Stunner

by Niki Danforth

  “It’s a natural question, Mrs. Avery,” I reassure the manager of The Hamilton. “Plus, it would have been tough for Julie to support a child. You know, fulltime student, not much money.”

  “Yes, well, she told me she was still working all of that out.” Mrs. Avery taps one of her hands against her leg. She stops. “And then Julie was gone.”

  “No idea where she went next?” I ask.

  “None.”

  “You never saw her again?”

  “That’s not the case at all.” Now Mrs. Avery smiles widely. “Ten months later Julie returned. She told me she’d had a little girl and said the baby was with someone who could care for her and give her a lot of love. She even showed me a picture of herself holding the little angel in the hospital.”

  So, Juliana did have a baby. I think back to our conversation in the library at Meadow Farm, when she told me she had four stepchildren. She never volunteered that she had a child of her own or whether she gave it up for adoption. But then why would she respond to my curious—OK, nosy—questions?

  The apartment manager gazes out a window fronting the busy avenue. “I remember Julie looked just great. Not at all as though she’d recently had a baby. Anyway, she spent a few more years finishing her degree and working, and then she left for good. California, I think.”

  “Any forwarding address? I’m really trying to play catch-up here.” I suppose my statement sounds sort of weak.

  In fact, Mrs. Avery gives me a funny look, and I can practically see the wheels turning. “How is it your family became estranged from Julie?” she asks. “And why have you been out of touch for so long?”

  I pathetically make it up as I go along. “I prefer not to go into all the particulars, since Julie broke it off with us when she was pregnant. Certain family members didn’t approve and were very critical that she didn’t plan to marry the father. She was secretive about all the details, and you know how some people can be quite judgmental. Well, she just washed her hands of us, and I can hardly blame her.” I try my best to look regretful.

  Mrs. Avery’s face relaxes, and she looks at me with sympathy. “Family can be tough, even brutal at times. That poor girl.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Mrs. Avery. And I want to let bygones be bygones. I thought this family reunion would be a perfect way to knock down any remaining barriers.”

  “You’re so right, Mrs. Lake.”

  “Plus, I’m dying to meet her daughter,” I add, “and bring them both back into the family.”

  We’re quiet, and the silence goes on a little too long. Then the building manager stands up, but before she can speak, I jump in. “While I’m here, may I see a room? I have a niece coming to New York for an internship in the fall. Of course she doesn’t want to live in New Jersey with us, but insists on being here, in the Big Apple. The Hamilton could be the perfect solution, providing you have availability in September.”

