You Only Live Nine Times, page 24
Still, it was nothing short of miraculous that she’d made it at all. The cats had been absolute terrors while she was getting ready—Scarlett had somehow managed to snag her dress so badly it looked like it had been through a paper shredder, Homer had wailed so piteously it was as if his very soul was being separated from his body, and even Vashti kept winding around her ankles like she was trying to trip her. If Laurie hadn't answered her frantic phone call with the offer of a loaner from the boutique, she might have had to stay home altogether. And that, she thought—basking in the glow of a grand meal and a heady sense of belonging—would have been a real shame.
Danny had been the perfect host throughout dinner, keeping the conversation flowing with practiced ease. He and Rachel had huddled briefly before everyone had been seated to go over last-minute details for Title Wave’s Halloween party—now only a week away. The music wasn’t as loud in the dining room as it was in the club itself, but they’d still found it necessary to bring their heads so close together, they were practically touching—so close Rachel could feel Danny’s breath on her cheek. “I know my schedule’s been a nightmare this month, with the book launch and everything.” His warm smile had ensured, as it so often did, that he was instantly forgiven. “Tuesday after the store closes works for me, if it works for you,” she’d told him, and he’d quickly accepted. “I’ll bring samples. It’ll be fun!”
Now the dinner portion of the evening was over, and Danny—plus his ten guests—were trying to squeeze their way into Red Room’s red-velvet jewel box of a back room, where it seemed the entirety of Coacoochee’s nightlife elite were already crammed in.
Rachel and Tommy paused just inside the doorway, letting the sensory assault wash over them. The room pulsed with beautiful bodies in motion, conversations shouted over music, perfume and cologne mixing with the underlying scent of expensive liquor. Through the crowd, Rachel caught glimpses of Danny standing near the bar with Griselda and her boyfriend. He was laughing at something Griselda had said.
"He looks happy," Rachel observed. It was true—Danny seemed younger, somehow, and carefree without his customary black chef’s hat.
"He should be." Tommy snagged a martini from the bar. "Griselda told me at dinner they did two hundred covers tonight before he left. Sabrosa's killing it."
Almost the first people they ran into as they attempted to cross the room were Tatiana Monster of Art and her live-in manager, Rune Solberg. Tatiana was dramatically tall, slender, and black-haired. A former fashion model, she’d moved to Coacoochee and taken up a career as a sculptor, painter, fashion designer, and classical pianist—and what was arguably the art world’s most attention-grabbing moniker. Born in Milan and raised (as Coacoochee legend claimed) in a Russian monastery, Tatiana was believed to be fluent in eight or nine languages. She was always out with Rune, a six-foot-six Norwegian native with long blond hair and a full moustache and beard.
Rachel—who barely reached five-foot-one when not wearing heels—felt positively dwarfish in their presence.
Tatiana gasped loudly as Rachel and Tommy stood on tiptoe to kiss her hello. “I was just thinking of you!” she exclaimed to Tommy in her heavy Russian accent. “You will put me in your next column, yes?”
As Tommy assured Tatiana that she would soon see her name in Palm print, Rachel caught a glimpse of Brock Winfield standing near the bar, wearing what appeared to be a blazer made entirely from silver sequins. Standing beneath the red bulbs that lit the space, he resembled nothing so much as a giant traffic light. His eyes met Rachel’s, and his lips curled into a sneer before he returned to his ineffectual attempts at getting the bartender’s attention. Rachel realized she hadn’t seen him lurking around Title Wave for the past couple of weeks—but she knew he was still out there, nursing his grudges like an expensive glass of scotch.
Rachel felt a twinge of uneasiness but was quickly distracted by Laurie Castillo, waving at her from a nearby banquette where she sat with Robert, her geometric print dress unmistakable even in the dim lighting. Sabine Ackermann held court a few tables away, her platinum hair glowing under the red lights like a halo.
All the usual suspects, Rachel thought, as she waved enthusiastically back to Laurie. In a deliberately oversized gesture, she swept one hand up and down over the floor-length, spaghetti-strapped black dress Laurie had lent her, mouthing: It fits! And Laurie laughed as she mouthed back, in an equally exaggerated way, Of course! I’m amazing!
