The Good Stranger (A Kate Bradley Mystery)

by Dete Meserve

  Then we saw it. A gift card wrapped in a purple ribbon perched on the windshield of a Honda Civic.

  We picked up the pace and caught up to the guy pretty quickly. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are you doing this, putting gift cards on these cars?”

  The guy turned around. He was handsome. Perfectly symmetrical features, square jaw, deep-set blue eyes. He looked like he wanted to bolt. “Yeah. That’s not a crime or anything, is it?”

  “No. We’ve just been wondering who’s behind it. And now we know. I’m Kate Bradley,” I said, extending my hand.

  Scott removed his hood. “Scott Jameson. From ANC.”

  The guy looked at Scott, then at me. “Aren’t you on that Wonders show?”

  “Yes. But what we’d like to know is . . . who are you?” Scott asked.

  “Name’s Logan,” he said, with a hint of a southern accent. “But this isn’t what you think. This is my first time doing this. I’m not the guy who’s been doing this all over.”

  “You’re not?”

  He was young. Barely out of high school. Wearing blue jeans with a belt and a navy-blue polo, tucked in. “I’m just visiting. From Kentucky. Here staying with my aunt and uncle for my cousin’s graduation.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I saw all the news about the gift cards and thought I’d join in.”

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Just like that? You thought you’d put gift cards on windshields?”

  “I started a new job a few weeks ago, so I can’t afford to do very many.” He scanned the cars on the street. “I’m doing, like, what, six total.”

  “You’re from Kentucky, but you’re putting gift cards on windshields for six people you don’t know in Manhattan?” Scott asked.

  “When you say it that way, it sounds kind of strange. But, yeah. Some guy from here helped me out when the airline lost my luggage on the way in through Dallas. So why’s it weird if I kinda do the same thing and help out a few strangers before I go back?”

  Scott and I looked at each other. He had a point.

  He shrugged a backpack onto his shoulders. “Look, it’s cool meeting you both. But I have a plane to catch, so I’m gonna run.”

  “Mind if we snap a photo of you in case we can use it for the news report?” I asked, bringing out my phone.

  He looked at us, then his phone, deciding. “I guess.”

  As I snapped the photo, he looked away, ruining the picture.

  We had no real leads. None.

  Which made it easy for Mark to say no to staying on this story. And with the government shutdown finally over after a tense two-thirty-in-the-morning agreement between the parties, he assigned me the aftermath. That meant I spent the morning looking into how long it would take the airline industry to get back to normal after the shutdown had created flight delays and chaos at major airports around the country. After a morning interviewing FAA officials and a flight captain for American Airlines, I headed back into the newsroom and into the kitchen for a late-afternoon cup of coffee.

  Scott was there, talking to a man I recognized as one of the legendary producers at the network, Michael Kim, a gruff-voiced machine of a man. Michael’s conservative gray suit and tie were an instant tell that he was one of the top brass, not someone you’d see in the newsroom kitchen very often. Scott towered over him and was dressed for adventure: strong, tanned legs beneath blue cargo shorts and a trim white henley. He was barefoot and held a pair of water shoes.

  “Kate, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, motioning for me to come over.

  “Is there an Amazon rain forest somewhere around here?” I asked, nodding at the Oakley sunglasses slung around his neck.

  He smiled. “I’m shooting a promo in the studio. Green screen is the closest I’m getting to the rain forest right now. Michael, meet Kate. I’ve been lucky to work with her on some of the stories about all the good things happening around Manhattan.”

  “I’ve seen your reports,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “You know, one of the rumors going around is that the whole thing is an operation cooked up by some of the news bosses here to boost ratings.”

  He must have thought I was kidding. “Well, it is boosting ratings.”

  “And it’s strange that two of the people I included in my reports during the blackout ended up getting help.”

  He shrugged. “I get the feeling you already know that it’s not the executive news team at work here. What your observation does prove is that whoever is responsible is watching you.”

  Watching you. My pulse quickened as I tried to put it together. Why were the people doing this good stuff watching me? Why didn’t they want me to find Marie?

  Michael clapped a hand to Scott’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you after I’ve nailed down the details.”

  As Michael left the kitchen, Scott turned to me. “I’ve been thinking about the gift cards guy, Logan. Why does a guy wear a backpack at five in the morning if he was only putting gift cards on five or six windshields?”

  “Maybe because he was heading to the airport afterward?”

  “My guess is that there were more gift cards in that backpack. And we stopped him before he could give them out.”

  “I’ve been wondering about him too. I checked a photo of the gift card he was giving out against one of the original ones you found on your windshield.” I scrolled through some photos on my phone and showed one to him. “They’re identical. Same gift card. Same exact shade of purple ribbon.”

  “So maybe he’s not the copycat he says he is.”

  “A guy who’s visiting from Kentucky for his cousin’s graduation just happens to use the exact same ribbon and gift cards that hundreds of people have already received? What are the odds of that?”

  He shrugged. “Could be the ribbon and gift cards are pretty common, though. Maybe we should check out a couple of Duane Reades or CVSs tonight?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Except . . . not tonight.” I sighed. “Tonight, I’ve been summoned to the Met with my dad.”

