Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,47
the little pink pearl he’d found on the railroad tracks. He took it out and held it up for Angie to see.
“Ah ha! Now it’s your turn to tell me a story,” she said.
“When the time’s right.”
Lady Gaga interrupted—Angie’s phone ringing. This time the spoofed caller ID showed a South Dakota area code. She said, “That’s my six o’clock stalker. Wanna say hi?”
The chief reached for her phone. “Sure, why not.”
* * *
—
Mockingbird had never heard of conch pearls until her husband mentioned them during his press conference, which she was forced to watch while on a treadmill at Casa Bellicosa. The gym had been cleared out for security before the First Lady arrived, but every muted television in the place was tuned to Mastodon’s golf-course monologue about Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons, complete with word captioning. Having dodged the haughty Potussies as a group, Mockingbird couldn’t recall if she’d ever met the dead woman. She was, however, intrigued by her husband’s depiction of the stolen jewels.
After finishing her workout, Mockingbird hurried upstairs and went online to research the pearls; they looked delicate and sensuous, glistening in the dark wet palms of Bahamian boatmen. The First Lady wondered why at least one of the Hadids or even Gwyneth hadn’t tweeted about these trendy tropical gems. Fluidly she scrolled through the websites of Tiffany and other high-end jewelry stores, most of which offered small selections of handmade pieces. However, in the advertisements, the individual pearls appeared puny and pallid.
An aide dispatched by Mockingbird to scour Worth Avenue located a pair of conch-pearl earrings styled by Mikimoto. The sales clerk couldn’t say for certain where in the Caribbean the mother shells had been harvested, so Mockingbird passed without even asking the price. She wanted only wild island specimens.
There was a light triple-knock on the door, and Agent Keith Josephson appeared. He was escorting a server who bore a silver tray holding a plate of avocado slices, a modest wedge of Belgian cheese, seven fried kale chips and a tall glass of room-temperature papaya juice. The name pin on the young man’s uniform said “Spalding” and, beneath that in smaller letters, “Cape Town.” It was a practice at Casa Bellicosa to include the hometowns of the employees—not to honor their diverse backgrounds so much as to reassure club members that the staff was being recruited from cultures that were educated, tidy, and unthreatening.
When Mockingbird spotted the young man’s name pin, she said, “Spalding, do you have conch shells down in Cape Town?”
The First Lady had never before spoken to him, so Spalding’s response betrayed a touch of the jitters. He said, “Actually, South Africa is world-famous for its sea shells. The beaches are covered with them. People come from everywhere—”
“Yes, but only queen conchs make pearls this color.” She repositioned her laptop to show him the pictures.
“I can follow up on that for you,” he said. “My little brother dives at Jeffreys Bay.”
“That’s so kind of you. Let me know what he says, please.” Mockingbird gave him the smile that she saved for men who’d been led to believe she was icy and stuck-up.
Spalding was appropriately charmed. He took his time laying out the First Lady’s lunch selections on the coffee table.
“Keith, I need to speak to you,” she said to the Secret Service man, “after you take Spalding wherever he needs to go now.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Mockingbird closed her laptop, popped a kale chip in her mouth and, while chewing, said, “My afternoon schedule has changed. I told Leena to push the disabled Girl Scout awards back an hour because I need some personal time.”
“I’m on it,” said the Secret Service man, who didn’t look like a “Keith” to Spalding. He looked Middle Eastern, though he spoke with an American accent.
He led Spalding down the hall and waited beside him until the elevator arrived. Spalding stepped inside, pressed the button for the first floor, and nodded goodbye. Before the doors began to close, Agent Keith turned away and strode briskly back toward the First Lady’s private quarters.
Spalding peeked out of the elevator. From behind, it appeared that the Secret Service man was loosening his necktie.
TWELVE
Winter residents of Palm Beach inevitably return north forever, either in caskets or urns. Funeral services for Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons were held at her Cape Cod estate, where she’d wanted her ashes scattered.
The Potussies chipped in to charter a mid-sized Citation with a well-stocked minibar. They were plastered by the time the jet touched down, though Fay Alex Riptoad