SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  But before she transformed into an angel (debatable) she had a huge, unsupervised, unsanctioned party. I tilted my head to the side, lowered my chin, and narrowed my eyes.

  “You’ve got to start trusting me sometime.”

  “You’re sixteen. You’re going to make mistakes. My job is to help you learn from them.”

  “You don’t think I learned my lesson?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  With an epic eye roll she tossed her not-yet-empty yogurt in the trash and stomped out of the kitchen.

  Mother-not-friend, mother-not-friend, mother-not-friend. A mantra. Maybe, when Grace was older, that would change.

  Max stood.

  “Don’t even think about getting that out of the trash,” I told him.

  He tried to look innocent.

  I didn’t believe him for a second. “You need to earn back my trust, too.” With a small sigh, I pulled the yogurt container out of the trash and rinsed it.

  With a regular sigh, Max returned to his spot.

  With a big sigh, I trudged upstairs and donned a black wrap dress, a king’s ransom in gold chains, and high-heeled boots purchased from the most charming boot-maker in Milan (at the time, I’d hesitated at the cost of custom boots but Grace had talked me into them. For which, with the buttery soft leather hugging my calves, I was grateful).

  I put on makeup, combed my hair, checked my purse for bail money (double dates with Libba never went well), and called myself ready.

  Libba was late. No surprise.

  I flipped on the television, watched Sanford and Sons (not my favorite but ABC and CBS were showing movies), and sipped on half a glass of Blue Nun.

  Maybe Libba would cancel and I could spend my evening curled up on the couch watching The Rockford Files.

  Ding dong.

  With the biggest sigh yet, I left the couch, made my way to the front hall, and opened the door.

  Bill stood on the other side. “Ellison, you look lovely.” He glanced back at the idling car. “Libba sent me to fetch you.” Libba’s date had the kind of craggy face that improved with age, a hank of hair that defied his attempts to tame it, and a ready, infectious smile.

  “Let me grab my coat.”

  Bill offered me his arm, escorted me to the car, tucked me into the back, and settled behind the wheel.

  “Nice boots,” said Libba.

  She was dying to know what I wore beneath my mink. Was it on-a-date Ellison or middle-aged-widow Ellison? “Thank you.”

  “We’re having dinner at the Alameda’s rooftop restaurant.”

  The hotel’s restaurant had replaced the venerable Putsch’s 210 as the best restaurant on the Plaza.

  Mother was still mourning Putsch’s. “Ellison—” her voice shook like a leaf in a storm just thinking about the void its departure had made in her life “—we had every birthday dinner I can remember there. Louis Cina would play ‘Happy Birthday’ on his violin. You girls always ordered Lobster Newberg.” And then the dessert cart would appear—serving crépes Suzette, Cherries Jubilee, and Bananas Foster (flaming desserts were a specialty of the house). Marjorie and I gorged on sweets until our stomachs ached.

  The new hotel and its new restaurant had wonderful food and a view (even Mother had to admit the view was better than Putsch’s) but it wasn’t venerable. “Sounds marvelous.” I was missing Rockford but at least I’d be served a delicious meal.

  “Wright’s looking forward to meeting you,” said Bill. “Thanks for joining us.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Why is he in town?”

  “Business,” Bill replied. “He’s buying a shopping center.”

  “Which one?”

  “No idea. Wright never talks about his deals until the ink is dry.”

  Libba twisted in her seat and looked back at me. “After dinner, we’re invited to the Presidential suite for drinks. I’m dying to see it.” Translation—I was not to beg off early.

  I smiled at her (bared my teeth). “How fabulous.”

  A moment later, we pulled into the circle in front of the hotel entrance and a man in a dark suit bounded to the car.

  Bill jumped out and the two men gave each other that odd claspy hug that men have—bodies apart, shoulders touching, solid pats on the back, and a quick release.

  Their voices wafted into the car.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Too long.”

  “I saw you in California when you were buying that vineyard.”

  “But that was three years ago.”

  The door to the backseat opened and Wright thrust his hand toward me. “Ellison? Wright Halstrom, pleased to meet you.”

  I took his hand and climbed out of the car. “A pleasure.”

  “And you must be Libba. Bill said you were pretty. He didn’t do you justice.”

  “Pretty? He told you I was pretty? I’m going to talk to that man about improving his adjectives.” Libba was charmed. I could tell. And Wright Halstrom had managed it with only a few words.

  Bill handed over the keys to the valet attendant and we stepped into the lobby’s warmth.

  Libba loosened the buttons on her coat. “Well?” she whispered.

  “He seems like a nice man to have dinner with,” I whispered back.

  “He seems like a nice man period. And handsome.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I’d have to be blind not to notice. He was that good-looking. And I didn’t care.

  “Pfft.” Libba handed over her mink to the coat check attendant. “You can’t keep comparing every man you meet to Anarchy Jones.”

  My jaw dropped and I handed over my coat. If the girl who took it thought me mentally deficient (mouth hanging open and “bu, bu, but”—the closest I could come to actual words), she hid it well.

