Saffron Nights (7 page)

A
fter landing in Honolulu and checking in to their hotel rooms, Maeve and Jackson set off to interview an expert on the mushrooms. Jackson took some photos of the interview and then went off to take some city shots. They would be in Honolulu only for a few days and then were bound for the Big Island, where the mushrooms actually grew.

Jackson walked the streets of the city. Christ, the light was reflecting everywhere. Glass. Water. How was he supposed to get any good shots? He had several appointments inside, thank God for that, but still. The temperature was hot, but he swore he could feel a drizzle prick at his skin before he slipped in a coffee shop, grabbing a table next to the window. He drank his coffee and looked out the window. Wow, what a beautiful woman dressed in red walking down the sidewalk. Cascading blond hair, big brown eyes, milky-white porcelain skin, luscious, full, pouty lips smeared with bright red lipstick. Wow. He must be losing it. He could swear that was the same blonde he had seen at Chef’s funeral, but he didn’t get a good enough look at her to be sure. And what would she be doing in Hawaii? She caught him looking and turned away. Behind her was a short bald man, grinning as he watched her from behind. An older, distinguished-looking gray-haired man walked along, fumbling with his briefcase. But damn, that man looked familiar, too. And as he got closer to the window, Jackson was sure he’d seen him before. It was his complexion, which was pocked as if he’d had a bad case of acne that had never healed correctly. Damn, where had he seen this man before? The last time he was in Honolulu? Well, shit. He hardly remembered it. He was on a quick assignment and barely had time to eat, let alone people watch. The man caught him looking and crossed the street, scurrying off.

His cell phone rang and he was glad to see that it was David, his friend the lab analyst.

“Yeah, Dave. What do you have for me?”

He had given him a bit of the saffron that he and Maeve had to see if it was laced with something else that could have been the reason for the crazy, immediate horniness he felt.

“I hate to tell you this,” Dave said. “Nothing exciting here. Just pure saffron.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Ran the tests twice.”

“Oh well. Thanks, Dave. I owe you.”

“Damned straight, man.”

So, maybe there was something to saffron and its aphrodisiac qualities. Of course, they would have to try it again when they finally got to India.

Even after two cups of coffee, Jackson was exhausted. Maybe he better try to get a nap in before his appointment with Maeve at the library. Jet lag sucked. It was raining, the sky had darkened. He just wanted his bed.

He’d tried sticking close to the storefronts and their awnings as he walked back to his hotel, his bag with the camera and equipment flung over his back, protected by the waterproof material. But still, he was soaked by the time he entered the marble lobby. He dropped his bag on a table in the lobby to get himself and his camera situated before he flung the bag over to his other shoulder.

There sat the man with the pocked face, fidgeting in his coat and bringing a cell phone to his ear. Damn. Who was this guy? Was he staying at the same place? Or was he just hanging out here? Jackson shook off the eerie feeling that suddenly came over him. Yeah, the guy was ugly and creepy looking, but why would he actually be following him? Unless he was paparazzi? He didn’t have a camera, nor did he have the beleaguered, rumpled look of the paparazzi. He was meticulously dressed in what Jackson thought was an Italian suit.

Jackson walked round the corner and poked at the elevator button, rode the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down the hall, and saw his door open slightly. What the hell? Had he forgotten to shut his door?

As he opened it, things began to flash by him quickly. Wind. Paper. A leather coat. An arm. A fist. Then all went black.

W
here was Jackson? Maeve’s interview with Gladys Graham had been cancelled several times—finally Gladys was ready for her over a Skype system at the University of Hawaii’s library. Gladys would be at her family-owned library in London—known as the Colville, the world’s largest erotic literature and ephemera collection. And where was Jackson? Had he gotten the times confused? Damn. There would be no pictures of this hard-to-reach interviewee.

The elderly lady seemed at ease with the technology as she sat in the seat in front of the webcam. “My dear, I am so sorry to keep putting you off. I am so happy we are connecting.”

Gladys held herself like royalty and was a no-nonsense expert in her field: sex and all the ephemera.

“I never married,” Gladys confided to her later in the interview. “I enjoyed many lovers and did not want children.” She lit a pipe; the smoke around her was thick and Maeve could almost smell its heady fragrance.

“What did you think of your great-grandparents’ erotica collection when you found out about it?

“Oh,” she inhaled a deep breath of smoke. “I don’t remember ever not knowing about the collection. It wasn’t as if there was a grand moment when someone showed it to me. I grew up with it. It was never made into an issue, just like sex has never been an issue in my family.”

