Authors: Rochelle Alers
P
arris was so relaxed the masseuse had to shake her several times to make certain she was still awake. “Mrs. Cole, it’s time for a snack.”
“I’m not hungry,” Parris mumbled, not moving.
“You must have something, Mrs. Cole. You’ll be here another three to four hours and you’ll need some nourishment.”
Parris raised her head from her folded arms. “What else has to be done?”
The masseuse helped her into a fluffy white terry robe. “You’ll get a facial, manicure, pedicure and your hair and face done.”
She was escorted into another room where a half dozen women sat eating and chatting with one another. One went on excitedly about the highway sniper who used passing cars for target practice and had successfully evaded the police. Another woman topped the story by saying her sister’s car was hit by a bullet just two days before.
The bored idle rich. Parris nibbled on pieces of low-fat, low-sodium cheese and fresh fruit slices, wondering how often they came to have their bodies and faces pampered.
A slight frown furrowed her forehead. After decorating her own home what else would she have to do? Even if Martin won
the election she knew she had to see about her own career. There was no way she wanted to end up like these women.
Ray’s gaze met Parris’s in the reflection of the mirror. His fingers tested the strands of her shoulder-length dark brown hair. “Your husband’s campaign colors are red, white and blue, and your wardrobe will be coordinated as such.”
“I hardly ever wear red,” Parris protested.
Ray rested both hands on her shoulders. “You should. You have a clear complexion with rich yellow undertones. Warm colors in the red range: soft russets, terra-cotta, clear reds or peach are perfect for daytime. Cool colors—roses and pinks are great for the evening.”
“What are you going to do with my hair?”
“I’m going to soften the color, then cut it into a style that will be easy to manage whether you decide to curl it or blow it straight.”
Parris thumbed a magazine, counted the number of bulbs in the track lights and admired the black and white furnishings in the popular salon as Ray worked on her hair.
Four months before she had been Parris Simmons, mother, single parent and interior decorator. Now she wasn’t sure of who she was or what she would become.
Two hours later she couldn’t believe the transformation. Her hair had been cut to chin-length and curled softly around her face. The highlighted strands accented the gold undertones in her complexion. She turned her head and the curls bounced with the slight motion.
“It looks good with or without makeup, don’t you think?” Ray questioned with pride.
Parris nodded, still shocked. Even without makeup she looked feminine, but sophisticated and worldly.
“Let’s see to your makeup and that will complete our session.”
Esther, a tiny bird-like woman stopped Parris as she gathered her handbag to leave. Her small dark eyes darted quickly over her body. “Mrs. Cole. You must try on your clothes.”
Parris stared at the woman with the small pointed face and thinning hair pulled back in a bun as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue. She glanced at her watch. It was after five. She’d spent the day in the salon. “What clothes?”
“Right this way. Your husband already paid for them. I need your measurements, then I’ll have everything delivered to your home.”
The boutique adjoining the salon was filled with designer originals and copies. Parris suffered through trying on blouses, dresses, gowns and undergarments.
“Mrs. Cole, you should wear that dress home.”
Parris looked down at the printed red and white silk crêpe de chine pleated dress. The drop yoke styling emphasized the slimness of her body. She nodded, too exhausted to change into the dress she had put on that morning.
“Is there anything else?” she asked, afraid that there were more surprises in store for her.
“Shoes.”
For shoes she could sit. Parris lost count of the number of shoes she tried on. She was grateful for the snack she’d eaten earlier because now her stomach was beginning to grumble loudly.
“Thank you,” she mumbled to the woman whose name she’d failed to catch when she introduced herself, gathering the bag containing her dress. She all but ran out of the boutique before someone else stopped her.
The parking lot was still crowded with cars as Parris walked over to her Accura. She sat behind the wheel, staring through the windshield into the darkness. What she’d thought would take only a few hours had turned into a six hour ordeal.
Turning on the ignition, she flicked on the headlights and maneuvered out of the parking lot, skirting Mercedes Benzes, Porsches, Jaguars and Lexuses. The warmer weather was returning, but she decided against turning on the air conditioning.
Parris made good time returning to West Palm Beach as she avoided the heavily-traveled highway. She glanced up in her mirror as the bright lights of a car behind her obscured her vision. The driver had his high beams on.