There was something undeniably electric about tonight—maybe it was Danny's infectious joy, or maybe it was just the Saturday-night energy that made Coacoochee feel like the center of the universe. She and Tommy maneuvered their way to the banquette Keith Cranford had reserved for them, where a lissome waitress with a curtain of yellow hair was already arranging their complimentary champagne service. Rachel trailed behind Tommy as he paused here and there to exchange air kisses with people he knew. As she passed, Rachel caught a snippet of conversation between the good-looking twenty-something who wrote the nightlife column for the Miami Blade, and the pretty blonde with Alice in Wonderland hair who always seemed to be with him.
"—knew Marc was into coke,” the writer was saying. “Explains everything."
"Right?” The pretty blonde took a sip of her cosmopolitan. “No wonder he was so aggressive at Sabrosa."
Rachel had been hearing similar whispers around the café for days now. The lie had taken root so easily, transforming Marc from victim to villain in the span of a few sotto voce conversations. While Rachel was happy to see Tommy restored back into Sabrosa’s (and Danny’s) good graces, she wondered if anyone would remember the real Marc—the meticulous journalist, the man who'd died pursuing the truth. She turned to see if Tommy had overheard as well, but he'd successfully squeezed past one last pair of gyrating bodies to arrive safely at their table. Rachel seated herself next to him and picked up one of the two glasses of champagne the waitress had poured before turning her attention to another table.
"So," Tommy said, leaning close to be heard over the music, "you never finished telling me about this afternoon."
Rachel felt her face warm, and not from the champagne. "About Evan?"
"Yes, about Evan!" Tommy regarded her with amusement. “I want all the details. Spill!”
She laughed, remembering. "We were going over his spring catalog, and suddenly he's fidgeting with this advance copy of the new Barbara Kingsolver, all nervous and everything, and he says—" she pitched her voice lower in imitation, "I don’t want to seem to forward or anything, but would you maybe want to go out with me sometime? Like maybe after your Halloween party?’ And I said, ‘You really want our first date to be in full costume?’ And he laughed and made this funny face and said, ‘You’d look great in anything, but in my case a costume could only be an improvement.'"
Tommy's face lit up with genuine delight. "Finally! I was starting to think I'd have to lock you two in the romance section until something happened."
"Stop it." But she was grinning. The champagne and the warmth of the room made her feel lighter than she had in weeks. "I said yes."
"Obviously you said yes. Where’s he taking you?"
"I don’t know yet." Just thinking about it sent a flutter through her stomach. "It feels weird, you know? Dating again."
"It feels perfect," Tommy corrected. "You deserve someone who brings treats for your cats and gets nervous asking you out."
Before Rachel could respond, she noticed Isabella approaching through the crowd in vintage Leonard Paris—a floor-length, form-fitting explosion of enormous pink, teal, and lavender flowers that bloomed extravagantly against a black background. Even in a room full of people trying to be seen, Isabella moved like someone who never had to try.
"Tommy, darling." She air-kissed his cheek. "Wasn't dinner divine? Keith really outdid himself."
Rachel watched Tommy's entire demeanor shift—shoulders straightening, smile becoming more eager. She knew he'd been trying all through dinner to steer the conversation toward the Daily News position, only to have Isabella skillfully deflect. Whether because the only news on this particular subject was bad news, or simply because she was still irritated with Tommy for having avoided her calls, was impossible to guess. Isabella’s face was smooth as porcelain and gave no hint, one way or the other.
"It was incredible," Tommy agreed. "Listen, Isabella, about lunch next week—"
"Absolutely, we must." Isabella's smile was warm but impersonal. "My assistant will call you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised Sabine I'd say hello." She kissed Rachel’s cheek. “You look wonderful tonight, my darling.” Leaning in to whisper conspiratorially in her ear, Isabella added, “I know Danny thinks so!” Rachel looked at her, startled, and felt a blush creep over her cheeks. Isabella smiled and squeezed her arm. "Enjoy the party," she told them both, and disappeared back into the crowd.
