Knock Off (13 page)

Why lie? “Sixty-one, give or take.”

He smiled beneath his polarized sunglasses. “The posted speed limit is forty-five.”

I sighed, then looked directly up at him. Well, directly at my own reflection, but that didn’t matter. “I had to go for it,” I admitted. “My mother can be a real . . . challenge when I’m late, which I am, so could you write my ticket quickly?”

He shrugged, “Please remain in your vehicle.” He clipped my license to his ticket book and walked to the back of my car. Drumming my fingers on the console, I kept one eye on the skinny cop. My stomach churned just thinking about the consequences of my actions. Not the ticket—I deserved that. But now I was not only going to
be
late for brunch, I’d probably get grilled into explaining
why.
If I was really unlucky, during the meal I’d be reminded of the time when she’d had to pay almost a thousand dollars in speeding fines on my behalf. The fact that I was sixteen at the time didn’t seem to matter; apparently that particular childhood infraction didn’t have an expiration date.

Officer Pencil Neck returned and recited my options. “If you wish to contest this ticket, as is your right under Florida statute—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Just let me sign and be on my way.” One minute and seventy-eight dollars later, I had the ticket tucked in my purse and was back on my way.

Ironhorse is a manicured, gated golf community bracketed between I-95 and the turnpike. I waved to the guard, who passed me through on sight, then checked the clock on the dash. Twenty minutes late was a lifetime in mother-years.

Making a quick right, then a left, I weaved through the foliage-lined parking area and grabbed the first open spot.

The minute I stepped out of the car, I smelled the scent of fresh-baked goods. Ironhorse had amazing desserts, and if I played my cards right, I’d be able to stick a few of their signature chocolate macaroons into my purse without my mother noticing. Maybe I could wrap them in my speeding ticket?

The country club is accessible by way of an awkward climb up a pretty steep, man-made walkway. It’s worth it, though, because the food is fabulous and the views of the golf course with its lagoons and colorful landscaping are stunning.

The fact that my mother has an equity membership to an exclusive golf club is the very definition of irony. It was the spoils of her second divorce. While the food is great, and they do throw nice parties, the truth is, she only wanted it to punish her soon-to-be ex. That was the true spirit of divorce, not that
whatever
Liam had going on with Beer Barbie.

I stepped into the lobby, smiling as I passed through the bar area toward the hostess. A small group of people were watching some sporting event on the television mounted discreetly off to one side. One woman waved to me. I returned the gesture even though I didn’t have the first clue who she was.

Peeking around the carving station, I saw my mother seated alone at the table, sipping a mimosa. To the uniniti-ated, she was the personification of pleasantry. She was, as always, beautiful. Her brown hair was pulled up in a perfect twist, save for a few soft tendrils left loose to soften the overall effect. Thanks to her years at the Met, my mother was an absolute artist when it came to cosmetics.

She kept herself in good shape, too. She followed a strict exercise regime, never allowing her size to creep above a six.

Sadly, the only thing we had in common was eye color, pale blue. So, with a fortifying breath, I asked the hostess to show me to the table. It felt a lot like an inmate asking the warden to show him to the gas chamber.

“Finley!” my mother exclaimed, mostly for the benefit of our fellow diners. Half rising from her chair, she offered me her cheek, which I dutifully kissed. Heavy Bal A Versailles vapors nearly knocked me to my knees.

She sat, giving me a good once-over in the process. “I could have easily made a later reservation.”

“Why?” I asked, thanking the waiter as he adjusted my seat.

“You would have had more time to do your hair.”

She shoots, she scores!
My hair looked fine, thank you, but I knew better than to trade barbs with the master. “I had some work to do this morning. A new case.”

“A new case of what?” she asked, lifting the menu I knew damned good and well she had memorized by now.

Herpes. No, Finley, don’t say it. It’s not worth it.
“A murder case.”

Mom reacted as if she’d been slapped. “You? Involved in a murder?”

“The investigation part, Mom. It’s not like I’m a suspect or anything.”

“Are you qualified to do something like this? Doesn’t one need some sort of education or training to investigate a serious crime?”

“I
have
an education.” I twisted and got the attention of the waiter, mouthing the words
Bloody Mary, strong,
practically pleading with my eyes.

