by Becky Clark
Einstein made no eye contact, as was his custom, but Heinrich bellowed, “Good morning, liebling” at me.
Heinrich walked behind Cordelia, greeting her by pressing his palms against both of her upper arms then kissing the top of her head. She smiled up at him.
AmyJo arrived next, followed soon after by a dragging Jenica.
AmyJo stopped to hug everyone and dispense small but heartfelt compliments in her wake. When I first saw her do this, when we were both freshmen at Drake, I thought it was an affectation. But after living in Des Moines for a few weeks, where I met more and more Iowans, I realized AmyJo was simply a very nice person. Very midwestern. Very polite. And maybe the teensiest bit needy.
Jenica wasn’t quite awake yet and we all typically gave her a wide berth until after breakfast. This morning, however, I couldn’t help but notice the funny juxtaposition of her lacy anklets with tiny pink bows peeking over the tops of her Doc Martens. I mentioned them and was rewarded with her heavily kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing in my direction. I quirked my mouth in chagrined apology and studied my yogurt choices for today.
As usual, AmyJo, Kell, and Heinrich chattered while everyone else responded when necessary. Heinrich and AmyJo veered into dangerous territory when she said that she didn’t particularly care for the movie he told her he watched last night. Heinrich let loose with a phlegm-soaked rebuke of her opinion, her ancestors, and her future children.
We were all used to his German-tinged outbursts, but I, for one, breathed a bit easier after he kissed AmyJo on the head when he went to refill his coffee.
I was grateful nobody had brought up my problems. It was pleasant to pretend none of my chaos had happened. But I knew it couldn’t last much longer.
After AmyJo had caught up on everyone’s doings over the past week, at least those who were awake and willing to share, she turned to me. “I’m surprised you came today. Do you have pages for us, after everything that’s happened?”
I brought them up to speed on the fiasco that was my current life. I left out everything about the Braid and Peter O’Drool, though. “So, no, I don’t have any pages ready, but maybe I could run something by you guys before we actually start the meeting?”
Everyone seemed agreeable.
“I’m mulling over a theory, trying to suss out this real-life story like I would a fictional one. What do you think it would be like to be really, really famous? How would you sketch out a character like that?”
“Like Lapaglia?” Heinrich pronounced it with a respectable amount of phlegm.
“Yes.”
Cordelia said, “I’d want to hide. That’s why I use a pseudonym for my books. I don’t need or want fame.”
“Remember Princess Diana? Chased by paparazzi everywhere she went. So dangerous. So sad.” AmyJo bowed her head reverentially.
“Sucks,” Einstein said.
“What ... Princess Diana?” AmyJo asked him.
“Everything. Sucks to be him,” he answered.
“It probably doesn’t all suck,” AmyJo mused. “He’s rich. I bet he never has to convince his agent or editor into publishing whatever he wants to write. I’m sure his publisher pays for his book tours—”
“And arranges them,” I added, more than a little bit jealous.
“But he can’t pick his nose or fart on a beach somewhere without social media going nuts. If he did, he’d create a cottage industry in meme creation,” Jenica said.
“I wonder when was the last time he had a real vacation,” Kell said. “I know I need at least two every year, one in Europe and one someplace tropical. Gotta recharge those batteries, eh?” He glanced around the table for agreement, forgetting that only Cordelia was mega-rich like he was.
Bless his heart, though. At least he had the decency to blush right to the top of his bald head. In his defense, he’d happily take any of us along with him if we’d ask.
“The vacation thing is real. Ozzi and I were reading some interviews where he said pretty much the same thing. More than once.”
Heinrich nodded. “If I were this Lapaglia I vould vant aus. Gone. Vamoose.”
He butchered Lapaglia’s name so badly, if I didn’t already know who we were talking about, I would have been confused. But he said exactly what I’d been thinking. “So, do any of you think he disappeared himself?” I asked.
I looked in turn at everyone as they nodded.
“Unless he offed himself,” Jenica said.