Lowering her chin, she tried avoiding the blinding glare. Slowing and moving over to the right lane, she waited for the car to pass her. The driver also moved to the right lane and continued to follow her.
“Idiot!” The word mirrored her mood. She was tired and in no way did she want to play highway tag. She increased her speed and the car following her kept pace.
A shiver of fear snaked up her spine. The local road was dark, with light vehicular traffic and she doubted whether she could find a police cruiser on this stretch of road. Most of them were probably looking for the highway sniper.
Sniper! The single word slapped at her. What if the driver in the car behind her was the sniper?
The question had barely formed in her mind when the back of her car was rammed and she lurched forward. Her foot instinctively floored the accelerator.
“No!” she screamed as the back of her car was rammed again. Shifting from the gas pedal to the brake, she jerked the wheel of her car to the right, the heel of her left hand fastened to the horn. Seconds later, she skidded off the road and stopped when her car crashed into a wooded area abutting the roadway.
She had unclasped her seat belt and scrambled across the gear shift when the crack of a bullet shattered the glass on the driver’s side. Pressing her cheek to the seat, Parris eased her body down into the small space between the front passenger seat and glove compartment. She covered her head with her arms and prayed.
She waited for a second shot, but it never came.
She was still cowering on the floor when the car door swung open.
“Parris, are you all right?”
Never had she been so relieved to hear that deep, powerful voice. Trembling, she crawled up to the seat, hands and legs shaking uncontrollably.
“No!” she screamed when she saw the black, deadly handgun pointed at her.
“It’s all right, Parris.”
Eyes wide with fright, Parris stared at the gun in Joshua’s hand. Tears filled her eyes and stained her face. “Why?” she asked weakly. “Why, Joshua?”
Joshua replaced the nine millimeter automatic handgun in a shoulder holster concealed under his jacket, then reached for Parris. “He’s gone,” he said quietly. “He can’t hurt you now.”
Parris didn’t remember Joshua leading her to his car, or his placing a call to the police on his cellular phone. She lost track of time of the trip as he drove her home. She smiled numbly at M.J. when the older woman met her as she climbed the staircase to her bedroom, saying she had a headache and she was going to bed.
However, it was when she sat on a chair in the bedroom that the frightening scene replayed in her mind. Placing a hand over her mouth, she cried silently until she was drained.
Martin shook hands with the men who were responsible for his Jacksonville campaign office.
“Pardon me, Mr. Cole. There’s an important call for you. The caller is a Mr. Kirkland. Shall I put it through here, or would you prefer to take it in the office?”
“I’ll take it in the office,” Martin informed the maître d’. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He followed the maître d’ through the dimly-lit restaurant.
“Through that door, sir.”
Martin pushed the door open and walked into a room filled with Italian provincial furnishings. Wrinkling his nose at the ornate display, he picked up the telephone receiver that lay on a table.
“What’s up, Josh?”
“Someone tried to kill your wife.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His fingers tightened on the receiver.
He listened as Joshua related how someone forced Parris off the road, then fired a shot at her.
He tried easing the tightness in his chest as a wave of moisture washed over his body. “Where is she?” he asked, closing his eyes.
“She’s at the house.”
“I’ll be back within the hour.”
“She’s safe, Martin.”
“Either pick me up or have a driver waiting for me,” he ordered. Martin slammed down the receiver, retraced his steps, a grim expression signaling his dinner meeting was over before it began. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I have a family emergency,” he explained quickly. “I must return home.”
“When will we meet with you again?” asked the group’s spokesman.
“One day next week,” Martin flung over his shoulder as he raced out of the restaurant.
The four men seated at the table stared at Martin Cole’s broad-shouldered back. They had waited weeks to meet with their candidate, and his return to West Palm Beach was interpreted as a snub. They stared at one another, and a silent communication was registered. Martin Cole would eat humble pie before they scheduled a meeting with him again.
Martin took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t been able to rid his mind of the stranglehold of fear since Joshua’s telephone call.
He missed seeing Regina in her bed when he raced past her bedroom to enter his own. He sagged against the door in relief. She
was
there; she
was
safe.
