Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

“A three-to-one vodka gimlet, straight up, shaken, very cold.”

“Make that two,” a man’s voice said from behind her, and someone took a seat two stools down. “My favorite,” he said to Holly.

Jackson had been dead for nearly a year, but Holly still wasn’t ready to be hit on. She half-turned toward the stranger and nodded. She wasn’t getting into a conversation. Then she relaxed. He was sixtyish and well preserved, at that. He was beautifully, if casually dressed in a blue blazer, gray trousers, black alligator loafers, and what looked like a silk shirt, pale yellow and open at the collar. A pocket square that matched the shirt peeped from his breast pocket.

“It’s a wonderful drink,” she said, comfortable talking to someone who was so much older than she, and who, into the bargain, was quite handsome—tall, slim, tanned, and with thick, perfectly white hair, well cut.

“I’ve never understood the charm of martinis,” he said, “except that they look so wonderful. A gimlet gives you the aesthetic reward of the martini, without having to drink it. Three-to-one is just right, too; bartenders never measure, and they always put too much vodka in a gimlet.” He glanced at the bartender, who pretended not to be listening. The man picked up a jigger and started measuring.

“Yep,” Holly said, “you have to train your bartender to do it right.”

The bartender set two frosted martini glasses on the bar, shook the cocktail shaker for half a minute, then strained the pale, green liquid into the two glasses, decorating each with a slice of lime. “Try that,” he said.

Holly and the man raised their glasses to each other and sipped.

“You’ve earned your tip,” the man said to the bartender.

“You certainly have,” Holly echoed.

The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Ed Shine,” he said, “like the shine on your shoes.”

Holly took the hand. “Holly Barker.”

“From Vero?”

Holly shook her head. “Orchid Beach, up the road.”

“Really? Me too, for the past four months.”

“I haven’t seen you around,” Holly said.

“Oh? Do you get around all that much?”

“I sure do,” Holly replied. “I work for the city. What do you do, Mr. Shine?”

“Ed, please. I’m retired from the property development business, in New York. Now all I do is grow orchids and play golf.”

“What sort of orchids?” Not that she knew much about them.

“Lots of sorts. I develop hybrids. You know anything about them?”

“Not really.”

“I was attracted to Orchid Beach first because of the name. Saw it on a map and thought I’d have a look.”

“And you liked the town?”

“Orchid Beach is the way Florida should have turned out but didn’t,” he said. “No high-rises on the beach, beautiful neighborhoods, very manicured.”

“I agree,” Holly said.

Ham stepped up to the bar. “One of those,” he said to the bartender, pointing at Holly’s drink. He gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek.

“Ed, this is my father, Hamilton Barker, known as Ham. Ham, this is Ed Shine, a recent arrival in Orchid.”

The two men shook hands. “Move over here, Ed,” Ham said, pointing at the stool next to Holly. “We’ll bracket her.” He took the stool on the other side of her.

“Ed grows orchids,” Holly said.