“Or got offed,” AmyJo added darkly, adding a slow slashing of her neck in case we didn’t understand her meaning.
I sighed. “Oh, goody. I love when we have consensus. Lapaglia either skipped out, killed himself, or got murdered.”
We got ready to move from the solarium to Kell’s library. Immediately his household staff was there to clean up after us. They were spooky in their efficiency.
Jenica read her rhyming picture book text to us, which was surprisingly good. The topic, though, I had problems with. It didn’t seem to me that Burning Man would really speak to pre-schoolers.
Next, we tackled chapter fifty-seven—!!—of AmyJo’s angsty young adult high fantasy romantic comedy coming-of-age. I still, even one-third of the way through, didn’t find it particularly romantic or funny. And really? Star-crossed gryphons? I chose my words very carefully to say maybe she could consolidate the action from about chapter thirty or so to this one when the “meet cute” happened. “You know, tighten up the plot a bit. The backstory of her meeting Medusa isn’t really germane to the story.” Most everyone else said something similar.
Heinrich cleared his throat of some excess excess phlegm, which was a sign he was preparing to say too much. And probably too bluntly. I shot him a warning glance, and cut my eyes at AmyJo, who looked dazed, her rigid posture signaling she was on the verge of shellshock.
He took my hint, seeing she might not be sturdy enough to hear his opinion and nodded imperceptibly. He smiled and said, “I’m loving your use of past participles, liebling. Soon you’ll be grammar Nazi around here!”
I still hadn’t decided if a German “grammar Nazi” was funny or politically incorrect. Normally I feel like I’m fairly woke, politically, but these were strange times.
Last to present was Cordelia, so we all discussed her newest erotica short story as we always did, wearing crimson blushes. Except Heinrich. Nothing embarrassed him, as evidenced once again by his cringe-inducing questions.
I was glad when the meeting was over, because I had to concentrate extremely hard on everyone’s work. The dull throb of a burgeoning headache began to take its toll. Giving constructive and kind critiques took all my focus on a good day, but was almost impossible when I had something like Peter O’Drool and Lapaglia weighing on my mind.
Driving home I smiled at the memory of Heinrich’s mispronunciation of Lapaglia’s name. It wasn’t that difficult and I had said it several times. My smile tightened, though, when I thought back to my interactions with Lapaglia’s girlfriends. When Lakshmi spoke of him I was almost positive she called him “Rodney” and Cecilia called him “Ron,” even though his name was “Rodolfo.” Maybe I just misheard.
I puzzled over it for a few miles. Was it possible they really didn’t know his real name? Why would that be? Mistake or by design? And whose design? Lapaglia misleading them? Them misleading me?
I still believed it was quite plausible that Martina was hiding him, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s one of the other girlfriends. Or none of them.
When I got home I decided to try something. If it worked, great. But if it didn’t, nothing bad would happen.
Theoretically.
Fifteen
When I turned my phone back on, I saw that texts and voice mails had started to come in about Peter O’Drool, crowding out the nasty trolling ones about my debut on Archie Cruz’s news show. I was fairly certain none of them would pan out, since I didn’t think any of them were from the Braid, but I’d tackle them just in case, after I set my plan in motion.
>
For once I didn’t actually want to talk to Martina, so I texted her. His train comes in at 3pm today.
Then I texted Lakshmi to “pick up Rodney” and Cecilia to “pick up Ron” at 3pm.
Whoever doesn’t come to pick him up is clearly the one hiding him. They might run, of course, but that was a chance I was willing to take.
Assuming they all saw the texts.
I had time before I needed to head down to Union Station to find an inconspicuous spot to spy on these women, so I began scrolling through the messages about Peter O’Drool.
I returned calls and texts telling me when and where they’d seen pugs. Most people came right out and asked the amount of the reward and I told them it would depend on how quickly they led me to Peter. None of the callers seemed legit, but I dutifully marked all the sightings on a map of the area I’d downloaded and printed out.
