Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) (5 page)

Morgan turned to Catherine and complimented her on her appearance, “Wow, you look beautiful, Catherine.” And he took her hand and moved into her, giving her a friendly peck on her cheek. And as he did so, her fresh scent perfume enveloped him momentarily, “Um, nice scent.” He whispered. Then waved his arm invitingly toward the limo’s door.

As Catherine stepped out to the car, Morgan turned to her roommate and quietly – with an innuendo attached – announced, “Don’t wait up...” Then, feeling giddy with his own elevated expectations, he followed her flowing skirt into the black-leathered interior of the upper crust.

Catherine had been in limousines before, yet not quite as romantic as this one. The scent from the fresh cut flowers was beautifully overwhelming, and the iced bottle of Brut Champagne with two matching crystal goblets was quite the orchestrated sight, with a soft piano etude playing quietly in the background her smile and dimples were wonderfully working overtime.

Morgan stepped in, “Well, I’m sure glad I didn’t bring the Austin, Catherine... I love your dress.”

“Thank you. Your car would have been okay, Jim. But this is so cool. I never expected...this,” as she waved her arm around the interior. Then added, “It’s just fabulous,” and she leaned into him and kissed him emotionally on his happy-go-lucky face.

Morgan’s own dimples emerged as the Lincoln pulled out into the real world of hustle and bustle evening traffic. Taking Catherine’s hand, “I’m so glad we’re doing this. Thanks for coming out with me.” And she smiled, alluringly, a most beautiful non-verbal response.

“I’m ready for a glass of that Champagne, Mr. Morgan.”

* * *

Ames knocked and without waiting for a response, walked into his director’s office. Phillip Annerson, a balding, heavyset ex-football player, pointed to a chair next to his paper laden desk, “What do you have, Ames?”

“Ah, we’ve picked up on a call to Margolova, four a.m., in Tehran. They have Morgan in Iowa? And they’re asking for a tail to be placed on a ... Catherine Harris. Information on her is sketchy but the Arabs are calling her a spy. She’s clean as far as we can tell. We’re running a background check on her right now. The guys think Margolova has a hit out on her, but they’re guessing.”

“What’s Morgan doing in Iowa?” Annerson scratched his head, “Have we verified this, Arnold?”

“No. Oh shit! I almost forgot... Morgan and North both have reservations at the Four Seasons in Chicago, for tonight. Morgan rented a limousine for 250 dollars. And he charged 1,500 to a detective agency. And, he spent 1,100 dollars at a gun shop. This was all done today, sir. I got this from running a check on their credit card usage.”

“What did he buy at the gun shop? Do you know? And... Doesn’t he have a Federal license to carry?” Annerson was tired. So much was going on all at once. He looked at the photo of his wife beyond all the secret documents spread out before him and made a huge decision. He decided to retire – right after this case.

He looked at Ames, as his replacement, “Know how to notify Homeland Security?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Know how to get the FBI to follow this Harris woman?”

“Yes sir.”

Annerson stood. ”Okay Ames, you’ve got the ball. I’m calling it a night. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”

It was Ames’ finest hour, he was now in charge, and he went back to his cubicle and began organizing – himself.

* * *

The black Town Car pulled up in front of the Morgan residence and the black suited woman driver opened Eunice’s door and lent her an assisted hand up. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.” And she walked briskly up to the double mahogany doors and rang the doorbell.

“Eunice! What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Come in.” And she did. And the two women hugged in an awkward friendship, an awkward alliance that went back six tumultuous years.

“I’m looking for Jim. Is he here?”

“No Eunice, he’s gone out to dinner, you’ve missed him by twenty minutes. He’s dining at the Four Seasons, with a new friend, her name’s Catherine.”

“Oh. I didn’t know he was seeing someone. I came here to offer him his job back. I did call, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”

“I passed your messages to him, Eunice. He said he would call you. Would you like some tea, dear?”

“No. I have an early flight tomorrow,” she white lied, not wanting to -- just visit -- with his parents, “...and, I do have another call to make.”