  “Opening night. Barber of Seville. Lucky you.”

  “Seats at third row, center. I’m planning to leave at intermission.”

  “You’re not excited?”

  “Screeching sopranos. Hammy acting. Hardly.”

  “It’s a wacky story about love and disguises. You’re going to be wowed.”

  “‘Wacky.’ ‘Wowed.’ You did hear me say that I’m going to the opera, right?”

  He laughed. “I envy that you’re going to the opera.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve been going since forever. First my mom or my aunts dragged me; then I actually grew to love it.”

  “Maybe you’ll go in my place?”

  “Third-row center? Sure. But I’m pretty sure your dad wouldn’t like that.”

  “Actually, I have an extra ticket. All yours, if you want it,” I said, then flushed red. It sounded like I was asking him out. Like I’d planned it. But I’d begun to feel so at ease around him that the invitation tumbled out before I’d considered how he might interpret it. “I didn’t mean that to sound . . . well, it’s not like I’m asking you—”

  “I’m in. But I know your motives.”

  My eyes traveled over his face. “You know my motives.”

  “You’re only inviting me so you can duck out at intermission and your dad won’t notice because I’m there.”

  “My dad won’t even notice I’m there. He’s asked me to the opera to meet his new girlfriend. Apparently, she’s on the Met board and loves opera.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And from the way you say that, I’m guessing you don’t like her?”

  “I haven’t met her. All I know is that she’s seventeen years younger than my dad.”

  “Looks like it’s shaping up to be a miserable evening,” he said with a wicked smile. “Barber of Seville. Dad’s new, younger girlfriend. Can’t wait.”

  “You’re serious
.”

  “On one condition.”

  “Let me guess. You want to bail at intermission too.”

  “The opposite. You owe me a dollar for every time you laugh tonight.”

  I smiled. “You’re on. You won’t get enough to buy a cup of coffee.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Julia was an expert at working a room. Or in this case, the lobby of the Met before the performance. Dressed in a stunning royal-blue sheath dress with a China-inspired print, she seemed almost to glide across the lobby on my father’s arm, shaking hands, exchanging hugs and kisses and brief pleasantries. From across the lobby, I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying to her, but I could see her face light up when she introduced my father and the surprised looks from her friends when they realized who he was. As she spoke with one distinguished-looking couple, her hand slowly slid down my father’s arm until their fingers intertwined. They exchanged a brief glance, and I caught the look on his face. Happy.

  She seemed younger than the forty-five years my father claimed she was. Delicate bone structure with a toned body that looked like she spent a lot of time in a yoga studio. I studied her, wondering if I could figure out anything from watching her. Was she in this for the money? For the prestige of being a US senator’s girlfriend?

  Girlfriend. Even the word bothered me. Ever since my mom died, it had always been the two of us—we hashed out the news together on the phone, I’d attended endless political fundraisers and dinners as the senator’s daughter, and when he was in town, we’d keep up our traditional five-mile runs together. Would Julia change all that?

  “Want to tag team interrogating her?” a voice from behind said.

  I whirled around to find Scott. Sleek in a black pin-striped suit, he looked like he had stepped out of a magazine ad. The cobalt-blue tie made his eyes appear a deeper blue. Wow, did he clean up well.

  “You’re looking at her like she’s the subject of your next interview. Or interrogation.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if I’m going to like her or not.”

  “Probably easier if you actually met her, no?”

  He waited for me to agree, and then we made our way through the crowd. When my dad spotted me, he and Julia excused themselves from their conversation with a young couple.

  “You must be Kate,” Julia said, taking my hand in both of hers. Her voice was higher than I expected. Breathy, like she was some kind of ethereal being. “I’m Julia. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  I glanced at my dad, and his eyes seemed to be saying: Please like her.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “And you must be Eric,” she said, turning to Scott.

  “Scott, actually.”

  Julia’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry for getting that wrong.”

  “This is my colleague at ANC, Scott Jameson,” I said.

  I could see my dad was trying to figure out where Scott fit into the picture, and I kicked myself for not telling him that Eric and I had broken up. He recovered quickly. “I’ve seen your show. Wonders of the World, is it? The last one I saw, you were in Patagonia climbing some impossible mountain.”

  “Mount Fitz Roy. I did a segment on the two million acres some billionaires bought up and turned into national parks.”

  “That seems to have stirred up some controversy with the locals.”

  “They were trying to make the case that unspoiled wilderness is more valuable than any of the minerals or timber that can be stripped from it.”

  “Compelling story,” my dad said. He nodded, as if he were thoroughly engaged in the discussion, but I could see he was still trying to understand why Scott was here and not Eric. “I’d like to hear how it turns out.”

  “And I want to know all about the secret good sweeping through our city. The story you’ve been working on, Kate,” Julia said. “Tell me you have some idea who’s behind it.”

  I smiled. She was already making it hard for me not to like her.