  Mrs. Avery smiles broadly. “We will have some turnover at that time. Tell you what. I’ll get you a key, and while you look at one of our rooms, I’ll put together a packet of information and an application.” She heads for the office, still looking at me. “I’ll also see if I can find that forwarding address for Julie. Anything to help.”

  ~~~~~

  Exiting the elevator on the twelfth floor, I quickly find room 1226 and unlock the door. Even though The Hamilton Residence façade is magnificent and its lobby plush, the rooms are anything but, if this one is typical of the others in the building.

  Room 1226 is modest and dark with its one small window facing a brick wall perhaps fifteen feet away. A twin bed, night stand, dresser, desk, and chair all look vintage 1950s and well worn. These pieces of furniture are stuffed in the small room and make the space feel cramped. Still, the room and its adjoining bathroom are spotlessly clean. Plus, though I haven’t seen the brochure as of yet, you probably can’t beat the price if you’re starting your first job in the city or going to school.

  I sit on the bed—it feels firm—and imagine Juliana coming back to this lonely little room after working at Benny’s Bar & Grill in Soho where she made good money. Living at The Hamilton, with its doorman and front deskman, protected from the Bobby Taylors of the world, probably allowed her to save a lot of money. Her growing nest egg most likely made her move to California possible.

  My phone sounds a ping, and I find an email from the community college chess club advisor. He writes he can’t meet with me for three weeks because of schedule demands. I probably don’t need to talk with him anyway. Reading the college transcript and then speaking with Mrs. Avery has yielded plenty of new information about my brother’s girlfriend, or is it fiancé?

  I wonder if Juliana has told Frank anything about this period of her life and, most importantly, having a baby.

  Time to go home. I’m done for the day.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Strolling from the dry cleaner to my car, I spot Juliana coming out of the village coffee shop. While depositing my clean clothes in the Mustang and grabbing my hemp shopping bag for the Saturday morning farmers market, I watch her walk in the direction of several boutiques. For a budding P.I., this is a golden opportunity to practice the basic surveillance techniques that Will has been teaching me.

  I cross to the other side of the street so I’m now opposite her, which is the preferred strategy when shadowing a target in a residential or uncrowded neighborhood of village shops. I enter a bookstore where I’m able to purchase a newspaper while watching Juliana through the window. She carefully checks out the merchandise displayed in front of the boutiques, but never enters any of the shops.

  Juliana continues down the street, and I notice admiring glances from men as they pass her. She could never do surveillance because she stands out too much. No matter how much she’d cover up, I don’t think it would ever be enough to help a woman with her immense beauty blend into the background.

  She crosses the street at the train station to visit the farmers market. I head into the station parking lot and do the same, losing her in the throng. I have just broken golden rule number one: Never take your eyes off the target.

  Turns out the lapse is only for a moment. I soon spot her at a vegetable stand looking over a display of freshly picked tomatoes. Checking baked goods at a different stand, I select and buy two loaves of multi-grained bread and place them in my bag.

  I work on doing better with surveillance rule number one and remain discreet, observing Juliana through my sunglasses. Should she spot me, I’m ready with my cover story, which is rule number… What? Two? You must have a reason for being there if you get made, or seen, by your target.

  I move on to buy flowers at a different stand, while Juliana stays put, having switched her focus to yellow and green zucchinis. As I place the flowers in my bag, I lift my head slightly, watch Juliana pay for the vegetables and glance around the market in general. That’s when I see him.

  Thank goodness for my shades, which hide where I’m looking, because presently I’m staring straight at Bobby Taylor. He sticks out from others milling about the market who look like ordinary locals. In contrast, Bobby’s jeans are worn out and dirty, and he’s wearing the same leather jacket that I’ve noticed before. He pushes at his reflecting shades that hide his eyes and adjusts a grubby baseball cap turned backward over his stringy hair.

  I catch a flash of what appears to be a knife handle poking out of Bobby’s jeans near his left hip, and it sends shivers up my spine. Juliana’s sleazy cousin is hanging back, watching her like prey, and she’s oblivious to his presence.

  But she’s not oblivious to mine. I’ve been so busy watching him that I again broke rule number one about observing the target. All of a sudden Juliana marches directly up to me, her body language and face full of anger.

  “Are you following me? Again?” she hisses.

  “Hell, no,” I insist. “I always shop the farmers market.” Cover story delivered with confidence. Will would approve.

 
“Right,” she says with sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Of course you just happen to be at the farmers market when I’m here. Frank told you to leave us alone.”

  “Look, Juliana, don’t flatter yourself.” I show her my market-filled bag. “I grew up here. It’s a small community. Friends and neighbors run into each other all the time around town. I promise you, I am not your problem.” I nod behind her. “Don’t look now, but there’s some creep over there with a knife, who’s been watching you.”

  Juliana begins to turn. “Don’t move. You’ll tip him off,” I say. “I believe it’s Bobby Taylor.” She stiffens, and I continue, “And he looks pissed.”

  I remember that Will told me a good P.I. is quick thinking and fast to react. In a split second, I come up with a plan. “Juliana, do you have a car nearby?”

  “No. Frank is picking me up in an hour.” Her voice is shaky, and she glances around.

  “My Mustang’s right up the street, but don’t wait there.” Bobby Taylor moves stealthily among the stands, heading in our direction. “There’s a bookstore not too far from my car. Go inside and wait for me in the back.”