Map in hand, I trudged up the stairs, assuming that Don and Barb had been getting similar phone calls.
As I reached out to knock on their door, it opened and Barb almost ran into me.
“Oh, hello, dear,” she said. “You’re just in time, if you want to go with us.”
“Where?”
“To meet a psychic at Espresso Yourself. She says she wants to help find Peter.” Barb saw Don and I share a skeptical look. “Oh, stop that, you two. I know it’s far-fetched, but we haven’t had any luck with anything else. What have we got to lose?”
“Fifty bucks?” I suggested.
“Nope. She said no charge.” She looked at me. “So are you coming?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I shoved the map in the back pocket of my jean skirt and we walked over to the coffee shop. Don held the door and Barb stepped in first with me right behind her. I was highly skeptical of this outing and scanned the room. There weren’t many people, so it didn’t take long for me to spot a woman wearing enormous sunglasses and swaddled in a leopard print head scarf also wrapped around her neck. She was rummaging in her purse and hadn’t seen us yet.
I yanked Don and Barb back out the door and marched them around the corner, away from the windows.
“Don, that lady was there when Peter got snatched. You said hello to her. She had on a different scarf.” They both started around the corner but I held them back.
“She was there? Are you sure?” Barb asked, eyes darting.
“Almost positive. She looks just like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.”
“She does!”
“She must know something about Peter,” Don said.
“What should we do?” Barb said. “I want to go punch her in the nose!”
“I have a better idea. But you’ll have to wait here while I run back and get something.”
“Hurry. We said we’d meet her five minutes ago.”
“I don’t think she’s going anywhere. But if she comes out, walk up like you just got here and stall her until I get back. When you see me, Barb, meet me in the restroom.”
“Ooh!” Barb bounced on her toes. “We’re hatching a plan!”
I raced back to Ozzi’s apartment and let myself in quietly so I wouldn’t wake him up. I scribbled a note that said, I have your phone over at Espressos. If you wake up before I get back, come over there. Then I grabbed his phone and ran back to the coffee shop.
Barb and Don were still outside when I got there. I handed Barb Ozzi’s phone. “Do you know how to text?”
“Don’t be silly. Who would I text? Don when he’s sitting right next to me on the couch?”
I thought about last night when I texted Ozzi while he was in the bathroom to ask if he wanted beer or wine with dinner. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”
“People,” Barb said, shaking her head.
“I’m going to give you a quick lesson because she saw me with Peter.”
“She saw me with Peter too. That’s why she called,” Don said.
“No, I think she has ulterior motives of some kind. But I’m going to sit at a different table where she can’t see me, but hopefully I’ll be able to hear your conversation. If I think of any questions I want you to ask, I’m going to type them on my phone and send them to Ozzi’s phone. All you have to do is read them when they pop up on the screen. The ringer is already off, so you won’t accidentally get any of his phone calls. Just leave the phone in your lap with the screen where you can glance down at it. You don’t want her to see it, though. Just in case.”
“You’re very smart, dear.” Barb patted my hand.
“Thank you, but so are you guys. I’m not expecting to have to weigh in with anything, but if she says something I want to explore further, I just want to be ready.” I was hoping she could be tricked into giving specifics about the Braid, or Lapaglia, or anything that was going on.
“Okay? You guys ready?”
Barb got serious. “I hope she really is psychic or at least is here to tell us where Peter is.”
Don nodded and put his arm around her while they entered Espresso Yourself. I waited a couple of beats then made my way behind the Gloria Swanson lookalike while Don and Barb walked up to her table.
“I’m Don and this is Barb. I’m sorry we’re late.”
“Not a problem at all,” she said.
“And you are ...?”
“I am your psychic. Please, sit. Would you like coffee?”
If she were psychic wouldn’t she already know that? I thought with irritation. It’s like she’s not even trying.
“That would be nice, thanks.” Don pulled out the chair directly across from the psychic and Barb sat in it. Don sat between them. I scooted my chair over so I could see Barb better. I caught her eye and she nodded slightly. All systems go.