They hugged again, and Eunice went out to her hired car, “Back to the hotel. I’m finished...” And she looked out at the up-scale homes on Elm Street, western Chicago, and wondered if she could ever fit into a suburban setting. And then she thought about her relationship with Jim Morgan and pretty soon she had the doorman at the Seasons opening her car door and helping her step out. And she felt a hunger pang, and she felt a wave of remorse, one because she hadn’t eaten since leaving D.C., and the latter because she could never forgive Morgan for his infidelity after he had asked her to marry him some three years earlier. And as the elevator raced up to her room on the thirty-first floor tears welled in her eyes because she still loved him, and now, she knew, he was downstairs dining -- with a Catherine. 

* * *

The wine was the sweetest wine that had ever passed between Catherine’s sumptuous lips and she had to force herself to say, “No,” as Jim began to pour her a third, Image’s Crystal flute. The Champagne had already entered those protective portals of her agile writer’s mind and she was suddenly cognizant of herself growing slightly giddy.

She caught herself touching his arm, a spontaneous action, and wondered if she’d recall this action/reaction when she next wrote a romantic passage. And it ran through her mind to pull out her notebook and make a bold annotation – in red. But she didn’t, and unlike her usual propriety-first nature, she let herself go with the beautiful flow that she was experiencing and allowed things to just happen.

Morgan asked her about the conference, “What did you learn today, Catherine?”

The small talk had begun and she would normally love to purge her every experience, but she was in a flowered limo with a handsome man sipping fine Champagne and the only thing in her mind was how she might make these moments last forever, right on into infinity, “Oh, we had an interesting discussion on adverbs,” and she immediately knew she did not want to be discussing LY words with those sultry blue eyes studying every inch of her face as she spoke.

But she had the stage, and used it to her feminine advantage, playfully, “She touched his face.” She said in a writer’s voice. Then reached out and tapped Morgan on the nose. Then she repeated the sentence adding an adverb, “She reached out and touched his face, softly,” and she did, and it made Jim Morgan flush ever so observantly. And then she repeated a third time, with a small change in the adverb, “She reached out and touched his face, lovingly.” And she did, and it made Morgan laugh aloud and he reached her hand – quite gently.

Morgan then offered, “He reached her hand, romantically,” and they both found the developed game quite amusing.

Catherine not wanting to be out done, said, “She placed her hand inside his opened shirt and felt his collar bone, wontedly. Wan tingly? Wantonly?” And they laughed openly and uninhibited as they jovially swayed around the city oblivious to the world around them.

When Morgan placed his hand on her knee, a natural action as he filled her second flute, she mentally wished she had worn a shorter skirt and it titillated her when he indeed did a short, moving, playful upward push of the soft fabric, and wondered if it was because he wanted to feel the flesh of her leg or if it were simply caused by an errant sway of the limo.

And in Jim Morgan’s mind a new sentence formed, one that he was not going to say aloud, no. And, as he ran through the sentence he could not come up with an adequate adverb to include it in their -- getting to know you tête-à-tête. And the limo pulled up to a stop and the Four Season’s doorman graciously opened the passenger’s black windowed door.

Morgan walked around to the driver’s window and handed him a fifty-dollar bill, “We’re going to be a couple of hours. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

Chapter Eight

When one dines in the Four Seasons Hotel, a magical aura permeates the atmosphere. Opulence is a nice descriptive word, and elegance works well, too. Yet, there is another element functioning there that is hidden from the eye. The ambiance of the multiple waiters, the open desire of the staff to ensure that you are there for them to serve, you; a composite of subtle nuances: fresh cut flowers, linen napkins spread on your lap, real crystal and quality dinnerware; silver, silverware; and the lighting... One might wonder if the influx of photons was pre-measured for each and every individual guest. The architect surely elaborated every table and chair position before his drawings were immersed in their ammonia based developing solutions. And the final interior designers surely traveled the world to collate the best functional colors which relax the mere mortal human who is out to satisfy a culinary need -- a wonderfully pleasant dinner.

There are no prices posted on their menu. Surely intimidating to a few conservatives, but no one should have to consider the choice of a desired meal because it says 39.95 at the end of a mouth-watering description, like: an eight-ounce rib-eye steak au jus, served with a batch of chef-seasoned asparagus shoots.

