Flyer

by J. L. Wilson

  “I was so pissed off. Curly told me that Peter told him he was taking you out. The way Curly talked, it sounded like an orgy or something. That’s when I showed up at the farm.”

  “I pushed Peter away and he ran straight for the loft window and jumped.” The big window was more of a doorway with a rope and pulley. Farmers could pull hay wagons in underneath and lift the bales up into the loft. I scrambled down out of the loft after Peter jumped and literally fell into Bell’s arms.

  “That was a twenty- or thirty-foot drop,” Bell said. “I still don’t know how he didn’t break an ankle. But he didn’t. He ran through the field to the river.” He squinted, probably visualizing the scene. “We should go out to the farm and look around.”

  “It’s been decades. The barn is probably torn down by now.” I tried to remember what happened to the farm, but if my mother had mentioned it to me, I’d long forgotten any details. “Maybe we should each try to write down what we remember about that night then compare notes.” I looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen, surprised to see it was almost seven. “I need to get home. I still have those photographs to go through tonight.”

  “I can help,” Bell volunteered.

  “No, it’s something I need to do on my own,” I said firmly. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

  “I’d like to help with something.” He took my hand. “Your mom was a big part of my life. I couldn’t be here when your father died, so I’d like to do something now.”

  Bell had been off on his world travels when Dad got cancer of the jaw and died. His death was mercifully swift and Mom did get a long sympathy letter from Bell, months after the fact. It had pissed me off at the time that he didn’t try to get home. Bell was like a son to my father and I know Dad wanted to see him before he died.

  Well, that was years in the past. There was no use carrying a grudge. I got to my feet and went to the kitchen, setting my glass in the sink. “You can go with me to the bank tomorrow if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  “I’m glad to help.” He led the way back downstairs to his truck. “What time do you want to go?”

  “Let’s go first thing in the morning. I need to see Mom’s lawyer in the afternoon and if there’s anything in the safety deposit box for him to handle, I can give it to him then.” I managed a credible laugh. “Can you believe it? Ted Otts is Mom’s lawyer. Totts. Who would have thought that one of the old gang would turn out to be so respectable?”

  Bell smiled. “I knew he had a firm in town. Good old Totts. I’ll pick you up at nine, how’s that?” Bell glanced at me as he drove. “Or we can go out for breakfast first.”

  He sounded wistful and a bit hopeful. I suppose it did get boring in town since he didn’t know very many people anymore. I know that when I came to visit Mom, she was my main social contact. “You can come over and I’ll cook breakfast, then we’ll go to the bank.”

  “Great. I’ll be there at nine.” He grinned. “I’m getting tired of my own cooking.”

  We were quiet for the remainder of the drive. I was lost in thought. It was funny how I remembered the events of that night. So many things had faded into the background of memory, but that night was still so clear.

  It was a different time, back when I was a kid. We didn’t stay inside playing video games except very late at night. We were outside, wading in the stream and playing pirates. Computers were room-sized contraptions used for complex mathematical computations. The idea of a pocket-sized computer was the stuff of science fiction. The closest we came to “high tech” was a Walkman that played cassette tapes, which we thought was the height of cool.

  When we got too old for pirates we still played games but they were the silly dating games of youth. The boys were older than me, but boys and girls mature differently so by the time we were teenagers, we were essentially the same age. I was David’s sister and by proxy, I was their sister, too.

  Things changed when I got to high school. I was the envy of my circle of girlfriends because I was friends with Peter, Bell, and their buddies, most of whom were the Cool Guys. Bell and I started going steady when I was a sophomore and he was a junior. Somehow it just happened. It seemed natural that he and I would start to date. It was natural that he and I would fall in love.

  We were so much alike in many ways and yet so different. He was quick, volatile, and changeable. I was steady, dependable, and predictable. But he had a dependable streak and I had a mischievous streak. We balanced each other in so many ways.

  Graduation was a scary time for us. It meant that Bell would be going to university and our simple routines would be changing. College wasn’t that far away, so we’d see each other often, but we wouldn’t see each daily, the way we did in high school. The party at Jamie Lim’s house was the last big blow-out before summer started.

  It was on a hot, humid June evening. I can’t remember what Bell and I argued about, but I remember the feeling of freedom when I went to the party without him. He and I went steady for two years, doing just about everything together. It was oddly exhilarating to be out without him. He and I had become routine and going to a party on my own was a new experience.

  “Peter told you that he and I had a date that night?” I asked, memories percolating in my brain.

  “Yeah. In fact, he implied it was more than a date. He said that you and he were going to go steady.”

  I laughed. “You should have known he was lying. Peter would never go steady with anyone. He was always jumping from girl to girl.”

  Bell nodded. “In retrospect, I can see what he did. He was setting us both up to believe he was madly in love with you.”

  I thought of Peter, maybe living in California all these years, living off the money he and his mother got. “That asshole,” I muttered.

  “Oh, oh,” Bell said, leaning forward and staring intently.

