“All right,” Leon said.
Constance was brisk and business-like. “All right, let’s get moving. Anne, start packing. Leon, contact your friend. Jon, write that letter. I’ll pour myself another drink and take two Extra Strength Tylenol. And, if I’m lucky, I won’t have a nervous breakdown when your snooping Uncle Alex shows up at my front door.”
Leon snapped her a look of surprise.
“I’m not naïve, Leon. If he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll come, and I’ll be ready for him. All right, let’s get to it.”
CHAPTER 18
Four nerve-wracking days later, Alex Fogel called Constance, speaking to her in a smooth, polite voice. He introduced himself as Leon’s uncle and asked if he could arrange a time for them to meet.
“Why?” Constance said, crisply.
“I think you know why, Mrs. Crowne.”
“I’m sure I don’t. By now, I’m sure Leon has told you that Anne’s incredible story of being a time traveler was complete and utter fiction. Frankly, it was nonsense, and I had believed it was nonsense from the beginning.”
“Why did you take her in, Mrs. Crowne?”
“Because I wanted to. After the trauma, Anne wasn’t well, and she had nowhere else to go. In her medicated, mixed up head, she dreamed up the entire thing. I’m sure Leon has also told you that Anne is no longer staying with me.”
“Yes, he did. When did she leave?”
“That is none of your business. Wherever she went, that is her business. As I’m sure you also know, she left rather abruptly.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“Yes, once. She said she’d left town, and she was staying with a relative.”
“Did she say where that relative lives and who the relative is?”
“Look, Mr. Fogel, I have nothing else to say to you. If you call me again, I will call the police.”
Alex’s voice lightened. “I can assure you I’m not an evil guy, but I am a curious one. Mrs. Crowne, I’d love to buy you dinner. I promise not to be aggressive or rude. If you were in my place, I’m sure you’d have questions. After all, Anne Billings’ story is an extraordinary one. I’ve read the police report, seen her hospital records and spoken to a doctor or two. She had no ID, is on no social media, and the photo Leon gave me to scan made a near-perfect match to an Anne Billings in 1944. It’s mystifying, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Fogel, thank you for your dinner offer, but I’m busy.”
“I didn’t mention a date.”
“I’m busy, on any date.”
There was a pause. “Mrs. Crowne,” he said, in a low, even voice. “I’d just like to talk to you about it, that’s all. It’s clear you’re trying to protect Anne Billings, and I admire that, but I don’t believe you’re going about it the right way.”
“I don’t really care what you believe, Mr. Fogel, and now I must go. I have an engagement. Don’t call me again or, believe me, I will call the police. Oh, and I know a senator or two so, if you persist, I will have them contact your superiors.”
A DAY LATER, CONSTANCE was in a taxi heading for her hairdresser, frequently glancing back over her shoulder, sure she was being followed. There was something both thrilling and terrifying about it; an adventure she’d never experienced. She decided she liked being “tailed,” as the gumshoe detectives in the 1940s movies had called it. Her inner laughter at the absurdity of it all helped to release some of the tension. Glancing about frequently, she didn’t see anyone. She’d asked Leon to send her a photo of Alex Fogel, so at least she’d know him if she saw him.
While her hair was being cut and styled, her wary eyes searched the wall of mirrors. She half-expected to see Mr. Fogel, staring back at her from some shadowy corner, but he wasn’t, and she wondered if that was the end of it. Would the man just walk away?
Via text, and with pre-arranged coded language, Leon kept Constance up-to-date on Anne’s state of mind, as well as the status of the passport. Overall, Anne was fine, but she was anxious and impatient to get the passport and leave for England.
And then the passport began taking longer than any of them had hoped. Leon texted Friend busy. He said, hope to get to it soon.
Constance had offered additional funds to expedite the process, but she’d been turned down. Leon added, “Sorry, can’t be rushed. Friend says everybody’s a VIP.
