Most of the men lounging at poolside wore hats and sunglasses, many with zinc oxide–painted noses. So, while appearing casual, I had to peer as closely as I could to be sure I didn’t pass by Tighe Kostos without noticing.
Lots of hustle-bustle in the lobby, including about a dozen people with “Pruitt Family Reunion ” tee shirts arranging and rearranging themselves for group pictures. I was wondering why they were taking indoor pictures on such a fabulously sunny day when a lady I pegged to be Grandma Pruitt said, “Okay, now let’s take some by the pool.” She stepped out on the patio and the entire clan followed along.
Although the two or three men reading newspapers in the lobby reminded me of Judge Harcroft, none of them resembled Tighe Kostos in the least. I hung out at the elevator bank for a few minutes but no luck. I was about to continue searching the hotel public spaces when two Florida business types—golf shirts and well-pressed khakis—came toward the elevators. One suggested they get a drink, and they walked off to the left.
Remembering what I’d heard about his fondness for expensive scotch, I decided to look for Tighe Kostos in the bar.
A floor-to-ceiling window framed a stunning seascape of the Gulf. I stood inside the doorway and looked around as though I was meeting someone. One of the businessmen I’d seen by the elevator bank gave me an appreciative glance as I walked through the bar. I smiled inwardly. Ophie had done quite the job dressing me.
Sure enough, Kostos was sitting at the end of the bar looking like the view was the last thing on his mind. I took the seat next to him, and when I ordered a Top Shelf Long Island Iced Tea, the bartender asked if I wanted Cîroc vodka.
“Unless you have Stoli Elit.”
He cocked one eyebrow to signal “as if” and turned to the back bar to make my drink. As I had hoped, Tighe Kostos knew his expensive vodkas as well as expensive scotches. He made a quarter turn so he was facing me.
“Hometown drink?”
“No. I’m a Brooklyn girl.”
“Close enough.”
Not to me, but I let it slide. I thought he’d recognize me, but he didn’t. He kept glancing at his phone, which was lying on the bar, then at his watch and back and forth.
I wouldn’t ask my questions if he was waiting for an “any minute now” phone call. I didn’t want him to have an excuse to break away from me before I got answers.
He pushed the phone to one side, signaled the bartender and tapped his glass for a refill. Then he held his glass up in the air, looked at me and said, “Cheers.”
The glass was halfway to his mouth when he put it down and looked at me closely.
“Don’t I know you? That’s not a line. I think we met once before. At the golf club? The Costellos’ cocktail party?”
I was surely working my outfit if he thought I moved in those circles. Well, I thought, here goes.
“We met the other day in Times Square.”
He drew a blank and then he knew. His expression transformed from comprehension to distaste.
“No. You were one of those obnoxious women? Delia Batson’s friends?”
“Yep. I’m Sassy Cabot.” I reached out to shake hands but he cringed.
“You and that other one. Nothing but trouble.”
This wasn’t going nearly as well as I had planned. I decided the direct approach was my only chance.
“Please, Mr. Kostos. Answer one question and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”