Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (6 page)

     He surveyed the exotic scene. "The owner must be rich."

     Coco shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I don't know anything about the owner."

     He settled his eyes on her, from behind silver aviator glasses. "Abby Tyler, I think that's her name."

     Coco sipped her umbrella drink. He wasn't the one, and he clearly wasn't "looking." And Coco certainly did not want to get into a relationship with another cop.

     "This place was recommended to me by a friend, Nina Burns," he said and waited for a reaction. There was none. Either Coco didn't recall her telephone conversation with Nina, or Nina had used a fake name.

     He reached for the peanut bowl and when the sleeve of his leather jacket brushed her arm, Coco received a flash. He was here on a case. Homicide. "Hope you catch your killer," she quipped, and when he gave her a startled look, she added, "I'm a psychic. I work with the police in New York."

     He nodded. "Some guys on the force think it's a waste of public funds.
But I've seen police psychics in action, cases solved where the police were ready to give up."

     They chatted for a few more minutes, about the resort, its mysterious owner, and why people came here, until he finally said he would continue his prowl for a newsstand. Coco watched him go, her eyes on his tight sexy butt, and then she turned back to her drink and that was when she saw him: Morris from the night before.

     He was attractively dressed in a Geoffrey Beene polo shirt and expensive looking tailored slacks, all in pale pastels to fetchingly set off his tan.

     "Hi there," he called, looking decidedly pleased to see her.

     As he ordered a wine spritzer and took the stool next to her, Coco waited for the chemistry to happen. Morris wasn't bad looking, if a bit wasted close up—watery bloodshot eyes and a pouchy chin—and last night he had been witty and entertaining. But that was in a dark bar. It was amazing how sunlight could change things.

     But Daisy and the crystal had said her soul mate was well traveled, and Morris had been to Egypt and Antarctica. So Coco would give him a chance.

     As they chatted and drank, and exchanged meaningful looks, Coco made herself vibrant and open, waiting for the fireworks. Maybe she should just reach out and touch him, see if she received a flash. But it didn't always work that way. And Coco only occasionally received psychic flashes from men. She was more successful connecting with women.

     "What say we take a walk?" Morris said as he slid off his stool.

     As they skirted the pool area, he impulsively pulled her into a cabana and closed the door. Coco was instantly excited—all those people out there! It was dark and warm inside the little dressing hut, and very cramped, no place to lie down.

     They started kissing, but the chemistry wasn't happening. Morris was too eager, and his lips didn't fit hers. He rushed into her panties and did some inexplicable fiddling. "Wait—" she began, wrenching her mouth away from his, but he pressed himself against her, whispering, "Oh baby," as he rubbed his body up and down hers with such vigor she thought the cabana was going to fall over.

     "Slow down," she hissed. Too late. He suddenly gave a great shudder
and a moment later she felt wetness seep through the front of her dress.

     "Oh God," he said, mortified. "I've never done
that
before."

     Coco pushed past him and out into the daylight, holding her purse in front of herself as she dashed through the pool area and off down another path.

     The desert safari sounded interesting, so after a change of clothes, Coco headed off for the pavilion where the safari vehicles were parked.

     The manager of the resort, Vanessa Nichols, was there with her clipboard, checking off names as guests boarded the SUV. It was obvious Ms. Nichols' lipstick had been freshly applied, and she self-consciously brushed a speck of dust from her immaculate caftan. Coco got a flash from her. Ms. Nichols was secretly in love with the driver, an attractive older man named Zeb.

     Why keep it a secret? Coco wondered as she climbed into the SUV. Zeb was attractive in an exotic way. His smile looked genuine. Maybe it was the racial issue. Did Ms. Nichols think Zeb preferred his own kind? Coco had never understood color bias. A man was a man.

     Zeb (his name tag didn't give a last name) was wearing khaki shorts, olive knee socks, boots and a safari hat that sported a leopard hatband. But his loose shirt was made of a colorful fabric that Coco recognized as traditional
kanga
fabric, handwoven by the native women of Tanzania. Zeb also wore an elephant hair bracelet, known for good luck.

     It said in the brochure that Zeb, the caretaker of The Grove's many species of wildlife and birdlife, was born and raised in Kenya. Coco thought he was attractive in a dissolute, Hemingway-esque kind of way. But a man burdened with secrets, she sensed. A heavy drinker. And Coco sensed conflicted feelings from him when he looked at Vanessa. If the difference in their race wasn't the problem, then what could it be? Coco thought Vanessa was a knock out: generous of bosom, wide-hipped and plump-thighed, wearing a flowing Moroccan caftan and sandals with her long sleek black hair hanging in corn-rowed braids. Coco thought it ironic that Vanessa would be called
African while the man who was actually from Africa, would only be called "white."

     Coco took a window seat and body-languaged herself in a way to let the guy next to her know she was open to conversation. But his arms brushed hers and she received a flash. He had a boyfriend back home.

     Zeb climbed behind the wheel, said "Welcome everyone," in his classy East African accent, and they were on their way.

     Coco was so busy sending feelers out to the men in the van that she was only vaguely aware of rocks, cacti, wildflowers blooming in carpets of color, and red tailed hawks wheeling overhead. "Those giant rocks you see up ahead," Zeb pointed out, "form the entrance to a series of caves once considered haunted by the local Indians." Camera shutters clicked like crickets on a spring night.