CONSTANCE MET A FRIEND for lunch at Bistro du Vent, a French-style restaurant just off West 43rd Street. Gladys Mecklenburg was in her sixties, richly dressed and bejeweled, full of talk about the charitable events she’d organized for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the New York Philharmonic.
“I’m concerned, Constance, very concerned that young people today are not engaged in the arts. Oh, there are some, of course, but by and large, whenever I attend the symphony and look around, more than two-thirds of the audience are over sixty, and some much older than that.”
Constance was only half listening, as she distractedly scanned the restaurant, searching for him. At one point, she stiffened, sure she saw Alex Fogel at a table nearby, sitting with an attractive woman who seemed to be purring in her snug designer suit. Yes, that’s how she imagined him to be. A man who liked the ladies and, of course, they liked him.
“Are you listening to me, Constance?” Gladys asked, her wine glass raised to her lips.
“I’m so sorry, Gladys. Yes, I’m listening. Yes, and I agree with you about young people today not supporting the arts.”
Gladys looked annoyed. “I was talking about Thanksgiving. What are your plans for Christmas? I’m in the midst of inviting close friends, say, twenty or twenty-five, for a Christmas Day luncheon. I’d love it if you could come.”
Constance pulled her nervous eyes from the room and focused on Gladys’ round, plump face. “Christmas? Well… I haven’t even thought of it.”
Gladys leaned back, appraising her friend. “Constance, does your obvious distraction have something to do with that young woman you took in?”
Constance looked down and sliced into her lamb shank. “She has left.”
“Left? Do you mean, she’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think that’s for the best.”
Constance’s eyes flipped up. “For the best? Why is it for the best? I miss her. She’s a lovely young woman.”
Gladys replaced her wine glass and reached for her fork. “I only meant that you were spending all your time with her. I had difficulty getting you on the phone, much less out to lunch or dinner. Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand… what I mean is, I can imagine how you feel.”
Constance was in no mood for the conversation. “Gladys, I’m going to leave for England soon. I doubt if I’ll be able to come for Christmas.”
Gladys put her fork down. “England? Do you have friends there? I’ve never heard you speak about it.”
“Charles and I traveled there several times. He had business there. Anyway, I’ll be leaving any day.”
Gladys patted her sculpted gray and white hair. “Constance… We have been friends for a long time, and I can tell you, you’re just not yourself. Something is wrong. What is it?”
At that moment, Constance’s eyes strayed toward the bar, and there he was, Alex Fogel, nursing a mug of beer, watching her.
Constance froze in her chair.
Gladys saw the sudden fear in her eyes. “Constance, what is the matter with you?”
Constance jerked her eyes away from Alex in an effort to gather herself. It was clear he would persist, no matter what she said or did. One way or the other, she would have to face him, and face him she would.
Constance tossed her napkin down. “Gladys, I have to go to the bar and speak to that man.”
Gladys glanced about. “What man? What on earth is the matter with you?”
Constance rose and started for the bar.
CHAPTER 19
Constance sat down on the barstool next to Alex, projecting courage and a challenge.
His dark eyes shrewdl
y inspected her.
“I knew you were following me,” she said, with a cold, dry smile.
“I knew you knew, so I thought I’d make myself seen.”
Constance was surprised by him. He was an attractive, good-looking man in his early fifties with short, salt-and-pepper hair, masculine features and broad, straight shoulders. The dark suit he wore was stylish; his blue patterned tie was silk; his shirt white; his expression disarming.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, cordially.
“I was drinking wine. I think I’ll have a Scotch, neat. Macallan Eighteen. Is that too extravagant for you?”
Alex grinned, ordered the Scotch from the bartender, and then waited to speak until the drink had been delivered and Constance had taken a sip.
“Your lunch guest keeps looking at us,” he said.
“Let her… She’s an old friend. She’ll wait, and she’ll want a detailed account of our conversation.”
“But you won’t tell her.”
“It depends.”
“You haven’t told her, or any of your friends, about Anne, have you, Mrs. Crowne?”
“Yes, I have.”
