I sat across from Olivia while she had her usual breakfast of lightly buttered toast and black coffee, and I thought for the millionth time how very different we were. Though we were close in age (I would turn nineteen in December, and Olivia would turn eighteen in January), that’s where the similarities stopped. Though we both had blond hair, mine was more of a deep gold like Daddy’s. Hers was platinum blond like our great aunt Ivy’s. Today as always, she wore one of her drab suits or skirts, and, as usual, she had her hair pinned up in a bun at the nape of her neck. Though I’d tried to get her to go with me when I had my long, straight hair cut into a stylish bob, she refused. She said that a secretary needed to look more respectable than some flapper out for a night on the town. Lifting my eyebrows at her was my only reaction to her barb; otherwise, I chose to ignore it.
Olivia glanced up at me as she buttered the other half of her toast. Catching me watching her, she smiled a smile that could melt the hearts of the most hardened, Her eyes were ice blue, also like Aunt Ivy’s, while mine were light brown, like Mama’s. I was quite a bit taller than my very petite sister. She’d had the good fortune of being born with delicate features that I’d always envied. My features were more angular and though I wished I could somehow soften them, I couldn’t complain too much. I never lacked for male attention. Although Olivia hadn’t either, any poor boy’s attempt to talk with my sister was met, inevitably, with few words and lame excuses. She wasn’t a snob, just shy.
Our father, Paul Strickland, was a quiet, serious man, but he certainly wasn’t shy.
On the other hand, our mother was nothing less than outgoing—and outspoken at times—yet everyone loved her. To be honest, everyone loved them both. I was somewhere in between our parents’ two distinct personalities, but Olivia was a hard one to figure out. As we finished breakfast, I was trying to convince her to give up her job as secretary at Doxley’s Import Export Company, and come to work at the Spinnaker instead.
Olivia bit off a corner of her toast and chewed slowly as she seemed to be mulling over the idea of coming to work for our grandparents. Finally, after wiping her small, bow-shaped mouth, she said, “Thank you, sister, but no. Truly, I’ve never been one who thought it a good idea to work with family. After all, who can you complain to after a long day’s work if the one you want to complain about is the one spooning mashed potatoes onto your plate?”
Though she sounded like she was about forty-years-old, I had to admit she had a point; however, that didn’t change the fact that my grandparents needed her.
“Olivia, aren’t you bored to tears at that export office? For the life of me, I don’t understand how you can work there. That dreadful railroad embargo brought most everything coming in and out of here to a screeching halt. I know the embargo was lifted last May, but you can’t tell me that business isn’t slow. Lord, there’s been enough bad press up North about it…not to mention our over-inflated land prices, and apocalyptic hurricanes. It’s a wonder anyone wants to come down here anymore.”
“They will once the snow starts piling up,” Olivia replied as she lifted her coffee cup to her mouth.
“Exactly!” I said, slamming my hand down on the table, which caused my sister to jump and slosh some of her coffee. “Don’t you see, Olivia? If anything will keep the tourists coming down here, it’s the lure of the weather, not to mention the nightlife. It’s…well…” I glanced up toward the ceiling, looking for the right words to describe Miami after dark.
“Amoral and hedonistic?” Olivia offered with a smug smile.
“Exactly, again!” I beamed. “And that, dear sister, is what will save this place. Those looking to indulge need hotels, and Grandma and Granddaddy need you to help run theirs.”
“I’m just fine where I am, Lily, and I’ve told you why. I said the same thing to Daddy when he offered to give me a job in the marina office. So, please, let’s leave it at that.”
Mr. Burton’s phlegm-thick cough brought me out of my musings and I decided I couldn’t stand the old geezer another minute. “That’s all the time we have this morning, I’m afraid,” I said, abruptly interrupting our waltz and stepping back from the vile man.
“But, it’s only twenty minutes until eleven,” he complained.
“Yes, but…” I hadn’t thought up a reason for a shortened lesson. “I have…We have fresh seafood coming in, and Chef is…at the doctor’s office. I have to be at the receiving door to inspect it. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Ah, I do hope nothing much ails the chef,” Burton replied, his brows pinching together in concern. “I so look forward to his bouillabaisse on Wednesday nights, you know.”
How typical of him to worry about getting his belly filled, rather than the well-being of the one filling it, I thought. “Yes, well, I’m sure he’ll be at the helm tonight, expertly navigating through his culinary specialties,” I quipped. The name of the restaurant in question was the Helm.
My attempt at humor was not lost on him. “You’re a pistol, you know that, Lily,” he laughed as he pinched my bottom through my lavender satin dress. At that moment, I wished I was holding a pistol.
Slapping at his hand in anger, I started to tell him exactly what I thought of him, but I stopped myself before I could offend one of the highest paying and still-regular costumers we had at our hotel.
Smiling, though I was absolutely seething, I said, “That’ll be enough for today, Mr. Burton—enough of everything.” Turning on the heels of my purple pumps, I left him standing in the middle of our water-stained ballroom roaring with laughter. Before I started my second job of the day, as luncheon hostess at the hotel’s other restaurant, the Hibiscus Room, I needed to shower off the smell of that man.
Chapter 2
Blindness of Convenience
“Follow me, please,” I said as I took two menus from a stack on the maître d’s podium. I led the way through the Hibiscus Room to Floyd “Buddy” DeMario’s usual table in the corner. A woman was with him that I’d never seen before. She was an orangey-redhead, and towered over the short mobster from Detroit by several inches. The smell of her rose-scented perfume was enough to knock a person over. As I walked back to the front of the restaurant, the scent still lingered heavily in the air.
At 11:25 a.m., the restaurant wasn’t open, but Buddy DeMario always arrived five minutes early for his lunch. His daily reservation was listed in our reservation book under the alias “Sam Smith.” Oddly enough, the crime boss from Michigan chose to eat lunch at The Spinnaker every day even though he owned two burger joints. Additionally, he had partial ownership of a couple of the hotels on Miami Beach and the Lemon Tree speak-easy. I couldn’t come up with a reason for his loyal patronage, other than that he loved the food. He sure made it easy for one of his enemies to find him if they chose to, and I assumed he had plenty of them. He usually sat with his back to the wall, and we seated him before any other patrons arrived. It was not his usual habit; however, to show up with a woman who was not his wife.
It was no secret that as powerful as Buddy DeMario might be in Detroit, Eunice DeMario ruled the roost. She was a tiny, sweet-looking brunette who ruled with an iron fist. Rumor had it, she arranged permanent departures for her beloved Floyd’s past conquests. Today, as Buddy sat in the corner eating Shrimp Louie with Miss Rose Hips, his small dark eyes darted furtively around the room. I figured Buddy would be better off locked in a room with his enemies, than facing the wrath of his wife.
As if he’d read my mind, Peter, the restaurant’s manager, said, “If Eunice finds out, he’s a dead man.” I didn’t hear him come up behind me, and his voice made