“I meant a real one. Like law school.”

Under five minutes. Breaking the previous “Finley, you’re wasting your life” taunt record by more than a minute. “Maybe someday,” I hedged. It was easier than telling her it wasn’t going to happen and then listening to her opinions.

“Who was murdered?”

“Three ‘who’s,” I elaborated. I gave a vague rundown on the case, and to her credit and my surprise, my mother actually seemed mildly interested.

“I know Dr. Hall and his wife, Meredith. Lovely woman.”

My mother leaned across the table in a rare expression of consideration for others. “Though his practice must be struggling.”

“Why?”

“Well.” She paused while the waiter delivered my drink.

“They’re patrons. Have been for some time, and you know how desperately the Opera Society needs patrons? If you went to law school, you might earn enough money to make philanthropic donations just as Lisa does.”

How did we get from the Halls to my lack of an advanced
degree, to my sister’s perceived superiority all in one sentence? Amazing.
“Lisa and David are generous people.”

The fact that my sister’s fiancé comes from a family with more money than a Saudi principality didn’t hurt. The St.

Johns could give ten grand away every day for the rest of their lives and never notice it. I was sure David IV was smart enough to add my mother’s pet charities to his list.

The Opera Society of Palm Beach was Mom’s baby. Opera was the only thing I think she ever loved unconditionally.

“Why do you think Dr. Hall’s practice is in trouble?”

“I didn’t say trouble,” Mom amended as the waiter arrived.

“Have we decided?”

“Yes,” my mother answered. The fact that I hadn’t even touched the menu was of no consequence.

“It’s gotten so late, I think we’ll order lunch, so I’ll have the house salad, then red snapper, broiled, without the buerre blanc, please. Oh, and have the chef substitute steamed broccoli for the potato, and no rice.”

“Very good, and for you, miss?”

Rebellion bubbled up inside me. “I’d like the Caesar salad, please. Filet mignon, rare, extra béarnaise on the side. May I have the twice-baked potato with extra sour cream?”

“Thank you, ladies.”

“I’m glad you brought your appetite,” my mother remarked, her tone completely negating the marginal compliment.

“About Dr. Hall?” I suggested.

“Their donations have fallen off the past few months.”

“How many months?”

“Three, four maybe. The Society depends on the regular patrons. It’s quite a hardship when someone cuts off fund-ing without notice.”

“Just like that? Out of the blue?” I asked.

Mom nodded, shifting as the waiter served our salads.

“You’d think people would be more considerate, wouldn’t you?”

“Um, I guess,” I mumbled, trying to fit this new piece into my puzzle.

“Is your back bothering you?”

I peered up and met my mother’s gaze. “No, why?”

“The way you were slouching, I simply assumed you’d injured your back.”

I straightened immediately. “Sorry. How was your

cruise?”

“Lovely,” she said. “Europeans, mostly.”

“Any interesting people?”

Placing her fork on the edge of her plate, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small stack of photographs.

Though she’d spent nearly a month at sea—the Mediterranean, no less—the dozen pictures were all of men. “This is Philippe. He’s Belgian. He owns some sort of manufacturing plant in Ghent.”

I looked at Stepfather Candidate Number One. He was bald, with a snow-white beard and moustache. I’m not really into facial hair, so I subtracted a few points. He almost earned them back with his smile; it seemed genuine.

“This,” my mother said, passing me another photograph, “is Peitro, Pepe for short. He breeds polo ponies in Argentina. I invited him to visit the next time he’s in town.

He’s in the middle of a divorce.”

Handsome, in a dark and swarthy way. A rebounder

was never a good choice, though. Too unpredictable. Candidate Number Two wasn’t doing it for me, either.

By the time we finished eating, I had met eleven men from three continents. Philippe, Pepe, Gino—sounded way too much like names for poodles, if you asked me. Luckily, no one did.

I also got the update on Lisa and David IV’s nuptials.

They were still at the color-scheme-selection stage. My mother seemed quite excited that Lisa was leaning toward “bone and chalk.” Sounded a lot like a crime-scene outline to me, but I kept that to myself. Surely it would be an improvement over the last theme—moss and pumpkin— which in my book was just a fancy way of saying green and orange.

