CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tampa, Florida

Saturday 11:45 a.m.

February 17, 2001

THE STICK-SKINNY SALESLADY smiled her own Grace Kelly smile, a slight bending of the lips with evident amusement. “Oh, Armstrong knows absolutely everyone.”

I studied the pieces more carefully now and asked, “Does Mr. Otter have any jewelry worn by Marilyn Monroe?”

“I’m sure he must have. He knew Joe DiMaggio quite well. I would be surprised if Joe hadn’t sold Armstrong some of her pieces. I could ask him for you, if you’d like to leave your card.”

“Hmm,” I said. “How much would something like this Princess Diana ring cost?” The question was indelicate, but this was a store, after all, where things were for sale.

She gave me the look that said, “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” and coughed a little behind her hand. “Armstrong makes all sales of his ‘Jewels of the World’ himself. You’d have to discuss that with him.” Apparently, she’d decided I was a deadbeat looker, not apt to haul out my credit card. When the bell sounded again, she said, “Would you excuse me for a moment, please?” and left me for a more promising customer

I wandered around a while longer. There really was something to see in every nook and cranny. I started to wonder how I’d been in Tampa all this time and never known this place was here. Or that its occupant was so famous.

I don’t usually think of myself as isolated, but maybe I was. Partly, it was that I don’t wear jewelry that much, myself. What I do wear regularly are a few good pieces that were given to me, mostly by George.

Although I find gems interesting and beautiful, my usual lifestyle doesn’t allow elaborate jewelry. I look at the constant streams of catalogues that make it to my mailbox at the office but, otherwise, I’m woefully ignorant on the subject.

When the sales lady, or whatever her title was—curator?—didn’t come back after a while, I took my brochure and left. I couldn’t stay gone from home forever. Even with a few hundred people around, George would surely notice.

But the trip over here had been a nice break for me. I took advantage of it just a short while longer.

I zipped my jacket, turned up the collar, and stuffed my hands into my pockets. I walked on the beach from Eighth Avenue up to about Seventeenth and back. Then, I returned to the Hurricane restaurant and went inside.

The waitress seated me inside, on the second-floor balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. She took my order for a grilled grouper sandwich with lettuce and tomato, claimed to be the best in the bay.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bright green Armstrong Otter Studio brochure while I awaited my lunch.

The brochure was sealed with a gold crest sticker in the shape of Newfoundland, and I recalled that I’d noticed the same crest on the door of Otter’s studio. Pulling the sticker open, I then had a sort of envelope that had five flaps and a few four-by-six cards inside.

On each of the cards was an example of jewelry creations by several of Otter’s protégés, with both the designer and the pieces described on the back.

The flaps of the envelope contained short comments about Otter, himself. Mostly promotion pieces about his training, awards and commitment to creative jewelry design.

The “Jewels of the World” were mentioned only in a short paragraph that said: “Armstrong is pleased to be able to offer select customers a limited number of truly special Jewels of the World owned by the most gracious women of our time. By appointment.”

Nowhere on the promotional material was a disclosure that the jewels might be faux.

What I did see were several pieces of jewelry I recognized as belonging to a number of Tampa socialites.

For instance, the diamond and black pearl drop earrings set in platinum were worn by the Queen of Ye Mystic Krewe last week during the Parade of Pirates. And the last time the CJ and his wife had been at the cancer foundation fundraiser she’d worn the large Atocha coin set in diamonds and sapphires on a platinum chain around her neck.

The prices for these pieces weren’t listed, but I’d bet my greatly devalued stock portfolio that they weren’t cheap.

When my sandwich arrived, I put the brochure aside and spent a fairly leisurely forty-five minutes enjoying the Gulf, the sand and the sunshine. I left reluctantly, walked down the beach and back to where I’d parked Greta—only to find a neon green envelope holding a parking ticket on the windshield.

When I returned to Minaret, the members, friends and family of Minaret Krewe had already begun to fill George’s again for makeup and pre-festivities revelry. I pulled her over to the side and surreptitiously slipped the electronic key to the valet on my way through the front door. The valet would park Greta later, after he took care of the paying guests.

The makeup artists were again set up around the lobby and the perimeter of the dining rooms. Pirates and wenches in various stages of preparation wandered around, carrying drinks and unlit cigars. Some had heavy, gold-tone coins in small bags hanging from their waists, and most had the brightly colored beads they would throw to the crowds later draped around their necks like Floridian stoles.

I noticed Gil Kelley and his wife Sandra making the rounds, gleefully preparing the men and women who were brave enough to participate in what the weatherman was calling one of the coldest nights of the year.

