Elementary, My Dear Watkins (3 page)

“Tell me again what your little doctor told you,” Eleanor said with a flippant wave of her heavily bejeweled hand.

“She’s not a ‘little doctor,’” Jo said. “She’s a highly qualified surgeon.”

“In Mulberry Glen, Pennsylvania. I’m sure.”

Jo ignored the biting comment and explained that her doctor had X-rayed her foot again once the cast was off, and that she was perfectly satisfied with the healing of the bones.

“The pain I’m having now is not from the break but from the sprain, which is taking longer to heal,” Jo explained. “She recommended ice packs and anti-inflammatories. At this point, it just seems like overkill to consult one of the nation’s preeminent orthopedists for a mere sprained ankle.”

“Darling, you’re only twenty-seven years old. A bad healing at this point in your young life could prove to be disastrous down the line. Trust me in this. It’s worth the risk of a little overkill if it saves you from foot problems when you’re older.”

The woman had a point there. Jo didn’t even know why she was still arguing with her. She was here, wasn’t she, en route to the doctor’s office? Argument or not, her grandmother had already won this particular battle.

Besides, Jo had something more important to discuss anyway. As they inched their way through heavy traffic, she opened her bag and pulled out the printouts of the e-mails and the report from Chief Cooper that she had brought to the police.

“On a different matter,” Jo said, glancing down at the papers, “I was wondering if you might know anyone of influence in the Bronx.”

“The Bronx? Yes, I suppose, but why?”

“I need you to pull some strings in Kreston, if possible.”

“Kreston?” her grandmother asked with a sneer. “Why on earth would you want to have anything to do with Kreston?”

Jo didn’t share the sneer. She had thought the blue-collar town had been quaint, if a little rough around the edges, and certainly nothing at which to turn up her nose.

“Don’t be a snob, Gran.”

“Snob, schnob. What do you want me to do?”

Danny sipped a hot cup of decaf as Luc and Chester enjoyed an after-dinner drink called a
digestif
. The meal had been delicious but slow, dragged out through nine courses, and Danny was ready to call it a night and take off. Unfortunately, Chester pulled out a cigar, which probably meant he was just settling in.

Since coming to France, Danny had learned that the evening meal often continued late into the night, way past dessert. Sometimes that was fine, but tonight he was exhausted, having spent the day helping to prepare for an upcoming international photo shoot. There had been many details to handle, with no room for error, and because Danny had been in charge of packing up the film, equipment, and other supplies for the photographer, the pressure had been intense. Now, on top of his physical exhaustion, the heavy meal was making him sleepy. He decided to make a pitch for Luc as best he could and then hit the road.

“So, Chester,” Danny said as the man lit a match, held it to the tip of the cigar, and puffed furiously. “You say you’re here tonight on a recruiting mission? I think that’s very exciting. Luc is a highly skilled photographer, and I know he would be an asset to your magazine.”

Chester and Luc exchanged glances as Chester continued to puff his cigar. Once it caught, he flipped his hand to put out the flame and then pulled the stogie from his mouth.

“It’s not Luc I’m here to recruit,” Chester replied, blinking from the smoke. “It’s you.”

Danny hesitated, wondering if he had heard the man correctly.

“Me?”

“Yes. Your work has come to my attention, and I’m interested to see if you might consider a move to New York and the world of high fashion photography.”

Danny was dumbfounded. He looked at Luc, who merely smiled and shrugged. Luc didn’t seem disappointed, so he must have known all along that this wasn’t about him.

“Thank you, but that’s not the type of photography I do—or want to do,” Danny said. “I’m a
Scene It
kind of guy all the way.”

“
Scene It
, bah,” Chester scoffed with a flip of his cigar. “What’s the challenge there? Snap a few close-ups of some big cats in a zoo and call it an African safari?”

“No, they—”

“You want to see fangs and claws? Try putting three models in Prada bathing suits and tell them the best-looking one gets the cover shot.”

Luc laughed, but Danny was deeply offended. There was nothing fake or engineered about the photography for
Scene It
. The zoo? Get real. Their photo shoots were some of the most notoriously ambitious and authentic in the industry.

“Even if
Scene It
is your type of place,” Chester continued, “surely you can’t be enjoying the piddling little internship salary they’re currently paying you. What have they got you doing, anyway? Running the fax machine? Making coffee?”

“Mostly rights clearance and color corrections,” Danny replied, listing jobs that were a step up from making coffee—though not by much. “But it’s not about the money right now or my specific duties. I’m learning the ropes. I’m seeing the magazine business from the inside out. I’ve been able to work with some of the top nature photographers in the world. Just today I met Kalunga Bashiri and helped prepare for his next photo shoot to Switzerland and then Africa.” Danny smiled at the thought of the tiny man with the big lens, a legend and a hero to nature photographers around the world.

“I know your background, son,” Chester said, shaking his head. “Before you landed this internship, you were nothing but a backwoods portrait photographer with some stock photo sales on the side. Small potatoes.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Danny said defensively. “One of my stock photos was recently bought by Twentieth Century Fox for background in a movie poster. I wouldn’t call that small potatoes.”

“Perhaps. But how many times can lightning strike? Come work for
Haute Couture
, and we’ll make you much more than the underpaid color monkey you are here. You’ll be a contract photographer doing studio product shots.”

“Thank you so much, sir, but I’m afraid I’m not interested. Not my kind of photos and not my kind of magazine. No offense.”