And then she was gone, leaving Tommy deflated and Rachel perplexed. She cast a quick glance over to the bar where Danny still held court. He caught her eye and smiled with an impish display of dimples before turning back to Michael Tronn, who currently promoted parties at the popular nightclub Liquid.
"Isabella's definitely avoiding the subject of the Daily News," Tommy said glumly.
Rachel brought her attention back to him. "Maybe she's just being careful,” she said soothingly. “This isn't really the place to talk business."
"Everyplace is a place to talk business in this town." Tommy drained half his glass of champagne in one gulp. "What if I really did ruin everything? What if—"
A sudden burst of laughter from Laurie Castillo’s table cut him off. "Come on," Rachel said, tugging Tommy's arm. "Let's go say hi to Laurie. You can worry about Isabella later."
They made their way through the crowd, Tommy's mood visibly lifting as they navigated the familiar choreography of a Coacoochee party—the subtle sidesteps around dancing couples, the brief pauses to acknowledge acquaintances, the balancing of champagne glasses held high above the fray.
"Rachel! Tommy!" Laurie rose from her banquette as they approached, stunning in a skintight zebra-striped dress that fell to her ankles. "That dress looks perfect on you." She pulled Rachel into a warm hug that smelled of jasmine and champagne.
"And you are an angel of mercy!” Rachel returned the hug and settled onto the burgundy velvet banquette. "So how’s Kotik? Has he learned his lesson?"
Robert laughed, his usually serious demeanor softened under the strobe lights. "He's been a model citizen. I think we wore him out with all the extra attention."
"I may grant him parole in a day or two," Laurie admitted, though she tried to sound stern. "He's been following me around the boutique, helping arrange displays. Well, 'helping' might be generous. Mostly he sits in the middle of whatever I'm working on and purrs."
"Speaking of the boutique,” Tommy said, “that window display with the Pucci scarves is genius. Very Slim Aarons meets Miami Beach."
The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by the bass line that made the ice in their glasses tremble. They discussed the upcoming Halloween parade, Robert's latest case (carefully edited for public consumption), and whether the new sushi place on Seventh Street was worth the hype. Rachel found herself relaxing into the rhythm of Coacoochee small talk, though she noticed Tommy's eyes still tracked Isabella's movements across the room.
After about twenty minutes, during which they'd been joined briefly by Keith Cranford himself and witnessed Tatiana Monster of Art's dramatic interpretation of what might have been either dancing or performance art, Rachel felt the inevitable call of too much champagne.
"Excuse me," she said, touching Tommy's arm. "I'll be right back."
"Through the kitchen and to the left," Laurie advised, correctly guessing Rachel's destination. "The line for the main restroom is probably around the block by now."
Not for the first time, Rachel reflected that there were two types of people in Coacoochee: the people who waited in line for things, and the in-the-know types who never had to wait for anything. She was grateful for Laurie’s insider knowledge as she navigated her way back through the crowd and slipped through the swinging doors into Red Room's bustling kitchen. The sudden shift from red-tinted darkness to bright fluorescent light made Rachel blink, and she hurried past the line cooks who barely glanced up from their stations.
The bathroom was mercifully empty, a small oasis of relative quiet where the bassline was muffled to a distant heartbeat. Rachel took her time, checking her reflection in the mirror and reapplying the lip gloss that had disappeared somewhere between the bread pudding and her third glass of champagne. The bathroom's art deco fixtures gleamed under soft lighting, and she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the blessed coolness after the heat of the packed party.
She was still thinking about Evan as she made her way back through the kitchen, nodding to a server who balanced an impossible number of plates, although her mind couldn’t help but settle on Danny for a moment or two. Isabella's whispered comment had left her unsettled. The swinging doors to the main room loomed ahead, promising a return to the sensory assault of the party.
That was when she spotted him.
Julian Singer-Adams stood in the narrow service corridor that connected the kitchen to the VIP room.
Waiting for her.
"Rachel." Julian’s voice was pitched low despite the music. She could see the tension in his jaw, smell expensive cologne underlaid with nothing—stone-cold sobriety in a club full of celebration as he stepped forward to kiss her cheek. Rachel fought the urge to step back, even as she automatically kissed his cheek in return.
"Julian." She tried to sound casual, but her heart was racing. Still, she managed to keep the tremble out of her voice as she said, "Enjoying the party?"