“But not everything.”
“I never tell everything.”
His dark gaze did not stray from hers. “Mrs. Crowne, this is a delicate and sensitive subject, isn’t it? The mystery of Anne Billings. Against my better belief and judgment; against my innate wisdom; and against every normal and rational atom in my body, I believe that Anne Billings has experienced something that no one has ever experienced before, or at least not that we are historically aware of. Oh, yes, I do believe we have been visited by aliens from other worlds; I believe in remote viewing, and out-of-body experiences. I even believe in Santa Claus when my grandkids are around on Christmas day, but I do not believe, and never have believed, in time travel.”
Constance held his steely gaze. She lifted her glass in a toast. “Good for you, Mr. Fogel. That makes two of us.”
While Constance enjoyed the single malt Scotch, Alex sought a way to break through her stubborn, hard crust of defiance.
“I know you lost your daughter fifteen years ago, Mrs. Crowne.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m sure you are very nosy and very thorough.”
“Yes, I am. A nurse at the hospital told me that you said Anne was, now let’s see, how did she put it?”
Alex glanced up at the ceiling, pulling down the thought. “Yes, you said, and I quote, ‘This young woman is a mystery just waiting to be solved.’”
Constance shrugged. “Yes, so? Anne was a mystery until her memory returned. Now there is no mystery and there is nothing to be solved.”
Alex glanced away in frustration. “Mrs. Crowne, I just want to talk to her.”
“She’s gone.”
“But you know where she is.”
“I don’t. She didn’t tell me. I think she was afraid that you might show up and throw one hundred questions at her. She wants to be left alone, Mr. Fogel, as do I. I have told you the truth, that Anne was very ill, and she was out of her head when she said those things.”
Alex worked hard to maintain his practiced courtesy. “Mrs. Crowne, as soon as I told Leon about the Anne Billings’ photo match in that 1944 article in the CIA’s database, he jumped up into the air and said, and I quote, ‘That is so awesome! She’s a time traveler. How cool is that, Uncle Alex? She time traveled from 1944,’ end quote. Then he high-fived me.”
Constance kept her face tightly under control. “Leon is smart, but he gets overemotional.”
“For all of his eccentricities, Mrs. Crowne, Leon is brilliant. He graduated summa cum laude from Princeton, with a double major in mathematics and computer science. I wanted him to come work with me, but he turned me down. He is not the overemotional type. For one brief and startling moment, I believed him.”
Constance felt her frosty reserve start to crack. She needed to find a way to shut down the conversation and leave. “So now you believe in time travel?”
“Why don’t you just level with me, Mrs. Crowne, and tell me what really happened to Anne Billings? I’m not some evil antagonist. My kids like me and my grandkids adore me. Of course, I shower them with presents and candy, but I like playing Santa Claus.”
Constance looked down at the Scotch. “This is very good. I usually drink Glenfiddich. Do you know that the Macallan distillery dates back almost two-hundred years? And the Bank of Scotland has issued banknotes featuring the Macallan stills?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“My late husband was a single malt Scotch connoisseur. He taught me all sorts of things about Scotch. For instance, Macallan was founded in 1824, I think, and it was one of the first distilleries in Scotland to have a legal license for the manufacturing and selling of alcohol.”
Alex set his chin, his eyes growing with irritation. “I hear bagpipes, and I don’t like bagpipes.”
“Well, I love them, Mr. Fogel. When I hear bagpipes, I want to kiss the first Scotsman I see.”
“You’re being evasive, Mrs. Crowne. I’m sure the Macallan people would be delighted by your knowledge, but you’re wasting it on me. I don’t like Scotch.”
“Don’t tell me,” Constance said. “I bet you’re a vodka and soda man.”
Alex drew back, surprised. “I’m impressed. Yes. That’s absolutely correct. How did you know?”