Martin couldn’t bring himself to believe Joshua until he could see Parris with his own eyes. She was asleep on a chair, her feet drawn up under her body.
He smiled as his gaze lingered on her hair. She was lovely. No, beautiful. The soft curls fell over her forehead and grazed her silken golden-brown cheek. There was no girl left in her. This Parris was all woman; sensual and alluring.
She came awake as if sensing his presence. Her eyes widened, unable to believe he was smiling down at her.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were staying over in Jacksonville.”
Reaching down, Martin gathered her in his arms. He kissed her nose as she stifled a yawn. “I missed you too much to stay
away,” he lied smoothly. He held her tightly, feeling her warmth and inhaling her familiar fragrance.
Parris tightened her hold on his neck. Never had she needed Martin as she did now. He didn’t know how close he had come to losing her. “Hold me,” she pleaded, her velvet voice breaking with emotion.
The tension lining Martin’s mouth and forehead eased, and he was able to draw a normal breath for the first time in an hour.
He laid Parris on the bed, sinking down beside her. “Go back to sleep, darling. I’ll be here all night.”
“C
an’t you do anything right? You had her where you wanted her and you still couldn’t kill her. I’m beginning to believe either you’re incompetent as well as stupid or she has nine lives. Now which one is it?”
“I had her but some guy came along and pulled a gun on me and I had to get out of there before I could finish her.”
“Did he see you or get your plate number?”
“There was no way he could see me. It was too dark. And as for the license plate—I stole it off a pickup truck.”
“At least you did something right.”
“You think this is easy? She’s not a hooker whose job it is to walk the street where she’s a sitting duck.”
“You’re paid well to follow orders, not ask questions. The next time I talk to you I want to hear some good news for a change.”
“The good news is that the police arrested someone as the sniper. I guess the copycat wannabe got his five minutes of fame when the newspapers did a story on him.”
“The only thing I want to read is Parris Cole’s obituary.”
“I’ll get her.”
“My boss is getting tired of your promises and excuses.”
“Why does he want her dead?”
“I’ll forget you asked me that question. Just do the job!”
* * *
Martin tightened his grip on Parris’s waist, leading her through the lobby of the hotel. “Ready, honey?”
Parris nodded. She would never be ready for the reporters and the photographers. She had been saved from their questions and microphones when she and Martin stepped off the plane at the Orlando airport.
Martin fielded their barking questions, saying he would give a news conference prior to a fund-raising dinner later that evening, although most of them seemed more intrigued by Mrs. Cole’s close brush with death at the hands of the ‘Palm Beach Sniper.’ Flashbulbs distorted her vision long after she was seated in the spacious limousine that took them from the airport to the hotel.
One member of their security team preceded them through the lobby, while two others lagged behind as Martin and Parris walked the carpeted floor to the elevators.
She and Martin were scheduled to stay in Orlando for two days before moving on to Altamonte Springs.
The elevator ascended quickly to the eighth floor and within minutes they stepped into a suite of rooms filled with all of the amenities one could find at home.
“Very nice. Quite nice indeed,” Martin remarked, looking around the suite.
“We’ll be across the hall if you need anything,” one of the men offered.
Martin waited until the door closed behind them, locking it and placing the key on a table. He slipped out of the jacket to his dark blue suit. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep before Olga Ramirez arrives to brief you about the issues.”
Parris wasn’t going to argue with him. She had been up before dawn, unable to sleep when she thought about leaving Regina. Martin made certain their departure was smooth and unemotional. They shared breakfast, reassuring Regina they would return in a week. The child smiled when Martin told her they were going to Orlando. She made them promise to bring her souvenirs
from Disney World and Universal Studios. So much for their daughter grieving for her parents.
Parris walked into the bedroom and closed the drapes, shutting out the bright May sunlight. Their clothes had arrived earlier that morning, and a nightgown lay across the large bed. She would take the time given her before she spoke with the woman who had been assigned as her press secretary.
It took only minutes to cleanse the makeup from her face and slip into the gown. She lay on the bed, recalling the television newscast about the man who had been arrested as the ‘Palm Beach Sniper.’ The police had reported that the man had chosen his targets randomly—lone women in cars.