Jim Morgan ordered a bottle of Merlot, one that he personally liked. When it arrived, he smelled the cork and approved the delivery as a satisfactory bottle with no hint of vinegar and no cork chips floating about in the crystal. The wine was left to breathe as appetizers were spread abundantly about the table. The tuxedoed waiters insured everything was in reach of Catherine who obviously knew how to enjoy their show with a candid expression of uninhibited pleasure.

“Would you like for me to order for you, Catherine?” Morgan asked as a courtesy.

She, reading the menu, and tasting the assorted condiments embellished before her, “No. But out of curiosity, what do you suggest?”

“The Lobster tail. It’s excellent. I’m going to have a 12-ounce Porterhouse, medium rare, with a double re-stuffed baked potato.”

She dipped a piece of cauliflower into the creamy French Cheddar, “Sounds divine. Order that...with... Scalloped potatoes, and... Iced tea.” She was indeed having fun. Her eyes sparkled bright as she looked at him and smoothly handed over her menu.

As the wine was being poured, she asked, “You were going to tell me why you’re still living with your parents, Jim. Why is that?” She wasn’t looking at him when she asked; she had her tiny fork out and was lifting a candied radish from its silver server.

“Yeah, it was a little loud in Tommy Guns. Wasn’t it? Well, I’ve only been living with my parent’s for about three months, or so. I spent the last winter in a cabin up in the Catskill Mountains in New York, writing... Before that, I was down in Madagascar on an Engineering Job. Before that...”

Catherine interrupted, “What on earth were you doing in Madagascar? That’s a third world backward island nation, isn’t it? Jesus Murphy!”

“It was an Engineering job. I went down there to find a tortoise. Actually, I led a group of scientists there.” Morgan sipped the Merlot, “Before that I was up on the North Slopes of Alaska looking for oil.” Morgan paused to see if she was listening.

Catherine dipped a carrot into a dish of mustard sauce, focusing on her appetizer, she stated, “I’m listening, Jim. Go ahead.”

“Before Alaska, right after I graduated from Purdue, I was working in the Aeronautics Industry in Southern California.”

Catherine, contemplatively looked at him, “It sounds to me like you’re just visiting with your parents, not living with them.” She reached a warm loaf of bread and broke off an end. Scanning the table for butter, she asked, “Have you ever been married?”

“No. I was engaged for a few hours. But it didn’t work out.” He was going to mention Sophie but caught himself and decided not to, at least -- not right then.

“How about you, Catherine? Ever been married?”

“No. Mister Right hasn’t shown his face, as yet.” She tasted her Merlot. “Um. This is delicious.”

Morgan lifted his glass and made a toast, “To an unfolding feast!” They clinked glasses, and downed the tasty spirit. Then they both looked at each the other with mutual warmth and expectation, a look that promised much more to come, much more than mere surf and turf eatables...

* * *

Meanwhile, on the 31st floor, Eunice was on the phone with the Honorable Senator Alberquist, “No John, I haven’t talked with him. He hasn’t returned my calls and he’s out to dinner right now with some new flame. It seems that I’ve been replaced.”

“I’ll call him for you, Eunice. I should have taken that responsibility from the get-go. Do you want me to have him contact you there? I still want him down in Brazil as your employee.”

“I have an idea, John. He’s dining here...at the Four Seasons. I think I can walk in on his dinner. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll pass it back to you. What do you think?”

The Senator chuckled at her offer, “Aw Eunice, what would the world do without women like you?”

“I’ll call you back in an hour. Will you be up?”

“I’ll hold the phone until it rings, Eunice. Good luck.”

Eunice looked at her reflection in the dresser mirror, she was going on thirty-three and she didn’t look a day over... “Hmmm.” She fluffed her hair and grabbed up her purse, “Okay Mr. Mogins, let’s see what kind of bimbo you’re dating,” and she headed off to the seventh floor – on a mission.

 As Eunice passed the marble fountains outside the restaurant entrance she felt a wave of nausea pass over her. She could see some diners but couldn’t pick out Morgan and his friend. She’d have to enter and walk around. Rounding a corner she spotted him, four tables in and on her right. She knew he hadn’t seen her. She backed up a couple steps and stood, watching them interact. Morgan was smoking, and she thought, “...one of his damn Camels. What is she doing? Ah, removing her ... Lobster bib?”