One Spoonful of Trouble (Felicity Bell Book 1) (10 page)

“Think of Bell’s, honey,” Alice pointed out. “As the future owner of this establishment you can’t afford being associated with organized crime. What will the customers think? This is a nice, respectable business, and you have to protect your reputation.”

Well, there was that, of course. Not to mention what Mom and Dad would say. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to defend myself against these allegations.” She made up her mind. Yes, she had Bell’s to think of. The reputation of a business can be destroyed in a heartbeat once these unfounded rumors start swirling the internet. And with Dad in his maudlin state, he might simply give up completely and close up the place, putting the whole family out of work. She steeled herself, and turned to Detective Vale. “I wish to file charges against Rick Dawson.”

He simply stared at her, then slowly nodded. “Sure. Sure, why not? Why don’t I drop by the house later on and take care of that for you?”

“Or I could come to the police station. Just give me the name and address of your precinct.”

He blinked. “That’s all right. You don’t want to trouble yourself.”

“Thanks. That’s very kind of you,” she said, much relieved.

“It’s a deal,” he said, then abruptly turned on his heel and strode away.

It could have been her imagination, but Felicity had the distinct impression Detective Vale wasn’t too happy with this sudden turn of events. But then she dismissed the thought. Of course he was pleased. It would simply add to the case he was building. Still, in her heart of hearts she couldn’t help but feel pity for Rick. It was now obvious that he was in a very delicate state of mind, and this would only make things worse. But then she was strong again. She had her family’s business to think of, after all. As her mother had repeated to her on more than one occasion, family always came first.

CHAPTER 22

“I don’t think you understand, father. The man I intend to marry has gone berserk! He’s buried himself in his work and won’t even come up for air!”

Chazz Falcone only paid scant attention to his daughter’s lament. “Is that right?” he muttered, staring fixedly at his computer screen.

A portly man in his late fifties with an impressive set of beetling brows and three chins, he was already hard at work. One doesn’t become a billionaire by lazing about, and he’d always held the firm belief that idle hands were his competitors’ workshop.

“Oh, daddy!” Charlene cried, stomping her foot. “I do wish you would take this seriously. Grover Calypso told me his son has been working round the clock and hasn’t been seen or heard from in days!”

“Mh.”

“Daddy!”

For the first time since she’d interrupted the cloistral peace of his office, Falcone looked up from his perusal of the blog he’d been reading. “Eh? What?”

“My fiancé, daddy. He’s gone missing!”

“Fiancé?”

Charlene Falcone rolled her eyes, something which she was very skilled at. Living with a parent like Chazz Falcone had given her plenty of opportunity to become proficient at the gesture. Like her mother before her, she found her father’s manner when engrossed in his work extremely trying. “Bomer Calypso, daddy? The man I’m going to marry?”

“Oh, yes, right, of course. Bomer. Good old Bomer. How is that young man of yours these days?”

She pursed her lips in a display of annoyance. “Not fine. In fact he’s lousy.”

“Oh? Something wrong with his appetite?” He tsk-tsked. “The boy always had a weak stomach. I remember that one time Grover and I were sharing a meal, and Bomer had to leave the table because a piece of veal had upset him.” He smiled at the recollection. “Ran like a rabbit. Grover and I laughed heartily.”

“It is not his stomach that is troubling poor Bomer, father but this strange obsession with work. He simply won’t leave his office for days in a row, insisting he needs to finish some project! Can you imagine?”

She shook her head, causing her blond tresses to dangle about her heart-shaped face. Unlike her father, whose face even in the prime of his youth had resembled a dead halibut, she was an exceedingly pretty girl, having inherited her features from her mother, the second of Falcone’s wives, who’d been Miss Punxsutawney in her heyday.

“Work is good for that young man,” opined Falcone sternly. “He’s been lazing about far too much.”

“And now he’s working too much. He doesn’t even have time to help me pick out a dress, can you believe it?” She sighed. “I’m sure that his next suggestion will be to postpone the wedding, claiming it interferes with his project. Oh, Daddy, I do wish you would talk to Grover and tell him to ease up on poor Bomer. Last time I saw him he looked awfully pale and preoccupied.”

