by T. E. Woods
Still, no sign of Vincent Feldoni.
As the days rolled by, the story lost steam, pushed off the airwaves by a troubled teen singer creating an international incident by stripping onstage during a concert in São Paulo, right down to his Brazilian-flag jockstrap. The clueless rock star had an Alaskan politician to thank for taking the media heat off him. A clever high schooler had made his way into a private fundraiser and taped the senator saying some very nasty things about several racial minorities. The coverage of her tear-stained face decrying how she’d been a victim of gotcha journalism was in turn replaced with intense coverage of an abandoned bear cub afraid to climb down out of a tree on the grounds of an Atlanta courthouse.
And the beat went on. In a few weeks the search for Feldoni was viewed as a pointless waste of resources. Authorities speculated he, too, was probably lost at sea. It was a matter of time before his body, like that of Delbe Jensen and Eddie Yaz, would wash up on a beach somewhere. And if it didn’t, well, some critter of the deep had a Hollywood hot dog for dinner.
But while the authorities were searching the coasts for Vincent Feldoni, Lydia worked her hunch that a movie star on the run would reach out to someone who had a history of coddling, forgiving, and enabling him. She put a phone trap on Vincent Feldoni’s agent.
Sure enough, the murdering movie star used a pay phone in Lincoln City, Oregon, thirty hours after he disappeared. The agent sputtered his shock at first, warning Feldoni he shouldn’t have called. He asked for the number and told his client to sit tight, he’d get back to him. Within ten minutes the agent made good on his promise. Lydia tracked down the number scrolling across the screen in her communication center. It was a burner. The agent had probably hung up from Feldoni, gone to the nearest convenience store, and bought a prepaid cell. Maybe he felt a little like James Bond or maybe he thought it would make a great scene, but the agent called back to tell Feldoni his own phone had been blowing up with inquiries about what was going on with the hot-ticket son of the once-great Anthony Feldoni.
“I got three studios itching to assign writers to the project.” Lydia shook her head as she listened in on the conversation. “Including…” The agent paused for dramatic effect. “Heather Crane.”
Vincent Feldoni blew out a gush of disbelieving breath. “No! You’re bullshitting me.”
“I am not, buddy.” His agent sounded pleased with himself. “I got them to assign last year’s fucking Academy Award winner to the project. It’s already green-lighted. I got you a three-hundred-thousand up-front deal with a guarantee of another half mil when you’re acquitted. Do I work for you or what?”
Lydia listened as Feldoni’s agent outlined the need for him to stay out of sight. “We wanna build the story. Create suspense. Line up the best legal team, yadda yadda. Just lay low.” His agent promised to get back to him within the hour with the address of a cabin he was having his assistant scout out and rent for him. “Under an assumed name, of course. She thinks it’s for my mistress,” he promised. “It won’t be long. Get a lot of sun, will ya? No SPF. Lay off the moisturizer. Grow a beard. Lose about ten pounds. Don’t get your hair cut. I see this as a you-in-the-wilderness thing. Fighting for survival while you try to make it back to civilization and clear your dad’s good name. Figuring out how Eddie Yaz stole your identity and killed those girls. Finding a way to keep your abs in shape while foraging for berries and leaves or whatever shit it is you eat out in the woods. That first photo of you coming out of hiding is going to be epic. All over the world. You gotta look the part.”
Two phone calls later Vincent Feldoni had not only an alternate story sure to produce plausible doubt in any jury, but his agent found him a small by-the-week apartment over a tackle shop in Garibaldi, Oregon, a small fishing town on Tillamook Bay. It was a place where people were more interested in what was biting than who was who. Feldoni’s agent promised weekly deliveries of cash and weed. “For God’s sake,” his agent warned, “stay out of trouble. Keep away from people…especially the ladies. Catch up on TV, Vince. Take long naps. Behave yourself. One call to the cops and this is all over, buddy. You’ll miss the entire payday. Not to mention your ass will be in jail till Corey Feldman wins an Oscar. You understand me?”
Vincent told him he did.
“Good,” his agent said. “If you play nice, who knows? Maybe I’ll send you a present from time to time.”