Parris and the entire populous of Palm and West Palm Beach did not relax completely until the arrest had been made. It had taken Parris a little longer to relax because she still wasn’t able to let go of all of her fears.
Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
Parris emerged from the bedroom dressed in a navy blue linen gabardine coat dress with a contrasting white collar and lapels and navy blue and white spectator heels, mentally prepared for her briefing with Olga Ramirez.
Martin sat on a sofa with the slender woman with dark curling hair and intelligent dark eyes. He rose to his feet as Parris gave him a smile. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and the stubble of a beard shadowed his lean cheeks.
“Parris, I’d like you to meet Olga Ramirez. Olga, my wife, Parris.”
Olga stood up and shook Parris’s hand. “Hello.”
“It’s nice meeting you, Olga.”
Wonderful voice, Olga thought, quickly assessing the woman whom she was to work closely with for the next six months. Parris Cole was the youngest and most attractive woman she’d been assigned to work with in the twelve years she had been a political consultant and analyst. It usually made her job easier when a political couple visually complemented each other
because she always preferred to sell the “package” rather than each person on their own merits. Now if Parris Cole was as intelligent as she was physically attractive, then her assignment would be an easy and rewarding experience.
There was something about the woman Parris liked immediately. They were about the same age, however Olga’s firm handshake, unmade-up face and her severe business suit could not disguise the warmth in her friendly smile.
Martin squeezed Parris’s shoulder possessively, smiling. “I’ll see you later. It’s been nice talking with you, Olga.”
“Same here, Martin,” Olga replied.
Both women sat down at a small round cherry wood table covered with a vase of fresh flowers, a carafe of coffee and several cups and saucers as Martin disappeared into the bedroom.
Olga withdrew a stack of papers from a folder on one of the chairs. “How much interest do you have in politics?” she asked Parris.
Parris studied Olga’s short curling hair, her smooth olive-colored skin and her even features. Her face was plain except for her eyes. They were large, dark and alert. They missed nothing.
“Aside from voting, absolutely nothing.”
Olga smiled. “Good.”
“Good?”
“It’s always better for me when I don’t have to deprogram a person. In other words you won’t come to me with preconceived prejudices. Our only problem will be is making certain you’ll be knowledgeable enough about the issues. Both the Democrat and Republican candidates’ wives are political campaign veterans. Russell Baker and Eliot Howard share more than forty-two years of political experience between them, and their wives have been with them since the beginning of their political careers. Martin is new at this and so are you.”
“Should that make a big difference?” Parris questioned.
Olga shook her head. “Not in the least. In fact, you can use your political inexperience as a platform to create a new trend in a tired old arena. Politics is a lot like movie-making. It’s all
hype and marketing. In other words, it’s whoever has the most beautiful face, sexiest smile and the most drama and glamour in their lives.
“You and Martin look like the perfect couple. You’re young, tall, thin—and you know how Americans are obsessed with being thin—and you’re gorgeous. Even your profession as an interior decorator reflects beauty. The people of Florida will watch you very closely. They’ll want to know what you’re wearing and what your house looks like. They’re going to want to know why Martin married you and not some other woman. They are going to want to know
everything
about Parris Cole.”
“And they’ll probably want to know why I waited ten years to marry Martin even though I’d had his child.”
Olga stared intently at her, then said, “That was going to be my first question to you.”
Parris had rethought the question many times and had formulated a response she could repeat in her sleep. “Martin and I had a difference of opinion, and I left Florida.”
Olga asked other questions about her family and past.
Parris spent an hour with Olga, listening and asking questions. The first of many briefing sessions ended when Martin returned to the sitting room, shaved and impeccably groomed in a tailored navy blue suit with a faint pinstripe.
At exactly six fifty-five the campaign security personnel rapped on the door and escorted Parris, Martin and Olga to the hotel’s grand ballroom for the fund-raising dinner.
The soft whisper of breathing and the crisp rattling of the early morning edition of the newspaper was the only audible sound in the room. Everyone watched Vince Daniels as his eyes raced over the outspread newspaper.
Miraculously, the campaign committee kept up with the hectic schedule: six cities within eight days. They had covered Orlando, De Land, Altamonte Springs, Sanford, Deltona and Daytona Beach.