“He won’t call off the wedding. I won’t let him,” insisted Falcone. He had his heart set on this wedding, which would unite two great families and would turn one of his dearest and oldest friends into a relative at last.

“Well, then what do you plan to do about it?” she demanded. “Things can’t go on like this. I feel I’ve become a widow even before we’ve exchanged vows.”

“I will have a word with Grover. I’m sure we can work this out,” Falcone said, his attention wavering again. Even though the wedding was something he’d been looking forward to, this article on Rick Dawson’s blog had caught his attention, and once something caught Chazz Falcone’s attention, it was hard for him to let go. Except when it concerned petty things like wedding details, of course.

“Fine,” snapped Charlene. “I will have you know that if Bomer’s father insists on working his son to the bone, I intend to fight him on it. I will
no
t have an absentee husband for the rest of my life.”

“Fine, fine,” her father mumbled.

Letting rip a disgruntled cry, Charlene turned on her heel and strode out, finally leaving that great man alone with his thoughts.

He sat back in his chair and read through Dawson’s article once again. Jerry Vale had sent him the link, pointing out the latest stunt of the young reporter. It needed addressing, as did all of Dawson’s attempts to undermine Falcone’s vast business empire.

He hadn’t built up a sizable fortune only to see it jeopardized by some pesky reporter. When word had reached him that Dawson was planning an exposé revealing some of his shady business dealings, he’d immediately been on the horn with his old friend Murphy Roops, who owned the New York Chronicle, and told him in no uncertain terms that Dawson had to go. Roops had immediately agreed, and had handled the situation with satisfactory expedience.

It didn’t hurt that Falcone owned a controlling interest in Roops’s Press Corp.

He stared at the blog entry and the picture of Felicity Bell wielding a gun in some sort of convenience store setting, and wondered if he shouldn’t talk to his lawyers and bring an action for libel and defamation of character. Or was it slander? Lawyerese had never been his strong suit.

On the other hand, if this first blog post was anything to go by, he’d overestimated Dawson. At the very least he’d expected him to get his facts straight. As it was, he’d never even heard of Felicity Bell, though of course he was familiar with Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room. But working for him? Had the young reporter gone mad? Had his summary dismissal from the New York Chronicle sent him teetering over the edge into insanity?

Odd, he felt. Ominous, even.

His interest piqued, he decided to investigate this matter further. Something told him this Bell person was a chink in Rick Dawson’s armor. A chink which could be exploited.

He picked up the phone and within seconds a raspy voice sounded.

“Vale? Falcone. About this blog post. I want you to get to the bottom of this thing. Find out everything you can about Felicity Bell and her ties to Rick Dawson.” He listened for a few moments, then disconnected. He saw that this matter would require his personal touch, and before long he was on the phone with his secretary, the inestimable Suzy Boom.

“Suzy, cancel all my meetings. I’ll be out of town for a couple of days.”

He typed the name Felicity Bell into a Google search window. Up popped a YouTube video and he clicked on the play button. What he saw surprised him. A curvy woman with flaming red hair was talking about her sex life while baking a cake. Odd, he felt, but then again, in this day and age of sex tapes and naked singers he knew that little should surprise him.

“No sex,” the woman was saying. “Sex only complicates things.”

Puzzled, he shook his head.

This thing was getting curiouser and curiouser by the minute.

CHAPTER 23

In the small office which his father had assigned to him, Baldemar ‘Bomer’ Calypso, a goofy-looking young man with butter-colored hair, rubbed his tired eyes. He’d been slaving away all night on his father’s project and the only reason he hadn’t fallen asleep at his desk was the liters of coffee he’d been drinking. Now that a new day dawned, he felt it was a good time to take a break. His deadline was looming, and he knew he couldn’t afford to miss it. Even though he was the son of one of New York’s wealthiest real estate tycoons, Dad was of the old-fashioned notion that his children had to work for their money, and not fritter away the family fortune by yachting in the Bahamas, skiing in Biarritz and playing baccarat in Monte Carlo.