  “What are you going to do, Ronnie?” Juliana’s hands shake.

  “Create a diversion. Now go!” The moment I push her toward the street, I observe a police officer leaning against his cruiser at the train station on the edge of the market.

  Bobby Taylor notices Juliana leaving and picks up speed as he makes his way through the stands. I amble toward him with my head down as if I’m shuffling through my bag that holds the flowers and bread.

  I time my movements to reach him just as he passes a display of stacked glass jars filled with homemade preserves. At that moment, I pretend to stumble and crash into him big-time, causing him to fall right into the middle of the jam display. The jars all crash down, shattering, and making an amazing racket.

  People crowd around us as I apologize to Bobby and the owner. I pull out my wallet as Bobby, swearing at me, stands up and says, “Don’t I know you from somewhere—” His feet go out from under him because of the slippery jams and preserves covering the pavement. I couldn’t have accomplished the takedown better with my own two hands.

  Bobby lands hard on his tailbone and lets out another string of obscenities. He tries unsuccessfully to get up and go after Juliana. But any view of her is blocked by the crowd around us, and I’m confident that she’s gotten away.

  I once again spot the knife in his waistband and yell, “Knife! Knife!” Panic breaks out, and people scatter. I yell to the policeman, “Officer, help! He’s got a knife!”

  The minute Bobby Taylor hears me yell for the police, he’s out of there. Gone. Nowhere to be seen. I hear a motorcycle start up and screech on by. I see Bobby Taylor speed out of the village in the opposite direction from the bookstore, where I hope Juliana is waiting for me.

  After giving the upset jam seller what I consider to be a fair amount of money, I walk to the bookstore. Inside, I wave at Juliana to come with me to the young girl by the register, “Two cups, please,” and I pay her. Juliana and I fix ourselves tea at a self-serve counter.

  We sit down. She’s pale; her hands still shake as she holds the cup. She’s hyperventilating slightly. “Calm down, Juliana. Take some deep breaths. Drink the tea,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better.” She says nothing and sips the hot Earl Grey.

  Then I barely hear her say in a quiet voice, “Thank you, Ronnie, for helping me back there.”

  “Juliana,” I begin, “why is this creep still in your life? After so many years?” I have a fantasy that she’ll ’fess up and tell me the entire story—the Teresa-years all the way up to now.

  No such luck. She stares at her steaming mug. “Who is Tía Connie?” I ask. Nothing.

  I pull out my phone and find a photograph of Tía Connie and place it right in front of Juliana, next to her mug. She looks at it and lashes out at me. “What is it with you, nosing around in other people’s lives? How often have you followed me? I could go to the police and file a harassment complaint against you—”

  “Somehow,” I interrupt and take back my phone, “I don’t think you’ll do that, go to the police, that is.” I click onto a shot of Francesca at the small market in Scranton and hold the phone right up to her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me about Francesca.”

  Juliana gets a hard, cold look on her face and swats the phone aside. Her face is now in my space, too close to me, her voice low and controlled. “Ronnie, do not insert yourself into something you know nothing about. Especially when it concerns the safety of a child.” She slams her fists onto the table and gets up. Is Juliana behaving like a lioness protecting her cub?

  As she leaves, I call out, “If you’re in some kind of trouble, I could help you. I’m not your enemy, Juliana.”

  “Hah!!” The door of the bookstore slams behind her.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  My bags sit unpacked at the Malibu Palm Hotel in a room that opens directly on the beach. Walking onto the warm sand to recline in a chaise under a striped umbrella, I gaze at a quiet ocean with small waves spilling over the sand. If I’m going to investigate Juliana Wentworth’s life in California, then I’m going to make the most of it while I’m out here.

  I put my ear buds in and turn on my iPod. There it comes—that distinctive Don Felder guitar open. Whenever I play this song, it’s just as magical as when I first heard it more than thirty-five years ago.

  I know it’s trite, but I’ve always wanted to listen to the Eagles hit, “Hotel California,” on a beautiful West Coast beach. Looking up from the chaise, I stare at an unbelievably clear blue sky. I stretch from my fingertips down to my toes while taking in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly. Aaah. Feels good. I settle back and listen to the rest of the song…until one of the last verses makes me pause.

  Hah! Am I not a prisoner of my own device (to loosely quote the song lyrics)? Pushing and pushing Frank, until he finally had enough and banned me from Meadow Farm and my family? Whoa, Ronnie, stop thinking like this. Not the time to go there.

  I turn down the volume and study the cover of the book in my hands, the same one I saw on Juliana’s nightstand at Meadow Farm—The Tender Bar by J. R. Moehringer. The author writes about growing up at a neighborhood bar and his climb through the social classes. This is a big part of my prep before visiting Café Casablanca tonight to try to meet the man with the mysterious name of Dragomir. He gave Juliana her copy of this book and even inscribed it, pronouncing her as his most gifted student.

  Ah, yes, Dragomir, the famous maître d’ of Café Casablanca, where the elite meet, as I learned in my research while flying to the Coast. Not just Hollywood elite, but old-guard L.A., encompassing the pinnacle of the city’s social, political, artistic, and financial worlds.

  Café Casablanca is where Juliana worked for three years while she finished a bachelor’s degree and then began a graduate program in art history. The café provided a different sort of education, where she was able to polish her people skills under the tutelage of Dragomir and also take the final step in her evolution from Teresa/Terry/Julie with one more name-change, to Juliana. Finally, the restaurant also provided the perfect opportunity for Juliana to meet her future husband, successful investor Carleton Todd Wentworth, an original backer and regular at the café.