  The Barber of Seville was bubbly, wacky, and funny. The young Count Almaviva’s many disguises and ruses to make beautiful Rosina love him for himself—not his money—had all of us, even my dad, laughing.

  Midway through the performance—and yet another of the count’s disguises, this time as a sailor—I looked over at Scott, and his eyes were lit up. Anyone watching him on TV would think he was largely an adventure junkie, but seeing him in this setting made me realize he was more than that.

  “You were right,” I whispered. “I am already wowed.”

  His eyes met mine. “It gets even better.”

  But it was during one of the quieter moments, the tender anthem to love sung at the very end, when the two meant-for-each-other lovers found out they could be together, that Scott looked at me again, and his mouth curled into a faint smile, making me feel warm all over. No words were whispered. Our bodies weren’t even touching. Yet it felt as though we were having a silent communication buzzing between us. I could actually feel his joy, and I had the sense he knew mine. When the performance was over, the entire audience stood, giving the cast a warm ovation. We both lingered a fraction too close, his fingers gently brushing against mine.

  Then Julia swept in, introducing us to a woman in a mustard-yellow tweed coat and oversize glasses who was seated in front of us. I had the feeling she was a major donor to the opera because a man in a stylish suit, likely a Met executive, stood beside her, hanging on every word.

  “This is Nan Fremont,” Julia said, introducing her to my father and me, but before she could make the introduction to Scott, Nan interrupted.

  “I already know this one,” she said, hugging him briefly. “Wonderful seeing you, Scott. When is your mother back from Singapore?”

  “Next week,” he answered.

  “Give her my best.” Then she gestured to a young woman next to her who was wearing a striking geometric-print dress. “This is my niece, Elizabeth. We’re throwing her a thirtieth birthday party at Masa next month. I’ll send you an invitation. You should come.”

  “Thank you. I’ll check my schedule,” he said.

  By the time we left Nan, my dad and Julia looked like they were planted in a conversation with a small group, so Scott and I said our good nights and made our way through the lobby and out the door, but not before a man with a shock of jet-black hair threaded through the crowd, calling Scott’s name.

  “I’m glad I caught up with you,” he said, then launched into a three-minute monologue about a gala at the Natural History Museum—an event that Scott had apparently also attended—before asking him to emcee a fundraiser at Hayden Planetarium and then eventually letting us go.

  “So, this is what it’s like to host a hit TV series on ANC?” I asked as we stepped outside into Lincoln Center Plaza. “People invite you to their nieces’ birthday parties at five-star restaurants. And they stalk you in the Met lobby, asking you to emcee fundraisers.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with my show.”

  “No?”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t googled me.”

  “Nope.”

  “And you don’t know anything else about me?”

  “Okay, now you’re scaring me. Are you Ted Bundy’s brother or something?”

  He laughed. “I like that your first guess is that I’m some kind of serial killer.”

  We stopped in front of the famed Revson Fountain. I’d seen it in countless movies, but tonight, lit by the glow of hundreds of white lights, it somehow seemed even more magical.

  “Here’s my second guess. Elon Musk’s love child?”

  “Closer.” He smiled. “My mother is Virginia Biltmore.”

  Virginia Biltmore was a billionaire heiress to a textile fortune. A New York socialite known for her many marriages to high-profile men.

  I looked at him in surprise. “I had no idea. I never googled you because I thought I knew a lot about you from watching nearly every episode of Wonders. I’d never have guessed you were the son
of an heiress.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Is that why you always change the subject every time I ask about your past?”

  He flashed me a smile. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. But I guess the answer is yes. Being her son comes with a whole set of assumptions about who I am. People expect me to be the flashy Manhattanite going to all the marquee parties or hanging on a yacht in Sag Harbor. Or running one of the family’s many businesses. But I’d rather be tracking a column of macaroni penguins on the ridge of an old volcano crater in Antarctica.”

  “Chasing penguins does sound more fun. Especially ones you call ‘macaroni’ penguins.”

  “That is their actual name, you know.” His eyes brightened. “How about you? It can’t be easy being Senator Bradley’s daughter.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Then give me three sentences.”

  “Okay, here goes. Everyone assumes I want to get into politics. Even my dad doesn’t understand why I don’t follow in his footsteps—the trail has already been marked for me. In many ways, it’d be a lot easier than being a reporter. But I’d rather be running after a story than running for office.”

  “That’s more than three sentences,” he said, with a grin. “But I can see we both have our stubborn streaks when it comes to what our parents would like us to be doing.”

  I laughed. “Who are you calling stubborn?”

  His lips parted in a soft smile. “Both of us. Definitely.”

  I took a seat by the fountain, and he settled in next to me. As we watched the water jump and dance in a carefully choreographed water ballet, the sound of the rushing, splashing water drowning out the city noise, Manhattan felt kind of spellbinding. I could see why people might fall in love with this city.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed The Barber of Seville,” he said, his tone all serious. “But now I’ve got an important question to ask.”

  “A question?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted into an impish grin. “Any thoughts on when you’re going to pay up on your debt?”

  “My debt?”

  “Twenty-two dollars. A dollar for each time you laughed tonight.”