Free Palm Beach Nasty by Tom Turner Page A

pulled up, he shuddered when he noticed that Janet Schering’s house was next door. The terrifying night with her came rushing back like a rampaging succubus.
    He shook it off and gave the cab driver a five-dollar tip, instructing him not to leave until someone answered the door.
    He was wearing blue jeans, a sport shirt and carrying an L.L.Bean duffel bag. Sloppy rich boy chic was the look he was going for. He pressed the buzzer on the heavy mahogany door. It was a big, two-story house flanked by statuesque banyan trees, standing tall like Buckingham Palace guards.
    A middle-aged black man dressed in gray flannel pants and a crisp white shirt answered the door.
    Nick flashed him the biggest smile he could muster.
    “Wyman?” Nick asked, thrusting out his hand enthusiastically.
    The man looked confused, but shook Nick’s hand.
    “Ah, no, Alcie.”
    Nick slapped the man on the back. “Sorry, man, Wyman was way before you. I’m Spencer’s grandson, Avery.”
    “Well, welcome, Mr. Avery,” Alcie said, smiling.
    “Didn’t my grandfather’s executor, Paul Broberg, tell you I was coming?” Nick asked, a flicker of annoyance.
    “No, sir, but that’s okay,” he said, reaching for Nick’s duffel. “Good to have you here.”
    Nick thumped Alcie on the back. “Thanks, just flew in from out west.”
    Nick was relieved to see that it seemed Alcie had never even heard the name Avery before. The old man obviously hadn’t regaled him with loving anecdotes about his grandson.
    Nick walked into the living room, looking up at the ceiling. “God, it’s been years. Where’s my grandfather?”
    “Mr. Robertson’s taking a nap, sir, always does this time of day.”
    “Man, he’ll be surprised to see me,” Nick said, looking up at the pecky cypress ceiling looming eighteen feet above his head. He scanned the room—overstuffed club chairs in pastel patterns, paintings in expensive gold frames, the whole place reeked of that WASP understated elegance he had read so much about. There also was an overpowering medicinal smell. VapoRub and camphor, he guessed.
    “Ah . . . Mr. Avery, when did you last speak to your grandfather?” Alcie stroked his chin, like something was weighing him down.
    “I’m kind of embarrassed to say,” Nick said, scratching his head, “gotta be four, maybe . . . five years ago.”
    Alcie leaned forward and spoke softly.
    “Well, this is hard for me to say, but your grandfather’s got it pretty bad . . . the Alzheimer’s. Might not recognize you. Fact is . . . I know darn well he won’t.”
    Thank God . . . that Cynthia, such a gold mine.
    “Oh, my God,” Nick said, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
    Nick shook his head and dialed up his anguished look.
    “Well, I just hope maybe there’s some way I can make him feel better. Wish I had come down earlier.”
    “How long are you planning on staying with us, Mr. Avery?”
    “I don’t know, think I’ll kind of play it by ear. Oh, hey . . . if Paul Broberg checks in, don’t tell him I’m here, okay? Guy can be a major pain in the ass. Always trying to teach me how to balance my checkbook, stuff like that.”
    “I know what you mean.” Alcie laughed heartily.
    Nick thumped Alcie on the back again.
    “I appreciate it,” he said and winked. “I gotta tell you, it’s great to be back.”
    “And, sir . . . it is indeed a great pleasure to have you back.”
    Nick was proud of himself. He was, in reality, the total antithesis of a backslapping, hail-fellow-well-met kind of guy. This was all new to him and, goddamn . . . he was pulling it off like a champ. To the best of his knowledge, he had never once slapped anyone on the back before, and he knew, for a fact, he had never winked at anyone. This was the new Nick, he thought. A regular guy but also a man of newfound substance and class.
    He turned and scanned the living room again. He saw a lot of expensive-looking antique furniture. And . . . no, it couldn’t be. He got closer and