Lavar came over carrying mugs and a coffeepot. He saw me and started to say something, but I put my finger to my lips. He winked and ignored me, just like I wanted.
Nova did not, however. She came up next to me and sat. When I didn’t respond quickly enough, she dropped her chin to my thigh. I rubbed her face then bent down and whispered in her velvety ear. “I’m working right now. Go keep an eye on this lady for me.”
Nova padded over and sat just behind Barb’s chair, facing the psychic. She stared unblinking until the woman said to Lavar, “I am uncomfortable with this ... creature here.”
Lavar showed great restraint and simply finished pouring their coffee while saying, “Nova, sweets, go lay down.” Nova stood and curled up on her rug in the corner, but kept her eye on the psychic.
After they were settled with their coffee, the psychic spoke. “You probably want to know why I called you.”
“You must be psychic.” Coming from anyone but Don that would sound sarcastic, but he said it with a twinkle in his eye and good humor in his voice. He was mounting a charm offensive.
“Ah, yes, well.”
I couldn’t see her face, but I bet she gave him one of those tight, condescending smiles devoid of all warmth.
She continued. “I wanted to meet with you today because I saw your Lost Dog posters”—she held one finger in the air and interrupted herself with an indelicate sneeze—“and wanted to offer my help. I’ve had ... great success in the past finding lost things and hope to do so again. So, let’s begin, shall we?” Don and Barb both nodded. She stretched out her hands to them both. They grabbed hers and each other’s. She tilted her head so far back I thought she’d be looking at me upside down.
Behind the counter I saw Lavar nudge Tuttle and tip his chin toward her. I shook my head and again, put my finger to my lips. They continued to stare, but tried to be inconspicuous.
Finally, the psychic brought her head down. I wondered if her eyes were open or closed, but who could tell with those sunglasses on.
“I see the letter L. Does that mean anything to you?”
“I like a nice limoncello now and again.” Don said. “Oh, and we went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo and saw a lemur a few months ago.”
“We had leftovers for di
nner yesterday,” Barb added.
I closed my lips against the smile that formed.
The psychic took a deep breath and looked heavenward again. “I’m getting a map ... it looks like ... West Virginia ... no, it’s New Jersey. Definitely New Jersey.”
“Peter is in New Jersey?” Barb leaned forward while one hand fluttered to her throat.
Don took back Barb's hand and squeezed it a bit.
“Do either of you have ties to New Jersey?”
“No,” Don said flatly.
I texted Barb. She’s fake. She doesn’t know where Peter is. I saw her glance down at her lap. She looked straight at me, then frowned at the psychic.
The psychic again looked up and remained quiet for a few moments before lowering her head. “Books. I’m in a room surrounded by lots and lots of books...They look like thrillers, maybe suspense...Does that mean anything to you?”
Don pointedly looked to the bookstore side of Espresso Yourself and tilted his head at the psychic. She either didn’t see or she ignored him.
It was clear to me she was pumping them for information about Lapaglia. But why? If she saw the Braid steal Peter O’Drool, why wasn’t she interested in him right now? I hoped neither of them would take the bait.
I began a text to Barb, but before I got a few words in, Don said, “Books? Hm. We used to read quite a bit, the both of us, but you know how it is. The eyes go. We watch more movies than we read books, nowadays. Wait, are you seeing Peter surrounded by books? He never reads thrillers, though. He’s more a non-fiction fan.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth. To the psychic’s credit, though, she remained nonplussed.
I thought of something and texted Barb. Ask her if she sees a man with a silver braid. Tell her he came to you in a dream last night.
Barb glanced down at her lap and frowned. She said, “Any opinion about the integration problems?”
I checked the message I sent.
Barb cleared her throat but didn’t take her eyes off the phone in her lap. “Do you see a man with a silver braid? He came to me in a dream last night.”
The psychic did not raise her head this time. “No, nothing like that.”