  “What?” I followed his gaze. A car was parked in front of Mom’s house and two men leaned against the doors. One was massively big, like a football player, with a shaved head and arms the size of my thighs. The other was as small as the one was big, with arms that were heavily decorated with bright tattoos. “Who’s that?”

  “It must be a slow news week. They turn up wherever I go. It could be worse. The word must not be out yet. There’ll probably be more tomorrow. These guys aren’t so bad. The one with the tats is Billy and the big one is Murphy.”

  “Who are they?”

  Bell let his Ford roll to a stop then he turned off the motor. “Reporters. Wait here.”

  “What? Why are they—” My words were cut off when Bell got out of the car and went to meet them, the two men hurrying toward him. The big one—Murphy—had a small digital camera and he busily snapped pictures while the other one talked.

  I hopped out of the car and hurried to join Bell in time to hear him say, “Hey, guys, come on. We had an agreement.”

  “Sorry, T.K. This is a big story.” The big one alternately focused his camera on me and on Bell while he spoke. The other held out what looked like a small digital recorder, keeping it near Bell’s face.

  “You’re not supposed to bother me in town. You know the rules.” Bell held up a hand, effectively blocking the reporter’s view of me.

  “Come on. Just give us something.” The big one turned to me. “What’s it like to date one of the richest men in the world?”

  I folded my arms and glared at him. “We’re not dating. We’re old friends.”

  “What’s your name?” Billy, the tattooed one, demanded.

  “None of your damn business. Who are you?”

  He smiled, his boyish face creasing to reveal perfect teeth. “Billy Juko. Glad to meet you. Tell us how you and T.K. met.”

  “I’ve known him all my life,” I said. “We’re friends. Just friends. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh,” the big one said doubtfully. “You’re Wendy Davis, right?”

  “Wendy Davis?” The first man thrust the digital recorder at me. “
Is this the woman your app was modeled on, T.K.?

  “Are you Wendy Darling?” the other one said.

  “What’s next for Wendy Darling, T.K.? I heard you’re doing a new app.”

  “One question at a time, one person at a time,” Bell said.

  “Wait a minute,” I protested. “How about no questions?”

  “We have to give them a story, Wendy,” Bell said patiently. “If we don’t, they’ll make up something and it’ll be worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  All three men stared incredulously at me. “Don’t you read the tabloids?” Juko asked.

  “Of course not. That’s just trashy journalism.”

  “It sells, though.” Bell looked at Mrs. Llewellyn who was driving slowly past, eyes glued to us while we stood on the lawn talking. “Let’s go inside. Wendy and I will give you a story.”

  “What story?” I demanded. “And it’s my house. I’m the one who does any inviting.” They looked expectantly at me. “Oh, okay. Come in.” I stalked to the front door, not waiting to see if they took me up on my not-so-gracious invitation.

  They were following so closely they almost tread on me when I opened the door. I gestured toward the living room. Athos took one look at the entourage and promptly left the room with a rumbled hiss. I wished I could hiss or join him or both. “I’m not going to offer you any refreshments,” I said. “Have a seat.”

  They plopped down, the two reporters on the couch and Bell in what I thought of as the guest chair, next to Mom’s favorite chair. “What do you want?” I asked, glaring at the two men.

  Bell held up a hand. “The story is that yes, this is Wendy and yes she’s the prototype for Wendy Darling. We’re old friends and I’m here to attend her mother’s funeral. I was close to her family and her mother died earlier this week.”

  The men murmured something sympathetic. “You dated in high school and now you’re picking up where you left off, right?” the tattooed one said. “It’s a big story.”

  “We’re not picking up where we left off,” I said. “Look, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  I did some mental math. “Okay, imagine that the girl—or boy—you were in love with fifteen years ago showed back up in your life. He or she is rich, successful, and famous.”

  “He,” Juko said almost defiantly, as though I would be shocked he was gay.

  “This is Iowa,” I said with a dismissive wave of one hand. “You can’t surprise me. We’ve had gay marriage since before it was popular. Say he shows back up in your life and suggests you get together again.” I raised a hand when Juko started to speak. “Don’t give me any flip answers about how cool it will be to be a kept man or how you wouldn’t mind trying out being rich. Think about it.” I stared intently at him. “How would you feel?”

  To his credit, he pondered it for a second or two. “Obligated,” he finally said. “Suspicious. Curious. Why me?”

  “Exactly.” I turned to Bell. “See?”

  Bell shrugged then his demeanor changed. I recognized that look. He was plotting something. “Listen, you guys can help us. A friend of ours died in high school, but now we think he might still be alive. We’d love to get in touch with him.”

  I stared at Bell, wide-eyed. “What are you—?”

  “Just put a mention in the story that Tom Bell and Wendy are hoping they might find out what happened to their old friend, the Shadow.” He reached over and took my hand. “It’s so important to us.”

  “The Shadow? Wasn’t that like some superhero?” the big guy muttered.

  “It’s a nickname,” I managed to say, trying to tug my hand away from Bell’s.

  “That’s what brought us back together,” Bell said with a fatuous smile at me. “We’d like to know what happened.”

