Olive and Let Die (2 page)

TWO

“No need to get nasty, Georgie.”

Really? I had eighteen years of pent-up resentment and I definitely felt the need to be nasty.

“Couldn't you have given me some warning before you just showed up here? Maybe an e-mail? A phone call?”

“And don't call me Shirley,” she said, her voice low, as she cut her eyes to the other patrons in the restaurant. She smiled and wiggled her fingers at one table.

Great. Now she was a comedian as well as an actor.

“Fine,
Melanie
. Why are you here?”

Melanie turned to her assistant, who was watching our exchange with interest. “Be a good girl and run over to the drugstore. I need a Kit-Kat.”

“But you haven't even had dinner yet,” the young woman pointed out.

“Last time I checked, Caitlyn,” she said frostily, “I sign your
paychecks. Or at least my accountant signs your paychecks. I want a Kit-Kat
now.
” Caitlyn dropped her phone into her oversized bag and walked away, leaving her salad untouched.

Was that display of power intended for me? I was unimpressed.

“You have a nice little place here,” Melanie said. “Do you own it?” She looked at her fingernails and frowned. I followed her eyes to a small chip in the polish on her ring finger.

I gritted my teeth. She'd hit a nerve, almost certainly intentionally. If she'd had the resources to find me, not that that would have been difficult, she would have easily learned that I only managed this place. The historic Bonaparte House was owned by my mother-in-law, Sophie. Now that my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Spiro, had moved out to be with his true love, the guy who ran the tattoo shop down the street, I was in a tenuous situation. Sophie loved me, and I loved her back, but this arrangement couldn't go on forever. Especially now that Jack Conway had entered my life. I was doing my best to convince Sophie to sell me the building and the business, but so far she hadn't budged.

“Well, gosh, no I don't. I work and live here with the woman who took me in after I was abandoned by my mother.”

Melanie winced, just a little, then shot back. “Don't you have a husband? A daughter?”

I was done. “You know what?” I whispered. “My life stopped being your business twenty years ago. Just tell me why you're here so I can get on with it.”

At that moment Caitlyn came back and set half a dozen candy bars on the table, then plunked herself down in her chair. Melanie should have sent her on a longer unnecessary
errand than just across the street. Caitlyn started in on her salad, which was now soggy from having sat for too long in the dressing. She forked up a limp piece of lettuce and frowned. I signaled for Rhonda to come over. “Bring a couple of fresh salads, please, and tell Dolly to hold up these dinners for a few minutes.” She nodded and whisked away the plates.

“Well?” I glared at Melanie.

She made an attempt to raise an eyebrow at me, but she appeared to be too Botoxed to be able to accomplish that maneuver anymore. She gave an almost imperceptible nod to Caitlyn, who had pulled out her phone and was again typing furiously into it, oblivious.
Later
, she mouthed. Her mouth didn't seem to work quite right either.

Fine
. I mouthed back. “Where are you staying?” I asked aloud.

“We're staying at the Spa. On Valentine Island.”

My friend Liza ran an exclusive spa on an island just a short boat ride from the mainland, catering to the very rich and very famous. Sometimes in the early spring, when we had not yet opened for the season, or in the late fall, when we closed for the winter, Liza would treat me to a world-class pampering session. Right about now I longed for a hot stone massage and a soak in one of her special relaxation tubs. I could almost smell the fragrant herbs sprinkled on the warm water. Valentine Island, take me away.

“And how long will you be here?” I tried to keep my tone neutral.

“I'm booked at the Spa for a week, perhaps two.” Two fresh salads appeared, and she forked up some greens,
wrapping her unnaturally plump lips around the utensil carefully so as not to smudge her lipstick. “The boat is coming at eight o'clock. I'm going to send Caitlyn on ahead to make sure the rooms are satisfactory.” The assistant nodded. “I believe I'll look around the shops until the next boat comes at nine o'clock,” she said, looking pointedly at me.

I nodded to show I understood, then got up. “Enjoy your dinners. They should be out shortly. By the way, there's a jewelry shop just down the street you might want to check out.” I don't know why I played along with her little game. It wasn't like I owed her anything. But she owed me, at the very least, an explanation, and I didn't want to alienate her before I had a chance to confront her. After I had my answers, well, she was fair game.

A woman from table six made a beeline for Melanie. She held out a pen and a piece of cloth—one of my table napkins—and asked Melanie for her autograph.

It was a short walk out of the dining room and down the hall to my office. I closed the heavy wooden door, none too gently, and unlocked the deep bottom drawer of my desk. I pulled out a plastic cup and a bottle of expensive Merlot purloined from the wine cellar, and poured myself a couple of swallows. I rummaged around in the drawer and came up with a bar of dark chocolate, peeled back the foil, and broke off a big square, which melted deliciously on my tongue. A few deep breaths, and my mood improved somewhat.

I'd actually dreamed of this day, the day my mother would come back into my life. I had several different versions of the meeting. In one, I'd lay into her, never let her
get a word in edgewise, blast her for everything I was worth, say everything I'd been saving up for all these years, maybe even slap her! Then I'd walk away, leaving her standing there openmouthed. In another, we'd sit down and calmly discuss what had happened, we'd cry, she'd apologize profusely, she'd reveal that she had a terminal wasting disease, I would magnanimously forgive her, and we'd go on to have a mature and loving relationship for the two weeks or so she had left to live. But never in a million years had I pictured this scenario. My mother was a television star? I only occasionally watched the show, but I was no stranger to it. She looked very different, and she sounded very different from when I'd known her. From when she'd been my mother.