Dad had made it perfectly clear that if Bomer wanted even a sliver of the vast fortune his father had amassed, he would have to work his fingers to the bone, just like he himself had done. Which is why Bomer had been slaving away in this tiny office for four days in a row now.

He stretched his weary bones and stared out the window for a moment at the skyscrapers of Manhattan. He thought of his lovely fiancée, and how he’d had to brush her off several times. Charlene was very fortunate to have a father like Chazz Falcone, who didn’t care if his daughter worked or not. Unlike Chazz, Bomer’s old man had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t see this project through, he could kiss his easy life goodbye, and would have to find employ elsewhere.

The thought gave him the willies.

And then there was Charlene to consider. He was pretty sure that if she discovered she was marrying a pauper, she’d dump his ass in two seconds flat.

Though he loved her dearly, he didn’t doubt that a large part of his appeal lay in the vast fortune associated with the Calypso name. He wasn’t as handsome as some, nor was he charming or debonair, and the glow that surrounded him was purely the aura of money, not beauty or wit.

The predicament was weighing on his soul, and for the umpteenth time he cursed his father’s ideas about work. No work, no money. It seemed simply silly.

Staring before him, battling sleep, he made a decision. Picking up his phone, he went to the first item on his speed dial list, and was gratified to hear Rick Dawson’s voice, even though he sounded grouchy.

“Wakey, wakey,” he chuckled.

“Bomer,” the voice croaked. “What time is it?” After a pause, the voice continued, peeved. “Christ, don’t you have anything better to do than call people in the middle of the night?”

“It’s nine o’clock, buddy. Rise and shine.”

“Why are you up so bright and early?”

“Why am I
still
up so bright and early would be the right question.”

“That infernal project again?”

“Exactly right, old friend.”

“I really think your father is taking the concept of mental torture to a whole new level. Why don’t you just tell him to go to hell?”

“You know I can’t do that,” Bomer said wearily, rubbing his sagging features with the palm of his hand. “He’ll cut me out of his will and kick me out of the company.”

“Maybe you should go for it. With your master’s degree you can get any job you like. And trust me, nothing can be worse than working for Grover Calypso.”

“That may be so, but I highly doubt if Charlene feels the same way. You know how much she loves money.” He didn’t mention he loved the stuff even more.

“What you see in that girl surprises me, Bomer.”

“She’s not her father.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They’d had this conversation so many times Bomer didn’t even bother to respond. “Look buddy, I need your help.”

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“This project is killing me. I need to get away for a couple of days. Somewhere quiet and undisturbed. Charlene has been ringing my phone off the hook and Dad keeps barging in, demanding to see results. I really can’t work like this. I just feel that if I can be alone for a bit, I can really nail this thing.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let me hole up in your place. Everybody knows you’re in Happy Bays, so no one will bother me there.”

“I guess,” his friend said hesitantly. “It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?”

“Well, you know I’m working on this article on your future father-in-law, right?”

“Right.”

“The thing is, he’s been sabotaging me every step of the way. He’s even sent two of his goons down here to keep an eye on me.”

“So? If they’re over there, they won’t bother me over here, right?”

“Right,” his friend said dubiously. “Just…don’t open the door for anyone, you hear? Just in case Falcone sends his men to my apartment.”

“I won’t. That’s the idea: go completely off the grid.”

“Great. Then I guess
mi casa e su casa
, buddy.”

“Thanks. You’re a life saver, Rick.”

He disconnected the phone and sighed with relief, then closed the file he’d been working on. He hadn’t mentioned this to anyone, especially not his old man, but four days in, all he had were random scribblings and some really funky doodles.

True, he’d managed to earn a master’s degree. In Commercial Art and Graphic Design. The last time his father had indulged him. He kinda doubted whether working in his chosen field would sustain his and Charlene’s lifestyle, though. And then there was his hobby of photography, and even that didn’t look all that appealing when compared to the Calypso billions.

No, he would simply have to buckle up and push through. Daddy had told him to come up with a killer idea for a new real estate project, and that’s what he would do. Even if it killed him.

He turned off his phone, picked up his laptop, his copy of
The Art of The Deal
, and quickly scrawled a note to his father and placed it on the desk.