Maeve pursed her ruby lips. “Now, back to aphrodisiacs . . . I have tried many of them, have you? So far, damiana, papaya, avocado, and saffron. And we’ll be trying durian in India.”

“Ah, the
grand root
we call it. It makes a man stand hard and erect for long stretches of time. Yes, but it’s quite hard to come by and very expensive. Still, I have had it several times,” she grinned. “The effect is lovely.”

Maeve shrugged. Gladys was a babbling brook, holding crystal-clear information and whetting her appetite even more.

“You must be careful in India on the mountain. It’s quite powerful there. Are you denying the power of it? There’s no point in such self-delusion. You’ve tried good quality saffron?”

Maeve nodded.

“Whomever the lucky man was . . . you are quite lovely.”

“Thank you. But nothing happened between us. We were interrupted, and I kept wondering if what we were feeling was something else.”

“Like what? Love? Don’t delude yourself. You are much too smart and adventurous for that. Try it all. Sleep with them all,” she said, demurely. “With or without the help of a little something. Don’t buy into the trap of love and marriage.”

They discussed ginseng, mandrake, and the mushroom in Hawaii. “That, my girl, will make any woman cry out for the closest man. I think when I have had the pleasure of the mushroom is when I have had my most intense orgasms. ”

“Interesting,” Maeve said, finding this conversation to be a bit surreal. She didn’t want to try the mushroom. She hated mushrooms. This older woman, so sweet and demure-looking, was discussing orgasms with her. How weird was that? “Better go. I am so sorry. Oh, one more question: what is your favorite aphrodisiac?”

“An English one, of course, my dear,” she said. “Let’s see, quoting from an eighteenth century herbal book: ‘Into a steaming hot cup of very strong coffee or hot chocolate place a small quantity of crushed nutmeg and two whole juniper berries. Let the mixture stand for two minutes and then, on the surface of the beverage, sprinkle a bit of cinnamon.’ So delicious, with a big scoop of whipped cream.”

Nutmeg? Maeve made note of it. Didn’t Chef have an entry for nutmeg?

She texted Jackson again:
Where R U, asshole? You missed Gladys
.

Maybe he had passed out in his bed from jet lag. More likely he had company in his bed and completely forgot about their appointment. She shrugged and went back to her hotel.

Finally, she received a call from Jackson. “You’ll never believe it,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve been robbed again. And beaten up.”

“What?” she said, her heart racing as she stood up and knocked over her tea. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’ve been beaten up. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the fucking hospital. They think I have a concussion. Alice is on her way and India is on hold.”

Damn.

“C
an someone tell me what the hell is happening with you two?” Alice said, energized, flitting around the room like a small bird. “Robbed in Mexico. I just found out that your phone was tapped, Maeve, and now this.”

“Tapped?” Maeve said. “Why would someone tap my phone?”

Alice shrugged. “You tell me. It may be a reporter.”

“A reporter?” Maeve said. “Since when do reporters tap phones of cookbook writers?”

Alice shrugged again. “It’s just a possibility. Look, is there something going on between you two? Could someone be following you around and making you miserable—someone like an ex-lover?”

“Nothing is going on between us,” Maeve said. “Not since the saffron episode. We’ve had damiana and nothing . . .”

“Right,” Jackson said, looking sheepishly at her. But, damn, he wanted it to. He wasn’t the writer—so he kept his feelings to himself. He didn’t have to write a word about the damiana experience, the way he watched her sleep, imagining slipping himself inside her. It seemed like the substance relaxed them both—she fell asleep soon and he eased into his work and the fantasy of her. He thought it might have had an aphrodisiac quality—she didn’t. “It made me sleepy,” she told him the next day.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Maeve said in the hospital room. “And I have no idea what to make of it. Could it just be a strain of bad luck?”

“What? Jackson getting robbed twice within two weeks? I don’t think so,” Alice said. “Then there’s that business with the mushroom. We are quite concerned. I’m going to hire an investigator and a security officer. ”

“C’mon, Alice, how are we supposed to work with all those people around?”

“How are you supposed to work when one of you has a concussion?” she said.

“Well, I’ll go on to the Big Island and Jackson can join me when he’s better. Then we’ll go from there. It’s hard enough with two of us trying to get around without too much attention and fuss, let alone two more people,” Maeve said.

“She’s right,” Jackson said, hating to think of her out there with Jack Wilson, the man who wanted to hire her, trying the mushroom. It irked him. He’d seen her vulnerable side, seen that icy mask of hers slip off, and he knew Jack Wilson was bad news. But there was no other way to keep moving forward.