Just like that Vincent Feldoni was safe. Lydia continued to monitor the twice-weekly phone conversations between Feldoni and his agent. Vince complained about the weather, the boredom, and his agent’s casting suggestions for the role of his father and him. “At least the chow’s good,” he’d said. “I’m eating the best seafood ever. The Ivy’s got nothing on the sea bass I’m getting here.”
Lydia held Feldoni’s enjoyment of Garibaldi’s cuisine in her mind while she sat next to Roz and Bud Jensen at Delbe’s funeral.
For two months Lydia monitored the calls while life began to resettle into structured normalcy. She saw her patients. She gave a guest lecture at Saint Martin’s University for a woman who taught psychology there. The woman thanked her profusely, saying her lecture on borderline personality disorder gave her students a clear understanding of that complex diagnosis. She wondered if they might meet for coffee or wine sometime.
Lydia thanked her, but begged off the invitation for a closer social connection.
She’d visited Mort twice on his houseboat. Once for clams and fried potatoes with Aggie. The second time, Mort drank his Guinness while she sipped an Adelsheim merlot. They talked about Allie. Lydia ached for the sadness in Mort’s words and eyes. He’d invited her to come back for a cookout Jimmy was hosting. He promised the whole team would be there. Robbie would be bringing Claire and the girls.
She told him it sounded lovely, but she had other plans. He didn’t look like he believed her, but was kind enough not to press.
And all the while Lydia planned.
First she needed a verifiable alibi. Whidbey was the logical choice. Both Mort and Paul knew her love of the island. Mort had even visited her there once. The cabin caretakers knew she didn’t like to be disturbed. It was not unusual for her to speak with them upon arrival and not again until she departed. And so it was this time. She had a pleasant conversation with Denny Niles, the local grocer who helped load her car with her purchases.
“Looks like you’re holing up for a while. Running away from the world,” he’d said. Lydia assured him that was her intent.
Denny saluted her as he closed the trunk on her groceries. “See you when you come up for air.”
She put timers on lights and appliances for intermittent activation. It was unlikely anyone would walk by her cabin, but if they did, they might hear a television in the early evening or a radio broadcasting NPR in the afternoon. They might stroll by just in time to see a light click off in her kitchen two seconds before one in the living room clicked on. Lydia had arranged enough supporting evidence that should anyone raise a question, she’d have witnesses who’d swear she’d been right where she said she was. She called Paul Bauer every evening and for good measure she phoned Mort once. She shared updates and colorful stories of island activity. She’d called on her own cellphone, allowing her identification to show on their screens. She’d also taken the portable access to her communication center with her and programmed the routing of cell towers to reflect the origin of her calls as always being from Langley.
Even when she was calling from Oregon.
Getting to Feldoni was just as easy. On her second day on Whidbey, after the sun went down and the island was cast in a deepening blue twilight, Lydia left her cabin via the back door. She’d packed costumes for three characters. The first was weary traveler. This woman was in her late fifties, salt-and-pepper hair nearly hidden by a broad-brimmed canvas hat, brown eyes, and trying to hide extra weight around her midsection with baggy sweatshirts and loose-fitting sweatpants. An oversized pack was strapped to her back. She strolled away f
rom the cabin, headed down a small lane, retrieved the bicycle she’d stashed prior to checking into her cabin, and rode to the ferry landing. She bought a ticket on the 8:45 and walked on with her head down, thwarting any cameras that might be checked later. She spent the ride huddled alone in a booth, engrossed in the newspaper. As they neared Mukilteo and her fellow passengers began to move toward the exit stairs, Lydia folded her paper, grabbed her gear, and went to the restroom. In the stall she lifted her sweatshirt to remove her second costume. She pulled contacts, wig, and mirror from the pack around her waist and set about transforming herself. When the ferry was fully docked, Lydia walked off as a fashionable green-eyed thirty-something in skinny jeans, hot-pink cashmere sweater, and a deep blue pashmina draped over her head to shield her long blond hair from the misting rain. Her knee-high boots clicked across the asphalt to her waiting car, the one with Idaho license plates registered to Vicky Vonderask of Boise. Lydia carried a Fendi wallet that held a driver’s license issued to the same name.
