoulders and gave him a big smile, putting my two biggest assets right out there where he could see them. He straightened and smoothed the edges of the papers I'd just signed. “Yes, she was a member here.”

“Not the nicest person, was she?”

“She could be unreasonable.” His eyes flicked up from my chest to my face and then moved down again. “Wanted me to fire one of the groundsmen. Said he was insolent. I promised to fire him as soon as I could find a replacement. She didn't understand how impossible it is to find maintenance staff. And while the guy is no charmer he is a good worker, willing to work weekends and extra hours.”

“And did you? Fire him I mean.”

“There was no need.” I waited.

He looked up at me, gave a small sigh and said, “She died the next day.”

I shivered, well and truly freaked.

The downstairs bar was empty except for three middle-aged guys in tennis whites with towels around their necks sitting at a table with cold drinks. There was no sign of Terry. I checked behind the bar while I waited for him. There was half a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the bar but no sign of the two bottles I'd put my initials to.

I went down the hall to Terry's small office.

“That's all the stuff I can get,” I heard Terry saying as I approached the door, which was slightly a jar. I stopped and listened intently. “My supplier has run into difficulties.”

“Man, I need a little extra,” a man's voice wheedled. “You know what I mean.”

“I'm going up to Tampa tomorrow. I'll have something for you tomorrow night. Now you better get back. They'll miss you.”

I moon-walked backwards away from the door.

Davis McDaniels, who worked in his father's bank, the Cypress Island Bank where my money was, came out the door. He looked startled to see me. Concerned, he looked back over his shoulder towards Terry's office for reassurance that I couldn't have overheard anything.

“Hello, Davis,” I chirped. He'd been a few years ahead of me in high school and at one time he'd given me a pretty hard time. “I'm used to seeing you at the Sunset. Are you a member here too?” I asked.

“Sure. The Sunset is where I meet clients. It's frowned on to talk business at the Bath and Tennis.” More relaxed, he gave me a small smile and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Tending bar.”

“Good. You'll know what people drink.”

“How so?”

“Same people as the Sunset pretty much.”

“That will make life easy.” But my hopes of someone from the Sunset standing out because they were also at the B&T died. I started moving around him for the door. “Is Terry in there?”

“Yes,” he said, looking over his shoulder a gain as if to confirm it. “Yes, he is.” He raised his hand in goodbye and left. I watched him go, a germ of an idea planted in my head, besides the idea that the guy in charge of my money was putting his own up his nose, at least I hoped he was using his own money. I'd been around the track enough times to know what the snippet of conversation I'd heard meant. Oh, yes, I was making plans.