  ~~~~~

  The valet hands me a ticket as I step out of my rental car. Before walking through the massive, arched, double doors of the imposing Café Casablanca, I take in the Spanish tile roof; decorative wrought-iron; arched windows; and stucco walls of its Mediterranean façade. I know from my in-flight homework that Wallace Neff, architect to a number of Hollywood stars during the first half of the twentieth century, originally designed this restored Beverly Hills mansion.

  Entering, I stare at the vaulted ceiling, which is fifty-feet high and truly grand. A distinguished gentleman in a dark suit interrupts my scrutiny of this classic California architecture and greets me. “Mrs. Lake, we are so ha
ppy you have come to Café Casablanca.” His brilliant smile is almost blinding. How does he know exactly who I am? But then he must have a great many skills that aren’t easily deciphered.

  He shakes my hand and executes a quick bow with his head. “I am Dragomir, and Ms. Dugan is at her table,” the maître d’ continues in heavily accented English. Is the inflection Bulgarian or is it some Hollywood-fantasy Slavic intonation?

  “Thank you, Dragomir. I’ve looked forward to my visit. You and the Café are legendary.” We walk past the bar and into the dining room, its décor reflecting an exclusive ambiance, like that of an Old Hollywood private club.

  As I discreetly glance at the tables along the way filled with photogenic patrons, I’m relieved my hair got a good blow-dry at the hotel salon and that I guessed right in choosing an outfit for this place. My sleek white pants break at silver sandals, and a slinky, long-sleeved, scoop-necked top with shimmery silver and white stripes finishes off my low-keyed dinner look with a touch of sexiness. At least in terms of my appearance, I feel like a Café Casablanca regular.

  I follow Dragomir toward a table at the other end of the dining room where I can see Drea Dugan looking over a menu. She’s a girlfriend with whom I shared an office at the beginning of our careers in the TV business. Twenty-plus years ago, Drea moved to Los Angeles and became hugely successful in distribution. Since then, she’s made boatloads of money and remains a confirmed workaholic.

  Drea spots me and stands up at her corner booth with a view of the entire dining room. “Hi, baby!” She beams and embraces me in an earth-mother hug. It’s as if no time at all has passed, and we pick up from where we left off during the last occasion we saw each other, several years before.