By the time the parade was in full swing, the temperatures would be down into the high thirties. These costumes were clearly meant for warmer weather and I saw some of the women, in particular, attempting to find a suitable wrap for their bare shoulders and legs.

When George and I had agreed to be in the parade tonight, I’d had no idea it would be so cold. But we couldn’t demur now, so I trudged upstairs to find my costume and to discover whether I’d saved some long underwear from my prior life in Detroit.

When we lived in Detroit, we’d have considered forty degrees in February a heat wave. I smiled to myself as I thought of the whining I was doing over a little cold snap and picked up the pace up the stairs.

A short while later, I’d donned my wig of long, red ringlets covered by a bright blue bandana, which was bound to keep me warm. “Half your body heat escapes through your head,” Mom used to say as we bundled up for sledding or ice skating. I was counting on that bit of folk wisdom tonight.

I’d found some pink silk, long underwear in the back of the dresser, and they didn’t show under the flounce skirts and petticoats of my wench’s costume. Short black boots completed the outfit, which I normally wear with sandals or no shoes at all. Not tonight.

The pre-parade preparations were in full swing when I returned to the party downstairs. I’d done my own makeup, accentuating my lips with deep red lipstick and my eyes with dark brown liner and blue shadow. I felt I looked as good as Margaret Wheaton, who’d had hers done by the professionals.

Of course, I was over twenty years younger than Margaret, but she looked young enough tonight. As she stood talking with Sandra Kelley, I thought they must have been made up by the same artist. They looked enough alike to have been sisters.

Armstrong Otter joined them and they had an animated conversation that might have been a quarrel, or could have been just the fun and spirit of the evening. Otter was dressed in a pirate’s costume tonight. He had his pony tail tied low on the base of his skull with a bright yellow ribbon to match his blouse.

George came up behind me and put his arms around my waist while nuzzling his chin into my neck and pinching the big hoop earrings I had on against us both. “Ahoy, wench!” he sneered in his best pirate accent, which still sounded a lot like a mid-western banker. “What’re you doin’ later this evenin’?”

“I’m open to suggestions,” I told him, laughing, as Dad joined us, a glass of something dark and foamy in his hand.

“Are you two a threat to my health and safety this evening?” he asked, getting into the spirit of things.

“Perhaps, sir. Perhaps we are.” George told him. “You might want to return to the safety of your home.”

“Exactly my plan, dread pirate. I have a big thick file to work through and I’ve just come in from outside. I think a good seat in front of the television is the best place for this boy tonight.” Dad raised his glass and turned toward the Sunset Bar.

“Landlubber!” George shouted after his retreating back.

Shortly afterward, the costumed ones were loaded onto busses to drive down to Channelside, where we’d get on the float and prepare to join the parade.

George and I stayed around to be sure his staff had everything on hand for the next phase of the celebrating while we were gone. The parade would wind through historic Ybor City. Afterwards, the buses would return us to George’s for late night snacks and coffee. Our float was about number ninety-one in the procession, so we could avoid the cold a while longer.

Dad wasn’t the only one staying in tonight. About thirty would-be revelers had settled into the Sunset Bar with the television on to watch the parade in the comfort of seats, food, drink and most of all, warmth. Suzanne sat close to Dad, all cozy in a booth. I bid them goodbye and boarded the last bus.

Channelside was a fine example of Tampa development. When we moved here, the land around the cruise ship dock was nothing short of an eyesore. Filled with abandoned warehouses and flat lots holding old beer cans and trash, it wasn’t a credit to the chamber of commerce.

Today, the area houses The Florida Aquarium, Garrison Seaport, Channelside Shops, a movie theater, and is just a short walk from Tampa’s fabulous hockey arena. The only thing Tampans could find to complain about the area now is the increased traffic. On the evening of the Knight Parade, that complaint was more than justified.

When we arrived at our float, we found it already fully loaded with members of Minaret Krewe dressed in costume and weighted down with beads, coins and candy to throw to the crowds. The body heat generated by those milling around on the float made the cold more bearable. I was getting a little warm, myself, but not enough to make me want to take off my long underwear.

As I made my way to my assigned station, I noticed Margaret Wheaton and Armstrong Otter standing on the back of the float. I waved to Margaret, but she didn’t see me. She was too involved in her conversation with Armstrong, as he held her arm and no doubt regaled her with tales of his celebrity customers.

I felt an almost involuntary scowl crease my features. Neither Margaret nor Armstrong were Krewe members. Why were they here? And together? There was no one for me to ask.

The float, a replica of Minaret, the Krewe’s namesake, had been funded and built years before, when we first established the Krewe. The float required some sprucing up every year, but was mostly unchanged.