Melanie, or Shirley as she'd been then, hadn't actually been a horrible mother as I was growing up. I had no father, or at least I didn't know his name, but I was hardly the only kid at Roswell P. Flower Elementary School who didn't have one. Mom was tough but mostly fair. When I reached my teens, I realized that she was detaching. She was home less and less, and as long as I didn't get into trouble at school, she pretty much left me to my own devices. She didn't care much about grades, never had, but I managed to do well enough without or in spite of her lack of encouragement. Once I graduated and had secured the waitressing job and an apartment over Fat Max's Bar with four other girls, it was only a couple of weeks until she said good-bye, riding off with some guy she barely knew to California. She never sent money, sent a postcard once. She'd sold the house, left me her junker car, and was gone.

I drank down the last of the wine, considered pouring more, but corked the bottle and put it away, since I was technically still on duty. I ate another square of chocolate, looked at the remainder longingly, but rewrapped it and dropped it back in the drawer. What could she possibly want now? I'd made one attempt to find her when my daughter, Callista, was born. But it wasn't as easy to find people then, before the World Wide Web became mainstream in everyone's lives, and I hadn't wanted to spend the money on a private investigator. Had I ever heard about Melanie Ashley having a family? She would have been only thirty-six when she left, and she must have gotten her gig on
The Desperate and the Defiant
shortly after that. Did I have a half sibling or two out there somewhere that she hadn't bothered to tell me about? Bitter? Yes, I guess I was.

A knock sounded at my door. “Come in,” I called.

Dolly, our cook and general right hand, opened the door. “Sophie sent me to find out if the tramp left yet?”

The tramp. Yeah, that about summed it up on a number of levels. “She should be finishing up soon. Want me to get her autograph for you?” Not that I wanted anything more to do with Ms. Melanie/Shirley than I had to, but Dolly wouldn't be caught dead up in the dining rooms.

“Naw,” she said. “I don't care about them soaps. Now, if it was one of them WWE wrestlers or maybe Dale Junior, that'd be different.” Her eyes went a little dreamy.

I glanced at my watch: seven forty. Caitlyn would be leaving for the boat soon. “Tell Sophie I've got a headache, will you? See if she can close up tonight.”

“She ain't gonna be happy,” Dolly said.

“I know, but I need to go lie down.”

Dolly looked at me skeptically. “If you'd switch to real booze instead of that red wine you drink when you're upset, you wouldn't get headaches, you know. But I'll tell her.” She paused. “You want me to sneak upstairs and turn on your television and lock your door?”

“Would you?”

“No problem.” She waggled an eyebrow. “Have fun with that Captain Jack.”

My heart gave a little flutter. I sincerely wished I
was
going to meet Jack somewhere. Dolly closed the door and I grabbed my purse. I took off my apron and tossed it onto the filing cabinet, then out the window into the back parking lot I went.

I reached Roger Shawcross's Jewelry Shoppe and ducked inside. No Melanie yet, but my watch said it was just eight o'clock now. I fingered some lovely hand-hammered silver earrings and chose a pair, plunking them down on the counter. “What brings you here on a work night, Georgie?” Roger asked, placing them into a pretty green box.

“Uh, I needed to pick up a gift for Dolly. It's her birthday,” I lied.

“Again? Isn't that the second one this summer?”

I laughed. “Oh, you know Dolly. She actually gets younger every birthday. It's a pretty good system.” I pulled out my wallet and laid down some bills for the earrings. Most of us local businesspeople try to pay cash with each other as a professional courtesy.

“Want me to wrap that for you?” I looked around. Still no Melanie.

“Sure, that would save me some time.”

Roger headed into the back room, presumably for wrapping supplies. The door chimed and Melanie blew in.

“It's about time,” I said.

“You should be thanking me,” she retorted. “I just signed seventeen autographs and promised to come back to your restaurant tomorrow night if people wanted to bring copies of my autobiography.”

I seemed to recall something about her autobiography coming out earlier this summer. “I don't suppose the fact that you have a daughter is in there anywhere?”

She flushed. “No, I don't suppose it is. You have to understand. These things are ghostwritten. It's mostly all fiction. God knows I wish I actually
had
had the one-night stand with Jon Bon Jovi.”

“I don't have to understand anything.” Roger returned and handed me the gift-wrapped box. He stared at Melanie, as if trying to place her. “Roger, this is Melanie Ashley. The famous television star? She's looking for something really unique. Something
expensive
. I know she'd like to buy it directly from you. And pay cash.” I smiled pleasantly at my mother.

Roger thought for a moment. “I know! How long will you be in town? I'll make you something one of a kind if you'll be here for a couple of days. Silver or gold?”

“Oh, gold, definitely,” I said. “Make it eighteen carat.”

Melanie gave me a subtle jab in the ribs. “Yes, make it a bracelet, something absolutely unique. I or my assistant will be in to pick it up.”

“Super!” I said. “Come on, Melanie, let's go for that tour
of downtown I promised you.” I looped my arm through hers and steered her toward the door.