  Finally, I managed a coherent sentence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Libba smirked.

  The attendant handed me a chit for my coat.

  “Thank you.” I dropped the chit into my purse.

  “Drinks before dinner?” suggested Wright.

  “That would be lovely,” said Libba.

  The four of us rode a glass elevator to the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. The lighting was dim, the conversations were genteel, and a pianist seated at a baby grand played a quiet version of a Burt Bacharach song. A maître d’ seated us at a table with a view of the Plaza and we ordered cocktails. Scotch for the men, a stinger for Libba, wine for me.

  “You know,” said Libba. “He’s from Kansas City.”

  “Who?” asked Bill

  Libba waved a lazy hand toward the pianist. “Burt Bacharach.”

  “Really?” Wright glanced at the pianist who was wrapping up “Do You Know the Way to San Jose.”

  “Isn’t he married to Angie Dickinson?” asked Bill.

  The pianist transitioned to “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.”

  “Pepper Anderson.” A naughty grin played across Wright’s lips. “Thanks, honey.” This he said to the waitress who delivered our drinks. He turned to his friend. “Say Bill, do you know anything about escrow laws in Missouri?”

  Bill and Wright launched into a technical discussion about commercial real estate. The boring topic and Wright’s hard-to-follow-rapid-fire delivery glazed my eyes in no time.

  Libba yawned, leaned closer to me, and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I ran into Mark Kittering.”

  “Oh?”

  “He asked me about the top sponsorship level for the gala.” She smirked. “You can thank me later.”

  “Qing Dynasty?” I squeaked. It had not been my idea to name the sponsorship levels after Chinese dynasties—Qing, Ming, Tang, Han, and Zhou. I’d inherited the levels with the chairman’s job.

  “Yes.” She looke
d inordinately please. “He said he’d have his banker send a check.”

  “But Cole Cantwell is Ming.”

  Mark Kittering and Cole Cantwell were charming, urbane, and rich. Each man was in possession of a hollow leg (seriously, they could drink anyone but each other under the table). Each man lived in a home filled with gorgeous antiques and drool-worthy art (Mark went for impressionist and Cole collected pop art). Each man was philanthropic.

  It was too bad they hated each other with a passion that rivaled the Hatfields and McCoys (more like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford—they were that catty).

  Cole Cantwell was going to be madder than a wet hen when he saw Mark’s name above his in the program. But, if I called Cole and warned him, Mark would be furious.

  Libba had positioned me between a rock and a hard place.

  Her lips formed a small, distressed circle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  At least she hadn’t hung me out to dry on purpose.

  “What are you girls whispering about?” asked Bill.

  “Ellison is chairing a gala for the museum.” Libba smiled as if being called a girl didn’t bother her. Maybe it didn’t. It bothered me. “We’re just talking details.”

  “I think it’s great you keep yourself busy with parties.” He patted the back of Libba’s hand.

  Was it me, or did Libba’s smile look a bit strained? I, for one, wanted to stab one of those little cocktail swords into his thigh. He’d called us girls and made the gala sound like a party planned on the fly.

  “It’s a lot of work,” Libba insisted. “It will raise a lot of money for the museum.”

  “Of course it will. I bet you’re great at soliciting donations.” Bill combined being patronizing and salacious in just two sentences. It had to be some kind of record.

  Libba’s smile faltered.

  I clenched my fingers together. It was a good thing we weren’t at the table where I’d have access to flatware. Bill deserved a fork in his thigh.

  Wright directed his gaze toward the Plaza which twinkled below us like an enchanted fairyland. “This is some view. You know, Nichols, the developer, invented the percentage lease. It started there.” Wright didn’t see magic; he saw dollar signs.

  The conversation turned toward the weather, the Kansas City Kings (I dropped Tiny Archibald’s name as if I actually knew who he was), and dinner.

  We were led into the dining room.

  We sat.

  We perused the menu.

  Lemon Sole Caprice for Libba, Chicken Almandine for Bill, a filet for Wright, and the South Pacific Salad for me.

  “You need more than a salad,” said Bill. “You girls diet down to nothing but men like girls with some meat on their bones.”

  “Ellison likes salad.” Libba’s tone carried too much intensity for the banality of her words.

  “Especially this one.” Keeping my voice light and polite required effort. “There’s crabmeat and scallops and artichoke hearts. And water chestnuts. I love water chestnuts.”

  “I only like ‘em when they’re wrapped in chicken liver and bacon.” Bill grinned at Wright.

  The men returned to talk of real estate. Again.

  The girls (this girl) stared out the window at the home of the percentage lease.

  Libba (the other girl) called the waitress over and ordered a third stinger.

  We made it through dinner on the back of a convoluted story about a real estate investor who’d gamed the system.

  We made it through dessert talking about basketball.

  “You girls like hoops?” If Bill called me a girl one more time…

  “Ellison knows more about it than I do,” said Libba

  “And I know next to nothing.”

  “The tournament’s coming up.” Bill rubbed his hands together.

