Vacation to Die For (31 page)

No one is supposed to know that Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, is here on Fantasy Island, at Eden Key. But hey, unlike some of the bimbos lounging around the pool who think the term “foreign relations” means a night ending in a walk of shame spent with some guy who pays in Euros, I’d know that distinctive sneer anywhere—

Not to mention the bling he’s sporting—the 2005 Super Bowl ring he allegedly lifted from the New England Patriots’ owner, Robert Kraft. 

Okay, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt when he says he didn’t take it. I still find it hard to believe that he found the time to play pro football in 2004 
and
 be the prime minister of Russia.

Apparently I’m not the only one who isn’t buying his bullshit. No other woman around the pool is falling for the middle-aged Russian blowhard who’s flashing the notorious ring and boasting about the fifty-yard pass he threw, with only twenty-three seconds to go in the fourth quarter to win the game.

Now it’s my turn to win one for the Gipper.

First, I take the chaise next to his. Next, I pull off my flimsy bikini cover-up with a stretch that puts my Victoria’s Secret’s add-two-cups bikini halter top front and center to his sight line.

By the time I deliver my innocent request for an all-over rubdown with my Hawaiian Tropic Deep Tanning lotion, he’s drooling.

When he asks where I’m from, I tell him I’m a Georgia Rebel. He frowns at first, but then he realizes I mean the Deep South. 

When I ask him about his accent, he claims he’s from Minneapolis. 

He wishes.

He’s slathering oil on my legs when his cell phone rings. He feels safe enough with this little hick from the sticks to talk in his native tongue. My Russian may be rusty, but I know the term 
chyort voz’mi
! Let me give you a hint. It is a universal one, expressing shock at something totally out of your control, including the bodily function just declared. In this case it is shouted angrily, along with the name “Teddy Grodin.”  

So I guess it’s official: word has leaked that Teddy now swims with the fishes after his ill-conceived jump from that private jet ride we generously offered him.

Putin is too angry to notice me slipping away.

He’s also too upset to realize his Super Bowl ring has come right off his finger, thanks to my super-slippery suntan oil and a little sleight of hand.

By the time I make it to the tarmac, Jack has already boarded the plane. I fairly run up the air stairs, not because Putin’s dogs are on my tail, but because there’s no place like home.

Now, repeat that three times…

Chapter 20

Check-Out Time

It’s inevitable that such a relaxing vacation must come to an end. When it's time to check out of your hotel, here are some smart tips:

First, take any free toiletries. The hotels presume you will do so, which is why they put their logo on all those cute little bottles. That said, cleaning out the maid’s cart is not good form. However, leaving her a tip makes you an angel.

Next, check your bill carefully. Do you see any meals charged to your room, that you don’t remember? How about porn? How about negligees from the gift shop? Hmmm. Maybe your boyfriend wasn’t “out on the golf course” after all.

And finally, check around the room for all your belongings. Look under your pillow, your bed, and through your bed sheets. When doing so, if you find a thong that isn’t yours, it’s logical to jump to the conclusion that your boyfriend has been playing off on you—

But don’t.

At least, not until you’ve tortured him sufficiently. By taking the hotel iron and applying it to his backside, you’ll give him something to remember you by, always—a brand that painfully shows every other girl that his ass is yours for life.

Just another fun day in the neighborhood. 

With no clouds in the azure sky, a faint whisper of a breeze nudges a few of the hot pink petals from the bougainvillea vine clamoring up the lattice fence surrounding the Hilldale Country Club pool. They drift skyward, only to waft down into the tot pool, where Trisha and the other little ones try to catch them before they fall.

Penelope and her besties—Tiffy Swift and the unfortunately named Hayley Coxhead—are sitting catty-corner from me, only six lounge chairs away. And yet they chose to ignore my welcoming wave. I guess Penelope is still angry that Cheever came home without his flip-flops, and sporting a boob tattoo on his butt.

I won’t dare tell her he almost came home without a toe, or that the tattoo is a whole lot better than a croc bite. 

The pool is so jam-packed that at first I don’t see what I’m looking for: the heads of Jeff, Cheever and Morton, who for the last hour have been lurking just beneath the water’s surface, watching for the bikini bottoms of Hilldale’s 
teen fatales
.

In unison, Hayley, Tiffy and Penelope’s heads tilt up, as if drawn by some imaginary tractor beam. The tips of their pink tongues peek out of plumped lips, in anticipation—

Of what?

The sun is so bright that even with sunglasses I must shield my eyes in order to see the object of their interest.

 Ah, I’m not surprised—Jack. 

His biceps pump like pistons and the muscles roll under his wide, tan shoulders as he climbs the ladder of the tallest diving board. Once at the top, he centers himself on it. I envision him tuning out the shouts and murmurs of the throngs of bathers in the recreational pool next door.  

His eyes are focused straight ahead. His toes arch and his calves flex in tandem, making the board bounce ever so slightly. Then he heads to the back of the board. Turning around again, he runs four steps down the board before taking a leap—

Of faith? No. Jack is too self-assured of his abilities for that.

While high in the air, he raises his arms and circles them backward. By the time they are back over his head, he has folded himself into a perfect jack knife—

—Before straightening up and cutting the water cleanly, like a knife piercing butter.

Hilldale’s mean mommies melt back into their chaises with awed sighs.

“Beautiful,” Abu murmurs.

