Authors: Gretchen Archer
EIGHTEEN
The general theme of the Bellissimo Resort and Casino is French Riviera, so a fancy French restaurant was a perfect fit.
A weekly cooking show, broadcast by WLOXTV 13, featuring Violettes’ head chef, Alphonse-Henri Beaumont (who was really Bubba Newman, from Lafayette, Louisiana. I did his background check), was local must-see-TV, and the restaurant had been featured in
Southern Living, Gulf Coast Style
, and
Bon Appétit
. Violettes had its own Cessna Citation Mustang, dedicated to flying in first-class delicacies from points beyond the five-star kitchen. The restaurant was almost invitation only, as opposed to reservations only. The price tag on dinner for two was in the thousand-dollar range.
I stepped through the carved wooden doors, opened by guys wearing white gloves (and black clothes), into the bar. The dining room—as far as I’d ever been— is behind the bar. Bordering the dining room, behind a curved wall, are the private rooms, seven or eight of them, three with my (Bianca’s) name on them tonight.
The bar itself was an ornate mahogany number that stretched the length of the room, with open arched doorways on either side. The only direct lighting in the room came from above the bar, where a massive backlit stained-glass mural of nothing in particular hung from brass chains.
It was an abstract of butter yellow, soft pink, and pale-green wispy shapes, and it was probably a collaboration between an artist and a shrink, designed to be artsy, and, at the same time, make people gamble more: the yellow and pink were muted Bellissimo colors, (remember where you are), and green is, of course, the color of money.
A piano sits in the middle of the room, a piano rumored to have cost more than a million dollars. Also mahogany, more than 100,000 hand-cut polished diamonds formed a grandly illuminating thin line of sparkles all the way around. It was further accessorized by a nearly naked woman who played go-to-sleep music. When she fell asleep on the diamonds, she was relieved by a Calvin Klein boxer-brief model, and he played go-to-sleep music until she woke up. The side walls of the bar were floor-to-ceiling wine racks. Three, four thousand bottles of wine.
The bar was where Bianca liked to hang out when she didn’t have a roughed-up foot.
The dining room had weathered-white walls, and everything else was one shade darker, but still white. It was dramatic, formal, full of pricey art and ornately carved mirrors, and all the tables and chairs were Queen Anne. The lighting was a huge brass chandelier in the middle, and baby brass chandeliers above individual tables. All very Parisian.
“Your first guests have already arrived,” a tuxedo man said, then presented the door to a room named Champs-Elysées.
Guests? Plural?
“Serve us quickly,” I whispered. “I don’t care if you have to bring other people’s food.”
“Of course.” He bowed.
Bea did a double take when she saw me, and I did a double take when I saw her.
“Fancy,” she stared at my shoes.
“What are you doing here, Bea?” I asked.
“I want to eat at the bar, Davis,” said Eddie. “I didn’t come here to be locked up with you two in here.”
Here’s
exterior wall was a solid sheet of glass that looked out on the sparkly Gulf. The sun was sinking, the moon rising, and the shrimp boats were returning. It was breathtaking.
Here
had piped-in piano lullabies, beautiful toile linens, silver, crystal, paper-white china, soft lighting from brass sconces on the wall, and two faceless waiters. The food, however, was another story.
“Don’t ask what’s in it, Ma. Just eat it.” He stuck a fork in it.
“Don’t double dip in my dinner, Eddie.” Bea poked her fork in his arm.
I looked at my Cartier watch. The big hand was on the second diamond. I had fifty minutes left with these two. “Okay, Bea.” I sipped sparkling French water from a crystal flute. “Spill.”
“Well, you know,” she talked with her mouth full of chunky veal-foie gras pâté garnished with a white truffle chutney (it looked like Hamburger Helper to me), “all this time we’ve thought Cyril was living on a cruise ship in Hawaii.” She pronounced Hawaii with at least two Rs in there, then she turned to Eddie. “See if you can get me some saltines to go with this. And a Pepsi.” Back to me. “Cyril just dropped off the map.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth using the cuff of her leopard-print jacket for a napkin. “And if he hadn’t,” she said, “he’d’ve been burned at the stake.”
Probably. Cyril Bunker had been Public Enemy Number One in Wilcox County all my life. Legend has it one day he was there, the next he was gone. He didn’t say bye, he didn’t tell anyone he was selling his land to miners, he practically gave the bag business to China, who stopped hiding a cat in the design. He was an Alabama Turncoat.
“Stripped off that land, you know?” Bea talked with her mouth full. “Biggest eyesore ever? Sold off that bag business? Took his money and hit the road without so much as a howdy-do or a kiss my ass.” The waiter whisked Bea’s liver away and replaced it with a plate of unmentionables. “Hey!” she stopped him. “I’m gonna need that fork! Give it back!” He didn’t blink. He returned her
salade
fork.
(How do I know the name of that fork? Four semesters of French.)