She headed south. When she passed the Olympia exit on I-5, she didn’t even think about turning off, heading home, and aborting her plan. She simply glanced at her gas tank. She had plenty to make it through Portland.
It was nearly 3:00 A.M. when Vicky Vonderask pulled up to the Pelican’s Perch Bed and Breakfast in Garibaldi. She’d called ahead, complaining of traffic and saying she didn’t want to keep the proprietor awake.
“That’s okay, hon,” the woman taking her call had said. “You paid in advance. Tell you what, you’re in room 4. That’s across from the kitchen. Can’t miss it. I’ll leave the door open and your key on the nightstand. Take care not to bother any other guest when you get in.”
Lydia promised no one would even know she’d arrived.
She got to her room, pleased no one had been awake to cross her path. She locked the door behind her, stripped off the wig and clothes that had made her Vicky, and got a good night’s sleep. She stayed in her room most of the day, practicing yoga, reading various newspapers on her tablet, and nibbling food she’d packed. At five in the afternoon she showered and reassembled herself as Vicky Vonderask, the green-eyed, long-legged blonde. This time she topped her skinny jeans with a low-cut T-shirt and wore sandals.
It was time to visit Vincent.
She heard tinny voices and laugh track after she knocked the door of his apartment. She waited a few moments and knocked again. This time the television she could hear so clearly through the flimsy door went silent. She knocked a third time.
“Donny G sent me,” she said through the door. Lydia hoped using his agent’s name might allay his fears. “Remember he said he’d send you a present if you were good? Well, you musta been good, ’cause baby, here I am.”
There was no peephole in the door. No way for him to see she was alone.
“Look, it’s not like I can leave my package under the mat and walk away.” She kept her voice husky, laced with sultry promise. “You want me to count to three or somethin’ and disappear? Shame to miss what Donny’s paid for.”
She stood with one hip thrust to the side. “One…two…”
A lock turned before she could get to three. The door opened less than an inch. Lydia looked into the one eye peeking through and gave him a big smile.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She held up a cloth grocery bag. “I got everything you need in here to wake up with one mother of a hangover tomorrow.” She patted her purse. “And I got something in here to take away the pain, ring the bell, and start round two. Donny says you’re, what? Like, training to be a monk for your next picture or somethin’?” She shifted her weight to thrust out her other hip. “Makes no matter. He says your balls gotta be a brilliant shade of blue about now. You wanna see what I can do about that?”
Vincent Feldoni opened the door wide enough to stick his head out. He looked up and down the hall.
“I may have been born at night,” Lydia said. “But it wasn’t last night. Nobody’s seen me, if that’s your worry. Let’s get this party goin’, and in a couple a days you can go back to your method acting or whatever the fuck it is you’re doin’ up here in this hole in the wall. No one’s the wiser.”
Feldoni looked her from toe to tip. He did one last glance of the hall and opened the door wide.
“Well, get your pretty little ass in here, gorgeous.” His smile was wide behind a shaggy beard, but those expensive caps on his teeth glowed like polished pearls. “Let’s see what you got.”
They spent the next two hours drinking. Feldoni swilled from a bottle of Crown Royal. Lydia told him hard liquor made her ornery. “I got my own party juice right here.” She’d pulled out what looked like a bottle of cheap red wine, but was actually watered-down grape juice. When he started slurring his words, Lydia suggested they switch to something sexier and pulled out a joint. Feldoni lunged for it like a starving dog smelling bacon. She tossed him a lighter and relaxed against the sofa while he fired it up. He filled his lungs, held his breath, and reached out to hand her the glowing doobie.
“Oh, no, honey. That’s all for you. Donny said I’m to get you as stoned as you wanna get. Oh, I almost forgot. He says I’m supposed to tell you how proud he is of you.” She wagged a finger at him. “And there’s another little surprise waiting. You tell me when you’re ready.”