It was a flat barge with a Minaret in the middle, a banner with the Krewe’s name on the front, and the shape of a pirate ship made it fit into the overall theme of the parade.

George and I took our places at the front of the float next to Gil and Sandra Kelley, this year’s King and Queen.

“We seem to have some non-members on the float tonight,” I leaned over and said to Sandra Kelley, who was standing on George’s right.

“We probably had some people cancel out because of the cold and got some volunteers. The more the merrier, right?” And, to be sure I got her point, she rebuked me. “You don’t own the Krewe, Willa. George just sponsors it.”

Her tone raised my anger and I tamped it down for the moment.

The loud music someone had added to the float last year emanated from the miniature Minaret. The small tractor that would pull all of us along started up. I couldn’t talk to Sandra over the noise, keep my balance, and prepare to throw away the beads and candy given to me all at the same time.

The conversation would have to wait, but I definitely intended to have it. I didn’t like Sandra Kelley’s short temper and angry threats against Dad.

Unstable or not, I didn’t think she was dangerous. She just needed to understand that her behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. Not by me, on my own behalf or for Dad.

The illuminated Sant’ Yago Knight Parade has been following the Parade of Pirates for more than forty years. The group that sponsors it, the Knights of Sant’ Yago, has about 275 members and claims to have roots in the ninth-century Spanish Brotherhood of the Royal Order of St. James.

Like most of the clubs, or krewes that participate in the various Gasparilla events, the Knights use the revenue from the parade for good works. In this case, to fund renovation of historic club buildings in Ybor City, community projects and scholarships. Mostly, their aim is to promote the Latin heritage in Tampa.

The parade route has been changed several times, but this year it wound down Channelside Drive, over to Ybor City, down Seventh Avenue, and terminated on the east end of town at 22nd Street.

Wall-to-wall people lined the sides of the narrow streets from curb to storefronts. Most of them raised their arms and their voices as every float went by, seeking to catch whatever booty was thrown out to the spectators.

The bars were open, selling beer and soft drinks out of barrels, both inside and out on the sidewalks. Beer, wine, soft drinks, hard liquor, and who knows what else flowed literally and figuratively all along the parade route. Already, the streets were a gooey mess.

By the time we reached the end of the parade route, I was hoarse from yelling to George and the others over the noise of the music and the crowd. My arms were tired from throwing beads and coins to the spectators. The long underwear I’d so happily put on at the beginning of the night had turned into a cocoon of hot silk that had me sweating like I’d just completed a marathon at the head of the pack.

George had to return to the restaurant so we were one of the first ones off the float, onto the bus, and back at home.

As quickly as possible, I excused myself and headed upstairs. I peeled the wench’s garb off, followed by the now soaking wet silk underwear. I threw the clammy duds into a heap on the bathroom floor, hoping never to see them again.

Beneath the steaming shower I began to feel a little revitalized. Once out, I managed my quick change: hair (three minutes), makeup (two minutes), clothes (three minutes). Usually I can do the clothes faster, but it took me a while to decide on the medium-weight, long-sleeved pink cotton dress and jacket from Fresh Produce. I had been very warm in my costume, but it was still only about forty degrees outside.

When I had dawdled as long as possible, I returned to the restaurant. Most of the revelers had returned as well and were making their way through the buffet line. Everyone looked a bit worse for wear.

I approached George and suggested he go upstairs and change, offering to play hostess while he was gone. Making my way around the tables of seated pirates and wenches, I deliberate took my time, and avoided the tables where the CJ and his wife sat, as well as where Sandra and Gil Kelley held court. George could deal with them when he returned.

Dad and Suzanne were seated in the small blue room that was originally a parlor, and where dining was more intimate. They saw me and waved me over to join them, which I found myself curiously happy to do. Maybe that was because they had a free chair.

Dad smiled while Suzanne squeezed my hand when I sat down. They shared the details of their television viewing experience with me, telling me all about the Knight Parade as if I hadn’t been one of the participants. It was actually fun to hear Suzanne’s take on the whole event, so childlike was she in her enthusiasm.

When Dad excused himself to wash the barbecue sauce off his fingers, Suzanne took the opportunity to bend my ear about her latest shopping experience for “Elmo,” the name she and Dad had humorously given to my soon-to-be sibling until its sex was determined.

She described the layette, toys, wallpaper, paint and accessories until my eyes glazed over. Being Suzanne, she never noticed how little I contributed to the conversation.

I almost missed it when she uttered a startled, “Oh!” and allowed a momentary lull into her stream of chatter.