“Pissed off everyone in three counties.” Bea waved her
salade
fork at me. “Turns out,” she said, “he’s been in Beehive this whole time.” Eddie Crawford was plowing through the carafe of table wine like it was sweet tea and he’d just mowed the north forty.
The big hand was creeping toward the fourth diamond. I could
feel
Bradley Cole making his way to me.
“Did you talk to him, Bea?” I asked.
“Nope.” She turned to her son. “Get me a French cookbook for Christmas.” She turned back to me. “Your daddy said two words to him, then the nurse boy who was rolling Cyril’s wheelchair got that thing in gear and shot off like a rocket,” she used her fork to demonstrate, “and we didn’t see Cyril again.” She pointed the fork at my ex-ex-husband. “Sit up straight, Eddie. Were you raised in a barn?”
“Do they have toothpicks here?” Eddie asked.
Bea got a mouthful of something she didn’t like, prompting her to find her dinner napkin.
The big hand was almost on the sixth diamond.
“What’s your overall impression of the place, Bea?”
She turned to me. “I love it. They have a beauty parlor. I’m going to keep this color.” She patted her silver-fox locks. “I signed the paperwork,” she said. “I’m moving in.”
“Where’s the paperwork?”
“Eddie.” Bea used her
salade
fork as a pointer. “Reach into my pocketbook and get those papers for Davis.”
There were two documents: a deed transfer, and a comprehensive health care power of attorney. Leona had signed both.
Seventh diamond.
The waiters seemed to pass through the walls. I never heard them enter or exit. Dishes appeared, then disappeared. Eddie Crawford asked every one why there weren’t baskets of butter rolls like at Olive Garden.
“Listen,” Bea addressed the head waiter, “I’ve got to save myself for another dinner later. I don’t want that whatever.” Bea waved away a tour of cheeses and wines. “I’ll just take a bite of dessert.”
“Madam, this is dessert.”
“Are you kidding me?” Bea pulled back. “I want some real dessert.”
“We also have a banana crème brûlée with meringues, and an apple-almond tart tonight.”
“
What
?”
“Apple pie or banana pudding, Ma,” Eddie said. “Bring her one of each. I’ll eat what she doesn’t. And buddy,” the waiter waited, “I gotta go drain the dragon.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Make a wee?” Eddie laughed at the waiter’s stupidity.
The water boy spoke up. Or maybe it was the water girl. The person assisting the waiter spoke up. “The men’s lounge is in the bar.”
“Perfect.” Eddie pushed back from the table, then remembered his manners. “Excuse me, ladies.” He stood. “And I don’t mean
you
.”
I reached for my gun. This was as good a time as any to rid the world of Eddie Crawford.
Bea wrapped her pudgy fingers around the waiter’s arm. “Bring two of the banana puddings.”
The big hand was on the tenth diamond. The waiter bent to my ear. “Your eight o’clock is here, Mrs. Sanders.”
* * *
Not only did I not know how to tell Bradley Cole, I had no idea how he’d react.
Four private doors and around a curved wall down, I stepped into a perfect replica of the room I’d just (thank goodness) left, this one named Trocadéro, but with two dramatic differences: a more easterly and pending-twilight view, and Bradley Cole. I stood there, shaking all over, until he looked up from the call he was on and met my eyes.
And just like that, we were good.
I lobbed myself into the seat beside him, using the walls, the waiter, and the table to get there. I needed oxygen. Bradley pointed to my blonde hair and winked. He mouthed, “
Bianca
”, then reached for my hand. He switched phone ears, put an arm around me, and pulled me to him.
I fell in, and wanted to die there.
He kissed the top of my head. He spun his phone upside down, still listening, and whispered, “I ordered us coffee and dessert.” He barely, barely kissed me. “I have to leave for Vegas in an hour.”
Oh, no.
“Other voices need to be heard, Kirk.”
Kirk started a speech. Bradley Cole laid the phone on the table and kissed me. For real.
Next up? Classic, epic, total destruction of the best reunion ever in the history of relationships: No Hair’s big fat bald head came in the door. Just his head. “Davis? Can I speak to you for a minute?”
I shook my head against Bradley’s chest.
No Hair stared at me.
“Right,” Bradley said to his phone. “I don’t disagree.”
It took everything I had to follow No Hair out. I turned to steal a glance at Bradley. He looked up and gave me the okay—he’d be here when I got back. I grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling in the floor.
No Hair cleared his big throat.
I followed him to the door of an empty private dining room named Mont St-Michel. “This had better be good.”
“It is,” he said, “or I wouldn’t interrupt.” He told me security had notified him Eddie Crawford was on property (get him off), and so were Fantasy’s three boys (help).
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because her husband had to be in New Orleans,” he whispered back. “He’s,” No Hair’s huge head rocked left-to-right, “upset.”
“What do you want me to do about it? Leave dinner to take care of Fantasy’s kids?”