“Besides, do we really think someone has followed us from Mexico to Hawaii just to get some money and beat up Jackson? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Unless you have something they want,” a man said as he entered the room.

“Detective,” Jackson said, feeling a stabbing pain through his temple. Damn. Those guys really worked him over. “These are my business associates.”

“We ran the sketch of the man you saw and found out who he is. Not only that, but he was in Mexico the same time you were. They call him Snake, but his real name is Sam Everidge.”

“Who is he?” Maeve asked.

“Well, this guy has a rap sheet a mile long,” the detective said, walking toward the window. “He’s as slippery as a snake, I can tell you that. He owns several casinos and restaurants all over the world. The States. France. Some other places. He’s wealthy and has quite a far-reaching network. Do any of you know him?”

“Not personally,” Alice said.

“No,” Jackson said. “I have many vices, but gambling isn’t one of them. I work hard for my money and don’t play around with it.”

The detective frowned. “So what could he want with you?”

“Is he the man who did this to Jackson?” Alice asked.

“We don’t know that. It was just a suspicion that Jackson had. We tried to bring him in for questioning. He’s left the country, heading for Hong Kong. He’ll be questioned there, I assure you. And we’ll be in touch with you.”

“Hong Kong? That’s on our itinerary,” Maeve said.

“Then it would seem he probably is following you, but why?”

“Detective, are they in danger?” Alice said.

“It’s hard to say. We don’t know that Snake had anything to do with any of this. But if he did, I’d say yes, you are both in danger.”

“Well, maybe we should call the project off for a while and you two come home,” Alice said.

“Let’s at least finish Hawaii,” Maeve said. “We’ll be staying at Jack’s place on Big Island. He’s a creep, sort of, but harmless. And besides, what could this Snake want with us? Must be some weird coincidence.”

“Jack’s estate is quite secure . . . I’ve been there,” Alice said. “Let’s do this and reassess. I’ll stay here with Jackson. Thank God I hadn’t gotten out of L.A. before I received his call. You go ahead, Maeve. We’ll catch up with you. Maybe we’ll skip Hong Kong.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Hong Kong,” the detective said. “The authorities will apprehend him immediately.”

M
aeve didn’t want to leave Jackson. He looked so sweet and vulnerable lying in that hospital bed. Whether she liked it or not, she was pulled between wanting to be by his bedside and needing to move forward with the project.

“I hate hospitals,” she said, when Alice had left to get some lunch for them.

“Why? They seem pretty helpful to me,” Jackson said.

“It’s just that it reminds me of my dad. The last years of his life, you know, in and out of hospitals,” she said.
Why was she telling him this?

Jackson looked away from her. Was he embarrassed by the intimacy of her statement?

“We’ve all had our share of bad hospital moments,” he said, looking out the window.

“My father’s death,” she told Jackson as he gazed out the window. “It was hard on the whole family. Cancer. It left us grieving and broke.”

He looked sheepishly at her.

“You don’t have to tell me this.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You know, I was only able to get to journalism school because of a scholarship. My mom was left with nothing. She was never the same after my father died.”

Maeve took a deep breath. “Martin said she died of a broken heart. And I believe that. She gave up everything for my dad, for us. And, well, that’s what love gets you.”

It came tumbling out of her. Why was she opening her heart to him? Would she regret that? There was a quality to Jackson that made him easy to talk with. It was one that she didn’t know he had until this trip.

“Not always,” Jackson said, with a hushed, thoughtful tone. “But you’ve done so well for yourself, eh?”

She shrugged as Alice walked in with sandwiches.

Maeve’s career had taken off in the midst of all this, and she felt like she had to make the most of it by working harder and harder because someday it could all slip away. She put away her money and kept figuring out ways to make more. But as she looked at Jackson lying there, even sick and beaten, still pulling at her, she was beginning to wonder if something was missing from her life.

 

When Maeve finally arrived at Jack’s estate—which indeed was the correct word for it—she was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he wasn’t home. The security guard at the gate handed her a note from him, telling her to make herself at home.

Maeve loved to travel and was used to traveling alone, but she was a little leery of exploring on her own too much because of Jackson’s experience. She hated to admit it, but she was worried about him. The more she thought about it, though, she wondered if all this had to do with one of his many women. She’s seen him with all the women in the tabloids. Trashy women, into nothing more than how they looked, who they laid, and where the next party was. Maybe she shouldn’t be concerned for herself at all. Maybe this had nothing to do with Chef’s murder.