The committee, consisting of speech writers, photographers, publicists and security personnel gathered for early morning
breakfast, late morning brunch, midday lunch and late night dinner. All were kept busy attending mall openings, fund-raising dinners and high school and college forums.
During the sweep of these cities Parris saw another side of Martin she had never encountered. Rumors of his compelling persuasive manner in the corporate board room became apparent as he wooed the undecided and uncommitted voter with his scathing criticism of the suggestion of corruption that had followed Eliot Howard from every hamlet in the state since his entrée into the political arena nearly thirty-five years before. Martin became an actor in a role, giving his best performance to a captive audience.
Martin’s press secretary cleared his throat, flashing his candidate a smile. “It’s not page one, but then five isn’t too shabby either.” He examined the article quickly, a broad grin softening his round face.
“ ‘A storm has blown across Central Florida, and what is so strange is that it’s not the season for tropical storms. Martin Diaz Cole, of West Palm Beach, who formally declared his candidacy for governor four months ago, has all of the qualifications to be a most formidable opponent for the incumbent governor Eliot Howard.
“ ‘Forty-year-old Cole has the striking good looks of a soap opera idol, a smile reminiscent of Billy Dee Williams and the charisma of the late President John F. Kennedy. The dynamic West Palm Beacher uses the stage much like a dancer, utilizing every inch of it while his mellifluent voice sways the reluctant supporter to his camp of ever-increasing loyal followers.
“ ‘His verbal assault on Howard and his constituents was delivered with the force of a blitzkrieg, labeling the governor as Typhoid Mary in that he’s responsible for the spread of corruption throughout the state while not coming down with any of its ill effects himself. Incredibly, Cole enumerated the extensive list of individuals and agencies, indicted or investigated, who have been politically linked to the incumbent over the years the controversial boss has been leader of his party. Cole then listed the
items of his platform, policies that the capacity-filled convention center agreed would be good for Florida. Cole reminded the crowd of Howard’s claim that he’s never taken a dishonest dollar in his life, countering that Howard is incapable of distinguishing honest from dishonest.
“ ‘The thunder of applause and stomping feet reverberated throughout the convention center like cannon fire. Many had come to observe Martin Diaz Cole out of curiosity, and left transfixed by the magical spell woven by a man who dared to challenge the political juggernaut of a veteran politician rumored to possess power equal only to the President of the United States.
“ ‘Floridians cannot ignore this new force in Florida’s political arena, and neither will gubernatorial hopeful Russell Baker and Governor Eliot Howard.’ ”
Martin laughed, slapping his press secretary on the back. “Are you certain you didn’t write that piece, Vince? It sounds too much like you not to have your by-line.”
“He probably paid his friend to write it,” Olga teased.
Vince flushed to the roots of his orange hair. Since Olga joined the committee as Parris’s press secretary, he and Olga had become embroiled in a constant battle of wills.
“It’s still better than plagiarizing someone else’s work.” Vince’s retort was lost on Olga with the level of noise in the hotel room.
“People, people.” Olga tapped the handle of a teaspoon against her coffee cup. “Good folks, before we celebrate prematurely about our esteemed candidate, allow me to inform you that Martin isn’t the only Cole to receive press coverage.”
She shot a smug grin at her obviously embarrassed counterpart, snapping open her edition of the paper with an exaggerated flip of the wrist. “ ‘Parris Cole addressed a luncheon of the Ladies Auxiliary of the Daytona Beach Beautification Committee and quickly dispelled the image of being a hothouse flower who was totally incongruent to her dynamic wealthy husband.’ ”
Parris raised her eyebrows and met Martin’s obsidian stare. They had become strangers once again. Traveling together and sharing the same bed. The warmth and intimacy in their marriage
had decreased as the pace of campaigning increased. They were cool to each other and overly polite, but presented themselves as the perfect couple to the residents of the state of Florida.
“ ‘Mrs. Cole demonstrated a command of all topics when she conducted a question and answer session following the luncheon, delighting the attendees when she lingered beyond her allotted scheduled appearance. Committee members concluded it was an enthusiastic afternoon, filled with the delightful presence of an intelligent and radiant woman.’ ”