  I could see the romantic wheels turning in the heads of the reporters. “Nice story,” Juko muttered.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, shooting Bell a glare. “What a pity it isn’t—”

  Bell leaned toward me. “There are always second chances.” His pale green eyes seemed to speak worlds. “It’s important that we find what happened to everyone involved, right? I’m sure your mother would agree.”

  I wavered. He was right but I hated to admit it. I sighed, knowing when I was defeated. “Of course.”

  “Great angle. Second chances.” The big reporter beamed at me. “Thanks for the story.”

  I managed a weak smile in return. “Glad to help.” I squeezed Bell’s hand, hard. I’ll pay you back for this, I mouthed.

  He grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

  Chapter 5

  I managed to shoo all of them out of the house without too much more fuss. I watched while Bell and the reporters talked curbside, Bell gesturing toward the house and the two reporters nodding. Lord knows what he was cooking up. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine and when I came back to the living room to peek out again, they were all gone.

  I sipped the wine while darkness fell and rain moved in, a steady patter interspersed with heavier downpours. The weather had been changeable all spring, with cold spells alternating with heavy rain. The farmers were starting to fret about getting into the fields. It was almost mid-May, which was getting late for planting. A person can’t live in Iowa without being aware of the effect of the weather on everything. It seemed like every year farmers worried about too much rain, too much cold, or too much heat. And every year they had bumper crops.

  I listened to the rain, the hypnotic sound so relaxing. The stress of my day began to seep out of me, helped along by the wine. I reviewed my eventful afternoon. Fragments of conversation echoed in my brain, mixed with my own speculations. Mom’s stroke. Peter might be alive. Jamie Lim was fired. Peter was bisexual. Bell and Peter argued. The old farm.

  The phrases all jumbled up in my brain, but one phrase kept repeating over and over.

  “Bell says that…”

  Everything we discussed was based on research that Bell or the detective he hired had supposedly done. It was ironic, really. I confronted him about the need for evidence, but I wasn’t even questioning his assertions or his motives or his evidence.

  I drank one more glass of wine then went to bed, not anxious to pursue that line of thought. My life was already complicated with the reporters who showed up on my doorstep. I’d face my doubts about Bell on the morrow.

  It was still raining when I awoke, which squashed my idea of going for a run. My daily exercise routine had been thrown off these last few months so I squeezed in a workout wherever I could. I shelved the idea of a morning jog and resolved to try to get in an afternoon one, instead.

  I went downstairs to fix a casserole for breakfast, throwing together whatever I could find from the fridge. At eight o’clock, my phone rang. I expected it to be Bell. I didn’t recognize the number on the landline phone display.

  “Miss Davis? I’m with the L.A. Tribune. Can you comment on—?”

  I slammed the phone down.

  Two minutes later it happened again. “Miss Davis? I’m calling from New York. Can you comment on the story in—?”

  I slammed it down again.

  Two more calls and I quit answering. By the time Bell showed up at the back door, I was ready to whack somebody. When he silently handed me a copy of USA Today folded to the Technology section, I took one look, rolled up the paper, and whacked him with it. “What the hell?” I demanded, shaking the paper at him.

  He ducked in mock fear. “It’s a good picture.”

  I unrolled the paper and examined the photo of Bell and me at Peter’s grave in a tender embrace. Another photo showed us kissing. “Holy crapola, Bell. Couldn’t you bribe them or something?”

  “If it’s any consolation, my phone has been ringing off the hook.” He brandished his smart phone. “Or it would be if it had a hook. Everybody wants a statement.”

  “Here’s a statement for them.” I dropped the paper on the couch. “Fuck off.”<
br />
  “Wendy Angela Davis. I am shocked to hear such language from your mouth.”

  I reached for the newspaper again.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry. Like I said, it must be a slow news week. It will all blow over in a few days.”

  I fumed while I went back to the kitchen. “They can’t show up at Mom’s funeral,” I stated, taking the breakfast casserole out of the oven. “I insist on that, Bell. I don’t care what you have to do, but none of them get within a block of the funeral.”

  “I promise,” he said immediately. “I’ll get a restraining order if that’s what it takes. That smells good. What is it?”

  I dished up two servings on Mom’s ceramic plates that I had warming on top of the stove. “Eggs, sausage, some veggies, and whatever else I could find.” I handed him one plate then I took the other and the coffee pot with me into the dining room, setting it on a trivet when we sat down.

  My cell phone rang while I was pouring a cup of coffee. “Now what?” I muttered. I looked down at the phone number. “I don’t know anybody in New York. If it’s one of those asshole reporters, I’m going to sue somebody.”

  Bell looked at my phone display. “I know who it is.” Before I could stop him, he answered it. “Wendy’s phone. George, is that you?” He sipped his coffee while watching me. “Okay. Here she is.” He handed me my phone. “It’s my attorney.”

  I took the phone warily. “This is Wendy.”

  “Ms. Davis? I’m George Llewellyn, T.K. Bell’s copyright attorney. I need some information from you so I can set up the transfer of royalties for the Wendy Darling app to you as T.K. requested.”