Chester took a puff on his cigar, the smoke hovering around his lips like a tiny gray cloud.

“I can offer you a retainer of one seventy-five plus bonuses and expenses. Effective immediately.”

Danny blinked, momentarily speechless.

A hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars plus bonuses and expenses?
Even though Danny had absolutely no interest in working for a fashion magazine, the thought of that much money made the
coq-au-vin
turn a flip in his stomach.

He swallowed hard, wondering what he’d done to deserve such an offer.

In the end, one of the top orthopedic surgeons in the country told Jo that her pain was coming from a sprained ankle, and he would suggest ice packs and anti-inflammatories.

“But you were right to bring me here anyway,” Jo admitted humbly to her grandmother as she climbed back into the waiting limo. “He also gave me a removable cast and an order for physical therapy.”

Jo settled onto the deep leather seat and held out her leg to show off the black removable cast. After the doctor’s thorough poking and prodding, the bad foot felt worse than before, and Jo found the support and security of the cast to be an absolute relief. She was glad she had come.

“So your doctor was right too,” her grandmother conceded. “Just not as aggressive in her treatment.”

“Correct.”

Both women smiled. With Jo’s grandmother as stubborn as she was, a draw was usually the best outcome to their arguments. As the driver pulled away from the curb, Eleanor surprised Jo by inviting her to come and stay at her estate for the duration of the physical therapy.

“The timing couldn’t be better,” Jo’s grandmother said, directing the driver to head toward Westchester County. “After I had the stroke last year, we converted the carriage house into an on-site medical facility. There’s a whirlpool in there and all sorts of machines. The physical therapist already comes every other day. It’s ridiculous for you not to take advantage of it as well. We’ll pick up a few clothes and toiletries to tide you over tonight and then you can send for your things tomorrow.”

“That’s very kind, Gran,” Jo said, surprised that her grandmother was still getting so much therapy this long after her stroke. It had been more than a year, and she seemed almost completely recovered other than tiring more easily and needing the wheelchair for longer excursions. “I didn’t realize you were still under treatment.”

“Oh, the therapy’s not for me these days. We have a young guest at the house—but that’s a long story. I’m sure you’d find her delightful, and I know she’d welcome a new face around there, particularly someone younger.”

“What about Chewie?” Jo asked, knowing that her grandmother would never allow Jo’s rambunctious chocolate Lab to roam the hallowed halls of her home. Six weeks ago, when Jo was first injured and in the hospital and her own house had burned to the ground, her grandmother had offered Jo the use of her vacation home in the Poconos until she got back on her feet. Jo had accepted her offer, but when she learned that Chewie was not a part of the bargain, she had turned her grandmother down and made other arrangements.

“Darling, that’s what kennels are for,” Eleanor answered, smoothing her skirt across her knees as she repeated the sentiment she had expressed the last time.

“Yes, well, like the last time, that doesn’t work for me,” Jo said, instructing the driver to take her to the Times Square Marriott instead. “But thanks for the offer.” Forsaking her precious pet for the sake of a little convenience and pampering was out of the question.

As they drove, Jo’s grandmother was quiet, seeming to be vaguely offended by Jo’s refusal. Jo tried to make conversation, asking more about her grandmother’s young houseguest, whoever she was, but the subject was closed. Finally, tired of the cold shoulder, Jo decided to change course and toss out something that was sure to get the woman’s attention.

“I guess you’re wondering why I want to be dropped at Times Square rather than back at Penn Station,” Jo said matter-of-factly.

Her grandmother shrugged, still staring out the window. “I suppose you’re going to the theater.”

“No, I’m going to meet with Bradford,” Jo said, referring to the man who had jilted her at the altar last fall, ducking out of their wedding without excuse or explanation. Since then, she and Bradford had barely spoken, except for several irritating phone calls and one bizarre moment when he showed up in her hospital room six weeks ago, begging her for another chance at a relationship. Shocked and vulnerable, Jo had called for a nurse and had him removed from the premises.

“Bradford?” Eleanor replied, turning to Jo, her eyes wide. “Last I heard, you were having him escorted out of your room by hospital security.”

“Well, he deserved it,” Jo said. “Waltzing in there without warning and me lying there injured and helpless. The last thing I felt like doing was dealing with him.”

“But you’re willing to see him now.”

“We’re finally going to talk. He’s called a few times since then, asking me to meet with him, so I finally gave in. I think I need to find some closure. I suppose one meeting with him won’t kill me, and maybe it’ll help me put the whole relationship to rest once and for all. I still don’t know why Bradford dumped me then, or what he wants to tell me now.”

“No chance of a reconciliation?” her grandmother asked. She had always been partial to Bradford, most likely because he was from a wealthy family and at one time had been a real up-and-comer in the family business, Bosworth Industries. Bradford used to work directly for Jo’s father, who was the CEO of the company. Since the whole wedding fiasco, however, Jo had no idea if he even worked there anymore or not. She and her parents didn’t talk about him, and she’d had no extended communication with him herself.

“A reconciliation?” Jo asked, thinking of what her friend Marie would say:
Not for all the pumps in the DSW Shoe Warehouse
. Putting it in terms her grandmother would understand, Jo amended the saying: “Not for all the blue boxes in Tiffany’s, Gran. Trust me, the only shred of emotion I have left for that man is sheer contempt.”