Feldoni jerked his head toward the bedroom. “It’s ripe in there. I gotta tell you in advance.” His eyes were beginning to lose focus. “I wasn’t expecting company. But I promise I got a few surprises of my own.”
Lydia twirled a piece of long blond hair around her finger. “I just bet you do. You’re one good-looking mofo. Anybody ever tell you that?”
Feldoni laughed. “I’m a movie star, baby. Everybody tells me that.” He reached out to touch her, but his arm fell flat. “But you can come over here and tell me again.”
“Not until you get your other surprise.” She glanced down to his crotch and licked her lips. “Donny was very specific. First get you high, then the big surprise, then we celebrate any old way we want.”
Feldoni’s voice boomed. “Then bring on the surprise! Let’s see it! We got some partying to do.”
Lydia stood. She made a show of adjusting her breasts and bra straps. “If you think Donny’s idea of a big surprise fits into one of the grocery bags, then you don’t have clue one how Donny G works, mister. You gotta come with me.”
Feldoni stayed seated. He stomped his right foot, then his left. “I don’t think my legs work. Why don’t you go get my surprise and bring it to me?” He reached for the bottle of Crown. “Just don’t take too long.”
Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. She settled her face into a playful pout. “You gonna make me ruin everything by telling you? Or are you gonna follow me down to the water?”
Vincent Feldoni blinked four times, slow and deliberate, trying to clear his head. “That sumbitch got me a boat, didn’t he?” He started laughing. “That’s it, damn it. He always gets me something when he seals a deal. Whoooo…he musta got some large coin for this one if he’s layin’ a boat on me. What is it? How big’s the engine?”
“You’re gonna have to come see for yourself.” She picked up her bags. “Now, I don’t know thing one about drivin’ no boats. You in shape for this?”
Feldoni stood. He weaved a bit but found his bearings. “Come here, sugar. Let me lean on you and tell you a little something.”
Lydia stepped toward him and let him lay a heavy arm around one shoulder. She pulled her bags to the other and wrapped her free arm around his waist. “What’s that?”
“I may need a little help walking, but I can handle a boat.” Feldoni walked along with her toward the front door of the apartment. “You wouldn’t believe what I can do and still handle a boat.”
Lydia took one last look to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea what you’re capable of.”
And that was it. They’d walked down to the marina. They passed t
wo men carrying fishing tackle up the ramp, finished with the day’s catch and swapping stories about the skill they’d used to haul in the big one. Neither of them paid any attention to the obviously drunk man and woman strolling down the pier.
No one was around when they got to the rowboat. Feldoni stepped in without objection when Lydia said they’d have to row out to the surprise.
“Hot damn,” he’d said. “Too big to moor in this punk-ass marina?” He squinted to scan the night sky. “He drop anchor? Is that sumbitch out there? Did he come to rescue me?” He managed to seat himself without overturning the wobbly boat. “That’d be just like him.” He reached for the oars.
“Tut-tut, Mr. Movie Star.” Lydia reached in her bag and handed him another joint. “You let me do the work. Your job is to sit back, light up, and relax.”
And that was that. Lydia rowed out into Tillamook Bay while Feldoni slurred stories about who he knew, parts he’d played, and movies he wanted to make. He stopped looking for his surprise as he mumbled tales of his glamorous life and how he couldn’t wait to get back to Malibu.
“There’s not a restaurant in town turns me away,” he said. “Doesn’t matter one fuck how crowded they are. I walk in, they make room.”
Lydia rowed on and promised he wouldn’t have to put up with Garibaldi much longer. She rowed until his words stopped coming in sentences. She rowed until his words stopped making sense. She rowed until his words stopped coming at all.
And then she slipped him into the water, turned the boat around, and rowed back to shore. She went back to the Pelican’s Perch Bed and Breakfast and once again went in quietly. It was past ten and all the guests were sleeping the heavy slumber brought on by clean salt air. When the proprietor checked her room the next morning, it was likely she’d assume Vicky Vonderask had wanted to get a jump on the day and headed out without coming down for breakfast. It didn’t matter, she’d paid in advance. The innkeeper probably wouldn’t even realize she hadn’t actually laid eyes on her recent guest.