     "A word of caution, my friends. If we come across coyotes, please remember that they are wild. Do not attempt to feed them or pet them. Coyotes are not your average Fido—they can be dangerous."

     Coco leaned her forehead against the window and realized she had made a mistake. Only ten minutes into the desert and she knew that none of the men in the SUV was her soulmate.

     "Mr. Memory!" the sign outside the cocktail lounge shouted. "Challenge him and win a fabulous prize!"

     It was afternoon and Coco needed a drink.

     After the desert safari, she had walked all over the resort, which turned out to be surprisingly big, and finally found herself at the main building that looked like any posh hotel except it didn't have cars out front or valet parkers or bellmen carrying luggage in and out. The lobby was cool and desert-spacious, with fountains and palms and parrots on perches.

     She had come upon the Java Club, and a sign advertising an act. "Mr. Memory."

     Coco was drawn to such attractions—magicians, mind readers, hypnotists. She had been one herself once, during a desperate period in her life.
The hostess led her to a small table with a candle glowing in a ruby globe. Coco ordered a cappuccino and turned her attention to the stage. The place was packed. The act must be good.

     Her drink came and the lights dimmed. First an introduction by the emcee, and then the star came out. Tallish, blondish, medium build, wearing an opera cape and top hat. He gave the audience a brief talk about how he was able to remember anything and then he asked the audience to make lists of twenty words. That was when Coco noticed the pad of paper and pencil on her table. She watched others madly scribble and was curious to hear what they would come up with. This was an act she had never seen before.

     A plump woman in floral print dress stood and read from her list: "Jezebel, Magdalene, Elizabeth, Eve..." Coco realized they were women from the Bible. When the woman was finished, Mr. Memory repeated the list back to her, word for word without a single mistake or hesitation.

     The audience applauded.

     Next, a small man with a shiny bald head who had to be asked twice to speak up: "Falcon, penguin, buzzard, peacock..." Coco thought surely Mr. Memory would stumble. He did not as he rattled off the twenty words in one breath. The applause was louder.

     Coco's interest was piqued. More people stood and recited lists, each more tongue-twisting and esoteric than the last, and Mr. Memory didn't miss a word, a syllable, a beat. How did he do it?

     Coco picked up a pen and wrote ferociously.

     When a woman failed to challenge Mr. Memory with a list of fruits and vegetables, Coco didn't even raise her hand to be chosen, she just stood up and said, "I'm next!"

     The spotlight swiveled to her and all heads turned. She cleared her throat and recited: "Cat fat rat bat ball wall fall tall tell well sell bell bill till will kill kid rid bid lid." When she was finished she heard a chuckle go through the audience and she knew people thought she hadn't challenged him, but when she raised her eyes, she saw something on Mr. Memory's face she hadn't seen with the others: a flicker of admiration.

     He glibly recited her list but she detected the briefest hesitation between
"bill" and "bell" and when he was done, the applause wasn't as enthusiastic.

     But while everyone clapped politely, Mr. Memory looked right at Coco, across the crowded, dimly lit room, finding her eyes in the reflection of the little ruby globe candle, and she felt him from all the way across the room touch her, saw his lips lift in a knowing smile, felt her heart do a somersault. And then she saw that he really was quite good looking, cute more than handsome, and oh so sexy in black tie and tails, red-satin lined opera cape and tall hat, so that Coco wondered if he was the one.

     She wasted no time going back stage after the act and insinuating herself in his path as he came toward the dressing room. With the top hat removed, she saw surfer-blond hair beneath the lights, and when he smiled at her she thought: Boy next door.

     "You were good," they both said at the same time.

     They laughed. "You first," Mr. Memory said.

     "I've never seen an act like that before."

     He removed the cape, set it on a tall stool with the top hat, and said, "And I haven't had a challenge like that before. Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

     Most of the audience had left, so that the little club was quiet and cozy. "My name's Kenny," he said as their cappuccinos arrived.

     Coco couldn't get over how
ordinary
everything about him was—his name, his beach boy looks, his pleasant personality. Yet his act on the stage had been extraordinary. "How do you do it, the memory thing?"

     "It's something I was born with."

     "A gift?"

     "Or a curse, depending on how you look at it. I don't have the ability to forget. Everything I read, or see, or hear, everything I experience, I remember. All the way back to my childhood. Nothing is ever lost." Their eyes met over the ruby globe and Coco felt the chemistry begin.

     She thought he would explain more about his memory gift, but instead he said, "So, Coco, you were named for Chanel?"

     "It's a nickname," realizing he didn't want to talk about it, just as she never liked to talk about her own gift/curse. "My real name is Colleen but my older sister, who was two when I was born, couldn't say Colleen. She said Coco and it stuck."

     "Coco," Kenny said. Not addressing her, just saying her name. "Makes me think of a hot, sweet drink."

     "What's the prize?"

     "Prize?"

     "The sign says outside to challenge Mr. Memory and win a fabulous prize."

     "Oh that." He laughed. "First prize is a week in Fresno. And the second prize—"

     "Is
two
weeks in Fresno." They laughed together and Coco felt the connection. "So you liked my challenge?" It was a blatant bid for a compliment, but what the heck. She watched him as she sipped her drink.