“No,” he said. “Fantasy can take care of her own kids when she gets here, but that means she’ll be handing off Cyril Bunker to you.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re fifteen minutes out.”
“Of?”
“Landing.”
“I thought you said they were here.”
“They’re on an
airplane
, Davis.”
“What are Fantasy’s kids doing on an
airplane
?”
No Hair threw both arms in the air and shook them. “Fantasy and Cyril Bunker are on an airplane, Davis, headed here. Fantasy’s
kids
are in the arcade.”
“Who’s watching them?”
“No one!” No Hair said. “Because I’m here playing Password with you!”
“You’re babysitting?” I hid my smile.
“You think this is funny?”
I shook my head. Not funny.
“We haven’t even gotten to the funny part yet.”
Bianca Sanders had spilled her guts to her husband about the Page Six porn shots of me, then about her little gun accident, and No Hair told me to get to the office right now for the Skype call coming in from Mr. Sanders.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me. He wants to talk to
you
.” No Hair grabbed my wrist and looked at the diamonds. “You have seven minutes. Get going.”
“What about Bradley?”
“I can’t worry about your romance right now.”
“Then worry about this,” I said. “I’ll be late for the dinner with Mr. Microphone if I go all the way to the office and get on a Skype call.”
“Davis.” No Hair whispered through clenched teeth. “Work it out.”
I worked my way back to Trocadéro, for two more minutes of working it out with Bradley Cole, only to find someone in my chair.
“There you are,” that ass, ass, snake, rotten bastard ex-ex-husband of mine said. “You forgot these.” He waved Leona Powell’s church paperwork. “I took my mother to your place. She’s sick.” He shook the ice in his glass. “
Sick
sick,” he said. “Disgusting.”
My eyes found Bradley’s.
And just like that, we weren’t good anymore.
Bradley stood, dropped his napkin on the table, and made for the door. He stopped a foot from me, then turned. “Eddie.”
“Dude.” Eddie banged his chest with his fist, then shot two fingers in the air.
Bradley turned to me. “Davis.”
“Bradley, no.” I whispered the plea. “Don’t do this.”
“I can’t fight this, Davis.” His hand passed between me and rotten, rotten, Eddie. “I don’t think you can either.”
“I can explain.” I kept my voice low, because this was none of Eddie the Sloth’s business. “He’s sniffing around for Bianca, Bradley. That’s all. And work. He’s hanging around hoping to run into her, and he’s here because of a case we’re working on.”
“And I guess his mother’s at our place because of a case you’re working on?”
I opened my mouth, but he stopped me. “Don’t, Davis.” He looked at everything but me. “Just don’t.”
Bradley Cole walked away.
Eddie Crawford was in the middle of an apple-almond tart. The other dessert dish had been licked clean. “He’s mad at you.”
I shot him between the eyes.
(No. I didn’t.)
* * *
I tried to beat up the elevator. I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Suck it up, Davis,” I said. “Suck it up.” Ten minutes on Skype saving my job, then thirty minutes of dinner with Mr. Microphone saving the world, then I’d be free to devote the rest of my life to saving my relationship with Bradley Cole.
I couldn’t see the rest of my life without him.
Richard Sanders’ angry face filled the computer screen. “Start talking, Davis.”
I started talking, I kept talking, I talked a little more, and as the big hand crept toward the second diamond on my watch, I’d worked my speech from Bianca to Beehive.
“This is Alabama’s problem, Davis. Not ours.”
“It is our problem, Mr. Sanders.”
“Then connect these dots for me, Davis, I don’t understand what this has to do with
us
.”
“The church gets their old people here, Mr. Sanders. At the Bellissimo. We’re their recruitment center.”
“What? How?”
How? Mr. Microphone. But I couldn’t very well go there right now, seeing as how Mr. Sanders (a) adored him, (b) was on the other side of the world, and (c) I was almost thirty minutes late to meet How for dinner. “It would be best if I explain how when you return.”
Richard Sanders looked mighty skeptical. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Davis?”
Well, Bradley Cole just walked out on me for the second time in two weeks, but I doubted he wanted to hear about it. “That’s it for now, Mr. Sanders.”
“I’ll see you next Friday, Davis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Work things out with Bianca before I get home.”
Right. Anything else?
I had something else. I dialed Bradley’s number and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t take my call, but he had to know, so I left a message at the beep. “Bradley. Listen to me. She’s not Mary Harper Hathaway. I don’t know who she is, but I know she’s not Mary Harper Hathaway. Please be careful.” One last deep breath. “I love you, Bradley, and I’m—” his voicemail cut me off.
Sorry. I was going to say I’m sorry.
* * *
The third private dining room, this one named Eiffel Tower, was a French buffet. No visible tablecloth. There had to be two thousand dollars of French food in front of Matthew Thatcher. He was wearing a wireless earbud. And a suit. “Hey, you!” He swallowed. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.” His fork hovered over several French casseroles. “Where’s your mother?” He stabbed at something small, slick, and shiny in an oval dish.