“Not particularly, no.” A brief, ironic smile that managed to perfectly convey Julian’s distaste drifted across his lips. "But I wanted to speak with you." One hand reached up to smooth out his silk tie. "About your recent curiosity."
The words hit her like cold water. He knew. Somehow, he knew what she’d been looking into.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" His eyes bored into hers. "A word of advice, from someone who's been in this town longer than you have. Some stories are better left untold."
The music seemed to fade around them, the party noise dimming until all Rachel could hear was her own heartbeat and Julian's words.
"Especially when people have already paid too high a price for their curiosity." His gaze held hers. "I'd hate to see you become another cautionary tale."
"Is that a threat?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
Something flickered in Julian’s expression, but he was already backing away. "Enjoy your evening," he said. And then he was gone, moving through the crowd toward the exit.
"There you are!" Tommy appeared at her elbow. "Was that Julian?"
"He—" Rachel tried to find words. "Okay,” she began, “so I’ve been helping Natalie a little with her investigation.” Tommy’s face paled, and she hastily added, “Just making a few phone calls. Nothing dangerous.” The tremble she’d successfully kept out of her voice while talking to Julian returned with a vengeance. “But now he knows. He warned me about asking questions, said he’d hate to see me become another ‘cautionary tale’."
"He threatened you?" The color that had fled Tommy’s face a moment earlier came back and doubled.
"I don't know." The champagne wasn't sitting well anymore. "I think I need some air. Can we get out of here?"
"Tommy!" A voice called out from near the bar. Rachel recognized the lean figure of Manny, Palm’s nightlife photographer, who was making his way toward them with camera equipment slung over his shoulder. "Sorry I'm late—Yucca was insane tonight."
Rachel saw the conflict play across his face. Tommy Duvall, her friend, wanted to make sure she got home safely. But "Mr. Nightlife" had professional obligations—Danny's Celebrity Club was the social event of the week, and his column about it would need accompanying visuals.
"You should stay." Rachel presented what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "This is your job."
"Rachel—"
"Really." She squeezed his hand. "Two a.m. is late for me, but your night’s just getting started." It was true—if anything, the crowd had grown thicker, the energy more electric. Through the mass of bodies, she could see Danny near the DJ booth, his black silk shirt now unbuttoned at the collar, his smile incandescent under the lights. Isabella was beside him, whispering something that made him laugh.
Manny stood awkwardly to one side, clearly sensing he'd interrupted something. "I can come back later if—"
"No," Tommy said, and sighed. "No, we need to get started." He turned back to Rachel, lowering his voice. "But tomorrow—first thing—we’ll talk to Natalie. Maybe even Nick Torres."
Rachel nodded. "First thing tomorrow," she agreed. "Now go do that voodoo that you do so well.” She smiled reassuringly. “I'll grab a cab."
Tommy hesitated a moment longer, then pulled her into a quick hug. "Be careful getting home," he murmured against her ear. "Lock your doors. And leave a message on my machine when you get there, okay?"
"I will," she promised.
Tommy squeezed her hand one more time before turning to Manny. "Let's start with Danny by the DJ booth. The light's good there, and we can get some of the crowd in the background..."
As Tommy and Manny moved away, Rachel glanced around to make sure Keith was nowhere in sight—although her view was obscured by the thicket of partiers who still packed the room to capacity. The last thing she needed was Red Room's promoter-in-residence catching her "sneaking out" at what he'd consider an insultingly early hour. With any luck, she could slip away while he was holding court elsewhere.
The night air hit Rachel like a slap when she finally emerged outside, and her ears rang in the sudden quiet. She made her way through the back alley, waving goodbye to L and marveling at the long line of aspirants still clamoring to get in. She’d gotten all the way out to Allamanda Avenue, and had her hand on a cab-door handle, when a voice behind her said, “Excuse me, Miss Thing!” Rachel turned to see Keith Cranford’s slim-hipped form approaching swiftly from the darkness of the alley. The look in his pale-green eyes—which, in better lighting, made for a striking contrast against his café au lait skin—was unmistakably determined. “Where do you think you’re going?”