We ended with an air kiss and my mother’s offer to see if she could get me in to see her colorist, unless—her words— brassy highlights were currently the vogue.

And I’d forgotten to snag the good cookies. Crap.

Normally I rebound from a visit with my mother by restoring my sense of self-worth with a glass of wine and some online shopping. But thanks to AfterAll, I wasn’t in any huge hurry to return to my apartment, or my laptop.

A visit to The Gardens Mall seemed like a decent alternative.

I was flush, thanks to direct deposit, and I hadn’t yet tested the new colors at MAC and Sephora. Sunday afternoon was a great time to visit the upscale shopping mall, but April was a lousy sale month. As I handed my keys and a few dollars to the valet—yes, the mall has valet parking—I decided that between my mother and all the work I’d been doing, I’d earned the right to splurge.

The mall is anchored by Nordstrom’s, Macy’s, Lord & Taylor, Bloomingdale’s and Sears—though I wouldn’t complain if they tossed Sears and welcomed Neiman’s. I don’t foresee a time when I’ll need any Craftsman tools, but no one consulted me before selecting retailers.

The interior has an open, atrium feel to it—lots of sky-lights, fountains, and tiled planters. At Christmas they rig up a bubble machine, creating fake snow to float down on stunning holiday displays.

With Easter approaching, the decorations are all pas-tels, with pretty, delicate eggs hidden among the plants. As I meandered past small specialty shops, glancing at window displays, I was assaulted by a variety of odors—chocolate from the gourmet kitchen place, gardenia from the bath shop, and heavy colognes from the spritz Nazis patrolling the cosmetic counters of the department stores. I tend to take a detour through costume jewelry to avoid the unwelcomed spray-first, ask-second tactics employed by the perfume reps.

I was still purchaseless when I took the elevator up to the second floor. A first for me. Nothing was calling to me.

Maybe I was coming down with something. The best I could muster was a trip over to Tiffany’s to visit a ring I’d been coveting for some time. Whoever came up with the idea of calling some engagement rings “right-hand rings”

should get a huge bonus. Yes, I know it’s a sales tool, but it’s effective. I don’t feel like a complete loser lusting after a ring that doesn’t require boyfriend validation to own.

The only thing standing between me and the right-hand ring is thirteen thousand dollars. Still, I enjoyed the ritual of having the sales associate lift it from the case, lay it on the black velvet cloth, then allow me to slip it on my finger.

Nothing sparkles like this 1.7 carat, FL-IF–clarity, E-colored round diamond. Extending my arm, I admired the ring for several minutes, watching the reflected light prism little rainbows around the store. With a returning-to-reality sigh, I took it off and handed it back.

I’d earned the right to splurge, not completely ruin my already stretched credit. Needing to buy something, I went down to Victoria’s Secret and found a darling pink polka-dot cami and boxer PJ set with matching robe. By paying full price, I got a free sample of their lip plumper, so my bargain needs were met.

I picked up a few new cosmetics, then checked my

watch. The mall was due to close soon, but I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I called Sam’s number; he still wasn’t back.

While I wasn’t particularly hungry, I decided I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for some lettuce wraps at P.F. Chang’s.

Besides, if I dallied long enough, Sam might get back from the He-She trip, and then I could go to my apartment without the possibility of wetting myself if my fear bubbled back to the surface.

I ate the lettuce wraps, even nursed a martini, but more speed-dialed calls confirmed that Sam still wasn’t home. It was dark out now, and unless I was going to offer to wash dishes, I needed to leave.

Since I’d occupied the table for the better part of two hours, I left the server a very generous tip. Between that, the jammies, the second tip to the valet, and the speeding ticket, it had been a pretty damned expensive Sunday.

I headed toward the mall exit, fully intending to buck up and face my fears. Reaching the intersection, I made an impromptu left turn from the right-hand lane—a move not appreciated by my fellow drivers. Every now and again I seem to forget that I have a triple-digit IQ. This was definitely one of those times. If Palm Beach County has a bad section, I suppose Riviera Beach would be it.

Well, some parts of it. More specifically, the part where Charlie’s Garage was located. Yes, this would have been better during the day.