No Reservations Required (11 page)

When the waiter arrived with the water, Chris ordered a Speakeasy Burger—flame-grilled ground beef with sautéed porcini mushrooms and cipollini onions, covered in provolone. Bram ordered a small pizza Margherita—Italian tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, all drizzled with a spicy green olive oil. And they both ordered Cokes.

“You know, my uncle made a pizza once for his culinary club. He put bugs and worms on it. It looked normal, with the cheese on top and all, but it smelled kind of funky.” She shuddered. “No wonder they have that sign over the door. Who needs reservations? It’s not like there’d ever be a stampede to the back room.”

They talked for a few more minutes, and then Bram excused himself to use the restroom. When he returned, he saw that the waiter had brought their Cokes. Chris had taken out a pen and was doodling on the napkin. Bram glanced at it as he sat back down and saw that she’d been practicing writing her new names: “Mrs. Phil Banks,” and “Christine Banks.”

“You’re really happy with that guy,” said Bram.

Chris grinned and nodded, her eyes still on the napkin. “I can’t believe how lucky I am. I wish my mother and my uncle would lighten up a little. You’d think I was ten years old and Phil was some lech trying to lure me into the back of his car with a candy bar.”

Bram laughed. “Well, they’re protective. They love you.”

She glanced around the room. “If they’d just give Phil a chance, they might—” She stopped.

“What?” said Bram. He didn’t immediately understand the change in Chris’s expression. She seemed startled—or maybe a little shocked. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . Phil,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

Bram turned to look.

Phil Banks had just entered the restaurant with a woman. He had his arm around her shoulders and appeared to be whispering something amusing into her ear. The woman was blond and good-looking, much older than Chris and far better dressed, the kind of woman who probably got stared at a lot.

When Bram swung his gaze back to Chris, he could tell she was confused and angry, and probably a dozen other emotions she couldn’t define. “Do you know who the woman is?” asked Bram. He couldn’t exactly pretend he hadn’t seen them.

Chris shook her head. “He told me he had to work today.”

“Maybe she’s a client.”

Chris’s stare hardened.

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“You mean, I should ignore the fact that he just kissed her?”

“He did?” Bram whipped his head around, but it was too late. They were already being seated at a booth near the front windows.

“That bastard,” she said, looking away.

“You’ve got to give him a chance to explain.”

“Right. Sure.”

The waiter arrived with their food.

“I just lost my appetite,” said Chris.

“Do you want to leave?”

She started doodling again on her napkin. “I don’t know.”

They’d driven separately. “Look, I can get this stuff wrapped for takeout and you can meet me at the station. We can eat lunch there. Maybe sticking around here isn’t a good idea.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lunch is on me, kiddo. Do you know how to get to WTWN?”

She shook her head.

Bram borrowed her pen and quickly drew a map on his napkin. “I’ll meet you there. Are you okay to drive?”

“Fine.”

But she wasn’t fine, and they both knew it.

Bram watched her pick up her purse and leave the table. He wondered if she’d walk over and confront Phil, but instead, she skirted her way around the edge of the room and left without saying a word.

Bram felt immensely sorry for her. He called the waiter over and asked for the food to be boxed up. As he waited, he pulled Chris’s napkin over in front of him. She’d drawn an X through “Mrs. Phil Banks.” Underneath, she’d written the name “Del.” And then the words “Stored on Old Mill Road.” Bram wondered what that was all about. It was probably meaningless in the scheme of things, but all the same, he slipped the napkin into his pocket.

18

Chris drove to the station in a fog of incomprehension. In her heart, she couldn’t believe that Phil would cheat on her, but with her own two eyes she’d seen something else—something terrible but true. He was with another woman, and not just in a friendly way. To Chris, the woman looked hard and old, and most definitely cheap. Oh, she was wearing expensive clothes, but she seemed easy and even a little desperate, like Mrs. Robinson in
The Graduate.

Chris sat in an uncomfortable chair waiting for Bram, but she just couldn’t concentrate. She’d for sure make a mess of it if she met Victoria Svensvold today. She was already way beyond nervous to meet such an icon of the cooking world. Chris felt as if she might break into tears at any moment—and wouldn’t
that
impress a potential employer. No, there was no use waiting around. She wrote Bram a note, telling him that she was still interested in the job, and maybe she could meet with Ms. Svensvold another time. She told him she was really sorry, but seeing Phil with another woman had upset her and she needed time to get herself together. She thanked him for lunch, and for being such a good friend, and said she’d be in touch.

What Chris needed to do was go back to the restaurant and wait for Phil to come out. And then, well, she’d play it by ear. Maybe she’d confront him, or maybe she wouldn’t. What she wanted more than anything was to see them together again, to confirm in her mind what she’d just seen.