She settled in to the guest room, grabbed her beach bag, and headed toward the ocean. Christ, she’d never get a thing done if she lived in Hawaii. She would be easily lulled into the life of a beach bum. She took Chef’s journal with her. At least she could read it over and call it research while she was soaking up the rays. Tomorrow, she was scheduled to go deep into the forest to forage for mushrooms. Funny, when she thought of Hawaii, she didn’t think of hiking trails and mountains. But it seemed to have a little of everything. Beach. Mountain. Forest.

She thumbed through Chef’s book as she lay on her stomach, the sea air breezing over her skin. It was hard to concentrate. Was it the ocean calling to her? Was it the fact that Jackson was still in the hospital, lying there looking so horrible? She certainly wasn’t feeling like herself—maybe it was Chef’s death. Losing him brought back all the memories of losing her parents. And seeing Jackson lying in the hospital bed . . .

The truth was most of her life was about the work—Chef had pointed that out time and time again, and would often suggest she go home to Virginia to rest. But she rarely went home to Virginia anymore, since she lost her mother. She felt as if there really wasn’t a home to return to. Oh sure, she visited her brother and his family, which was fun. But still, it wasn’t home.

She stretched out on the beach, loving the heat, the sun, the sand.

Her waking moments were full of the addictive frenzy of her writing and the food. And then there was the sex. Was. She had never entertained any notions about love with Mark; they enjoyed one another. It had always been about sex and companionship. So, why should she feel so guilty? It wasn’t as if she actually had sex with Jackson. No. She was only thinking about it all the time. And mostly talking herself out of remembering the way his tongue sent her pulse racing when they kissed, his hands rubbing her feet, and the way she fit in his arms the night of the break-in. The way it felt like he was protecting her. Her. The woman who always prided herself on her independence. Maybe she was making too much of the working relationship thing. Maybe she should just sleep with him.

God knows she wanted to.

But then it would be all over the tabloids, she reminded herself. How embarrassing would that be? She was still uncertain about how her interrupted evening with Jackson was leaked on Twitter and then in the gossip pages. Okay, so her phone was tapped. Was that the leak? Or was it really the rakish Jackson? Of course, as she had gotten to know him, she was starting to see other parts of him—other than his extreme sexiness—and his extreme goofiness. She guessed it was a front—the way he slept with women and didn’t get close to anybody. Of course, she recognized it. But she was more discreet.

There was plenty on her mind, other than sex, which was unusual for her. Usually sex was lurking, always on her mind. The act of getting physical with someone was the one thing that gave her mind peace.

The loss of her friend Paul, the weirdness in Mexico and Honolulu, the almost touchable heat between her and America’s “most eligible bachelor” wormed through her brain and her heart. No wonder there wasn’t time to think of Mark—or to really officially break up with him, which she clearly needed to do.

Her eyes focused on the book. This mention of Chinese ginseng. . . Maeve noted it was a plant she saw over and over again in her studies. Always Chinese. Not American. Turns out they are very different plants with different chemistry and reactions in the body. She felt her eyes drooping and placed her head on her notebook. Just for a minute, she thought. Jet lag. She never got used to the time changes.

When she woke up, the sun looked like it was melting into the ocean; the sound of the waves and the cawing of birds plunged her into another kind of panic. Where was she? She heard the rustling of leaves, even though there was no wind. A thump of a foot. She sat up quickly. Was she alone here? She reached for and clutched the book to her chest, gathered up her things and shoved everything into her bag. The book—had it moved? Wasn’t it much farther away from her when she awoke? And jeez, what time was it? She quickly looked for her cell phone and couldn’t find it. She was certain it was there. Bother. Should she stand there looking through her bag like some tourist idiot and allow herself to be ogled? She decided not to and quickly tried to find the path to the house. But which direction had she come from?

She was still a bit hazy from her nap. She walked a few hundred feet to the left and still couldn’t see the house through the foliage. Hmmm. Well, it must be the other direction. Another thump of a foot.

Okay, this was supposed to be a private beach. Who could be in the stretch of forested space between the beach and the house? It must be a friend of Jack’s, she reasoned. Or someone who works for him. She tried to calm her beating heart.

As she walked, she suddenly saw the looming beach house in the distance. Okay. This was the right direction. As she turned to walk up the muddy-sandy path, she noticed a huge footprint. It hadn’t been made by someone barefoot. Looked like a boot print. Who would be wearing boots on the beach?

She clutched her beach wrap around her and walked to the house as quickly as she could.