I look up at him. A portable ice cream freezer is strapped over his Good Humor uniform. He raises his voice to say: “Here’s the Strawberry Shortcake bar you ordered.”

I nod, but I frown because I know the treat comes with a cost beyond its three-dollar price tag. We’re being called up for another mission, which is written on the inside of the wrapper.

As I read it, my eyes grow big. It’s a doozy, alright.

By the time I look up again, Jack is pulling himself out of the pool. Water droplets glisten all over his well-oiled body. The ones clinging to the hairs on his chest sparkle, like tiny silver bells. The way the eyes of all the poolside moms follow as he moves past them, you’d think he emits a silent high-pitched sound, like a dog whistle.

Trisha jumps out of the pool and runs to him. He picks her up as he saunters my way. 

Janie runs after them. She’d much rather hang with us than with her latest nanny, who has turned the Breck Mansion into party central.

When the puma is away, the kittens will play.

Jack stands over me, watching me lick the melting ice cream. If I think that putting the whole thing in my mouth looks seductive, he sets me straight when he bends down to wipe away a splotch of strawberry on my cheek. “You’re a mess, but I love you anyway.”

“You’ll be a mess, too when you hear what Ryan needs us to do next week—on the first day of school, no less! Cover a possible assassination attempt on one of the presidential primary candidates.”

He plops down on the chair beside me. “No rest for the weary, is there?”

Trisha has brought her bag of treasures to the pool with her. She holds Mandrake’s conch shell to her ear and shakes it hard, then stares down at it.

“Mommy, look! The shell has a message, just like a fortune cookie.” She hands it to me.

Strange.  A sliver of folded paper is now visible, coiled in the upper ear of the shell.

I pull it out and unfold it. The note is handwritten, not with pencil or ink but with dye from a plant. It reads:

NSA – BIN 4265

I hand it over to Jack. “What do you think this means?”

He stares down at it. “I think we may have found the missing plague samples.” 

He grabs his cell phone from my new beach bag and hops up out of the chair. Each purposeful stride is scrutinized by our neighbors, who presume he’s in the middle of a red hot business negotiation.

If only his job were so pat, so safe.

Ten minutes later, he’s back. He’s all smiles. “Ryan is calling the client, to see if it means anything to him. One thing is certain—Mandrake was determined that the plague vaccine wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.” 

We both look up as a stanza of 
Easy Street
 blares from Janie’s cell phone. “Oh! Mummy is calling,” the little girl squeals. She hits the TALK button. 

Even with the phone at Janie’s ear, I can hear Babette’s imperious voice. But it’s Janie’s face that makes the greatest impact on me. At first, her eyes open wide in shock. A moment later her little pillowy lips turn down sadly. Finally, she nods listlessly and whispers, “I’m so happy for you, Mummy. Congratulations.” 

After clicking off, she drops the cell into her tiny purse.

Her head stays down until she can smile again. Still, she can’t hide the tears in her eyes. 

Gently with her thumb, Trisha wipes away her friend’s tear. “What’s wrong, Janie?”

“My mother got married today.” The nonchalance in Janie's voice sounds forced. “She never thought she would. She’s afraid men would be after her money.”

I can imagine her saying that—albeit not to a six-year-old. 

I bend down so that I’m face to face with the little girl. “I’m sure your mother has found it lonely this past year. And since her new husband, Mr. Chiffray, has money, too, she must feel he loves her for all the right reasons.”

 “But what if he 
doesn’t
 love her?”

“Only time will tell if that’s the case,” I reason.

She nods uncertainly, as if accepting a death sentence. Finally she sighs. “Can we go home now?”

She’ll get no argument from me. 

It’s been a long day. 

And tomorrow is another day—hopefully, again not with the Quorum.

Babette and Lee Chiffray’s wedding reception has all of our Hilldale neighbors in a tizzy. In widowhood, she kept to herself. Bereavement calls and visits were ignored. Condolence cards weren’t opened. Casseroles, left on the front entrance of her palatial mansion to give her solace, were pawned off on the help.

The latter had more to do with her strict Size Zero dieting regimen than with her grieving process. 

I don’t blame her. It’s hard to mourn a rapist. 

At least, now she’s found someone to share her billions. 

Everyone in town wants to meet the lucky guy. Unfortunately, he’s been in the  study, on a business call, since the event started. 

The invitation said garden party, but this is no mere weenie roast. Butlers in white tie and tuxes pass platters laden with creative canapés topped with slivers of roasted vegetables and savory meats.

On a stadium-sized backlit screen, pictures from the elopement rotate on a loop. Truly, it was a grand tour: The wedding took place in Venice. Afterward they visited Paris, London, and Lake Como. 

Janie stayed home and cried her eyes out.

I hope Lee’s sensitive side picks up on her trepidation. If not, then he isn’t the man I thought he was.

Babette’s guests wear chic sundresses—Escada in linen, Kate Spade in eyelet, and Cavalli silks. Their hats are worthy of Ascot. 

And alas, it seems that envy never goes out of fashion. 

Still, no one outdoes the new bride. Her dress—short and virginal white—is a mist of tulle over a slim, skimming bodice. Her matching hat sports a tiny veil that could pass as a white spider’s web. 

I wonder: who was predator, and who was prey?

Janie’s ensemble is a tiny replica of her mother’s. While most of her little friends turn cartwheels on a lawn as plush as velveteen, their little hostess slumps morosely to one side. Trisha, a true friend, stands stoically at her friend’s side, but her mouth is turned down at the ends.