  “UCLA will probably win.”

  He looked at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. “Pardon?”

  “They always do.”

  Wright chuckled. “Ellison knows more than she’s telling.”

  I didn’t.

  The men ordered desserts. A mocha torte for Bill, a slice of Black Forest cake for Wright. Libba and I opted for coffee.

  “Wright, where are you from?” I asked.

  “You can’t tell? Most people peg my accent. New York.”

  I had pegged his accent, I was just tired of talking about real estate and sports. “Really? What part of the city?”

  “Brooklyn born but I live in Manhattan now.”

  “Ellison was just there for an art opening,” said Libba.

  “Oh?” So much boredom in one word.

  “Her art. She sold everything.”

  Wright looked like he was stifling a yawn.

  “I think it’s great the way you girls find ways to keep busy,” said Bill.

  When I declined dessert, the waiter had taken my fork. Too bad. I knew exactly where I’d sink the tines.

  Wright scraped the last morsel of chocolate and cherry off his plate and glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to call it a night. I’ve got a call.”

  A crestfallen expression settled on Libba’s face. “On a Friday night?”

  “It’s to Hawaii.”

  “Hawaii?” Libba sounded like a child denied a promised treat—the treat being a private tour of the presidential suite.

  “I’m thinking of buying a hotel.”

  Libba shot Bill an I-want-to-see-that-suite-and-you-promised look.

  Bill pulled at the collar of his shirt.

  Wright called the waitress over. “Charge this to my room.” He stood.

  I stood.

  Libba remained seated, looking as if she’d like to cross her arms and pout.

  Bill helped her from her chair, pausing to whisper in her ear.

  Her expression softened and she regarded him with a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Thank you for dinner, Wright.” I smiled at my host. If Bill drove quickly, I might make it home in time for Police Story.

  “My pleasure.” He glanced at his watch a second time. “Would it be awful if I didn’t ride down to the lobby with you?”

  “Not at all.” We’d be able to leave with less fuss. “Thank you again.”

  We parted at the elevator bank. Wright took a regular elevator down to his suite. Libba, Bill, and I rode the glass elevator to the lobby.

  They held hands and admired the hundred-eighty-degree view.

  I dug in my purse for the coat check. The damned thing had to be in there somewhere.

  We stepped into the lobby and I saw him right away—the sideburns, the leather coat, the man from Winstead’s who’d stared at Grace. My feet slowed. Was he following me? No. That wasn’t possible. Still, a shiver skated across my shoulders.

  There was a girl with him. She was thin and blonde and the hard-edge of her gaze couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes. I guessed her age at seventeen.

  The girl noticed my staring and, in a bit of admirable bravado, rolled her eyes.

  I adjusted my guess. She was sixteen.

  Definitely too young to be with the man. Definitely too old to be wearing a school-girl uniform (a school-girl uniform except for the shoes. Real school girls didn’t wear stilettos with their knee-socks).

  I walked toward them and the man scowled at me. That I could live with. But the smell of stale cigarette smoke?

  I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

  The girl looked away.

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  My steps slowed. Self-preservation. The look on his face (predatory and mean) was too alarming to continue.

  “Ellison, what are you doing?” Libba grabbed my elbow. “Let’s go.”

  “Just a minute.” I freed my arm, pretended I didn’t notice the ma
n’s death-glare, and approached the girl. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was small and miserable.

  “Ellison, get your coat. The valet is bringing the car around.”

  I hated to leave the girl. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “She’s sure.” The man’s voice turned the words into a snarl.

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits, and predatory and mean morphed into downright scary.

  “I’m fine.” The girl rubbed her arms.

  “Where’s your coat?” I asked. The man had one. Where was the girl’s? She wore only a white blouse unbuttoned low enough to reveal the lace of her bra.

  “Ellison!” Libba was getting impatient.

  “One minute.” With Libba trailing behind me, I marched over to the front desk. “May I please speak with the manager?”

  A young man with diminutive stature and neat hair (he was barely out of high school) looked up from a register (maybe he was twenty-five—probably he was twenty-five). “I’m a manager.”

  “Is that man a guest in your hotel?”

  “Which man?”

  I pointed at the man with his sneer, and sideburns, and leather coat.

  “No.”

  “I think he’s—” I searched for the right word “—pandering. And I’m sure she’s a minor.”

  The young man, not much more than a minor himself, paled. “I’ll take care of it, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” I turned and walked back toward the girl, ignoring Libba who was actively tapping her foot.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the girl.

  She glanced at the man and shook her head.

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

  “Tell her,” said Libba, who’d followed me from the front desk. “She’s as stubborn as a mule.”

  The girl’s gaze traveled from me to Libba and back again. Then she tilted her head and looked up at the Sideburns.

  He answered with a tiny shake of his head (and another death-stare for me).

  “My name is Starry. Starry Knight.”

  Eleven

  “Starry Knight!” Libba’s voice was loud enough to turn every head in the the lobby. She clapped a hand over her mouth and mumbled, “You made that up.”