Constance offered an arrogant grin. “Men like you are careful and conservative, and they would never, ever let themselves go. If they did, they might break or, even worse, they might lose control. One can drink vodka and soda all night and wake up in the morning with no hangover whatsoever. Again, it was a tip from my late husband, who, never once during our early marriage, ever let himself lose control, except for the day he married me. Then, our daughter was murdered. After that, the booze got the better of him. But that’s a sad story for another time, and another Scotch.”
Alex was weary of Constance’s delay tactics. “I spoke with Doctor Helena Weiss,” he said bluntly.
Constance didn’t miss a beat. “Of course you did. She didn’t tell you anything, did she? She wouldn’t. She’s a professional.”
“It’s what she didn’t say that was revealing. I saw it in her eyes. I saw fear, and I saw anger. The kind of anger professionals show when they’ve come across something they don’t understand and it frustrates them, makes them feel insecure, small and inadequate. It’s the kind of look that says, ‘I don’t have an answer for what happened, but I should, because I’m one of the best at what I do. But I don’t have an answer and I don’t want any part of it.’”
Constance lifted an elegant eyebrow. “My, my, Mr. Fogel. You must be psychic to have seen so much from so little.”
He turned from her and drained the last of his beer. “All right, Mrs. Crowne. I won’t trouble you any further. Believe it or not, I know how you feel. I have two daughters. One is practical, level-headed, and a successful lawyer. The other plays the ukulele and sings sad songs in dreary, downtown clubs with her boyfriend, who repairs bicycles for a living. I try not to judge either of them. I love my daughters.”
A hint of a smile tugged up the corners of Constance’s mouth. “I bet you’re a good father.”
Alex looked at Constance somberly. “As I’m sure you were a good mother to your daughter, Mrs. Crowne, and I am truly sorry for your loss.”
Constance avoided his eyes, wishing he’d stop mentioning her daughter.
Alex reached for the bill, glanced at it and pulled his wallet. He removed a credit card and tossed it down.
While the bartender ran the card, Alex ran a hand along his jawline. “Anne Billings was very fortunate that you came along when you did, Mrs. Crowne. Who knows what would have happened to her. She had no memory, no identification, no family or friends, no home to return to, and she was wearing tattered clothes from the early 1940s. And she speaks in a British accent. You see, Mrs. Crowne, I think that Ms. Billings could tell us things about herself, and
about her time travel experience, that we could never imagine. If, and I say if, she did time travel from 1944, then it would prove, as Shakespeare said in Hamlet, that ‘There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Alex retrieved the credit card from the bartender and replaced it in his wallet. He left the stool and, standing, gave Constance a little courtly bow. “Thank you for talking with me, Mrs. Crowne. I won’t follow you or bother you again but, I can assure you, I will keep searching for Anne Billings, and I will eventually find her. What a fine and enlightening day that will be. Good afternoon.”
After Alex was gone, Gladys came over.
“What was that all about, Constance?”
Constance heaved out a sigh. “I feel so confused and so low. We are such a bewildering species, Gladys, filled with all kinds of mischief and strangeness, and most of it hidden beneath the surface, nudging us, mocking us.”
Gladys stared, bewildered. “What in the world are you talking about, Constance? I’ve never seen you like this.”
Constance lifted her head. Her gaze was direct for a moment, and then it drifted away. “I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing. I fear for Anne’s life.”
CHAPTER 20
On her second day sequestered in Leon’s apartment, Anne Billings stood before the full-length mirror, her hair prepped and flattened under a wig cap. With trepidation, she tilted her head slightly forward and slipped on the blonde wig from front to back. Standing erect with her shoulders square, she read her face in the mirror. Who is this strange person? she thought.
She turned left and right, patting the wig, adjusting it and frowning. It was shoulder length and layered, with bangs. The wig’s natural sheen altered Anne’s skin tone, and the overhead track lighting accented her cheekbones, sharpened now because of weight loss.
Leon looked on, pleased. He’d bought it at a shop on West 55th Street. When he’d presented it to her, his face had shined with a boyish pride. “I hope you like it. I thought it might be good to have a disguise.”
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