Once back at the Speakeasy Cafe, Chris quickly located Phil’s black Corvette in the restaurant’s lot. Parking her Escort across the street, and making sure she had a clear view of the front door, she waited. Forty minutes later, Phil and the woman emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight. Phil was chewing on a toothpick, his hand on the back of the woman’s neck as they walked to his car. There was no more kissing or whispering in her ear, but they were obviously an intimate pair. Phil had placed his hand on Chris’s neck in exactly the same way when they walked around. Sometimes he’d lay his arm across her shoulders and she’d put her hand in his back pocket. She loved the closeness, the feel of his body against hers, the way they fit together so perfectly. Tears welled up behind her eyes, but she refused to cry.

Phil rolled his car to the edge of the lot, then headed east down Alton Road. Chris followed at a distance, careful not to lose them, but careful also to avoid being seen. A few minutes later, Phil turned onto Standish, then left onto Poke Avenue. He stopped in front of a small, one-story house in the middle of the block. Chris drove on down Standish, quickly circling the block. By the time she got back to the house, they’d gone inside.

More waiting. Chris parked at the end of the block and turned off the motor. She wished she could turn off her imagination as easily. Were they making love? Was Phil undressing her, touching her the way he touched Chris? Did he love this woman? That seemed even more horrific than the idea that they were physically intimate. She knew men could separate sex and love. Was that what this was? Just a little afternoon roll in the hay? And if so, how long had it been going on? Did the woman know Phil was married now? Maybe Chris was supposed to put up with this kind of crap, but the idea that she could never trust Phil again, never truly believe him when he said he was going to work, made her sick to her stomach. She knew other women lived with men who cheated on them, but this wasn’t the Hollywood romance Chris had envisioned. And she wasn’t sure she could settle for anything less.

A little over an hour later, Phil came out of the house. She was too far away to see his expression, but at least the woman wasn’t with him. He got into his Corvette, gunned the motor, and drove away.

Chris sat in her Escort, staring at the woman’s house, deciding whether or not she should bang on the front door and demand to know what was going on. The hurt she’d felt just a short while ago had quickly changed to anger. If Phil was on his way home to feed her more lies, when he arrived she wouldn’t be there. If he got mad, too freaking bad. She had somewhere else she wanted to go before she returned home.

Fifteen minutes later, Chris pulled into a gas station. She needed gas and a map. While talking to the guy behind the counter, she learned that Old Mill Road ran along the Mississippi River just across the Roberts Street Bridge in St. Paul. Checking the map, she saw that it wasn’t a very long road. She scouted out the best way to get there, then got back on Highway 10, heading for downtown St. Paul.

Chris thought back to the conversation she’d had earlier in the day with the man named Del. He said that Phil was a “very very bad man.” If Phil had secrets about the women in his life, maybe he had others. And that’s what Chris intended to find out.

After crossing the bridge, she drove two blocks until she came to Old Mill Road. Hanging a quick right, she saw that she was heading into an industrial area. Del’s message said that he knew what Phil had stored on Old Mill Road. But that could be anything. Phil’s construction company owned lots of heavy equipment, and what they didn’t own, they rented. This was exactly the kind of area where Banks Construction probably did a lot of business.

As she whizzed along, she glanced at the names of the businesses. And that’s when she saw it. Old Mill Road Mini Storage. Could that be it? She hung a left and drove into the parking lot. The entire area was cordoned off with a high chain-link fence capped with razor wire. Two heavy gates, an entrance and an exit, flanked either side of the main building.

Chris got out of her car and looked around. She figured there must be over three or four hundred storage garages on the property. She’d heard about these personal storage places before, but she’d never seen one up close.

Entering the front office, she found a middle-aged man in jeans and a sweatshirt sitting at a beat-up desk behind a tall Formica counter. He was working at a computer. Everything in the office looked dusty and worn, as if nobody really cared about the appearance.

She cleared her throat to get him to look up. “Excuse me. Your name wouldn’t be Del, would it?”

He squinted at her through the smoke from his cigarette. “Mike.”

“Ah, hi. Does a guy named Del work here?” It was a guess, but she thought it was worth a try.

“Nope.”

“Well, then, maybe you could help me.”

“Maybe. What you need?”

“My husband, Philip Banks, gave me something he wants me to put in his storage unit. This is the right place, isn’t it? He does rent a garage here?”

The guy turned back to the computer. “Repeat the name.”

“Phil Banks.”

“Phone number?”

“555-595-2098.”

He tapped a few more times before turning back to her. “Yup—2298.”

“How do I get in?”

“He give you the security code?”

“No. He said you would.”

“Can’t, lady. Against policy. It’s all self-serve here. Out at the front gate, you type in the code, the gate swings back, and you’re in. Same to get out. Everybody puts their own personal lock on the garage, so we got nothin’ to do with that.”

“I’ve got the key,” she said, holding up the key she used on her locker at Phil’s health club. “Just no access code.”

“Sorry. You tell your husband he’s got to give it to you personally. You wanna call him, you can use our phone.” He nodded to the one on the counter.

Chris had to think fast. “He’s in a meeting.”

“Well, then, I’d say you’re out of luck.”

“You mean there’s no way I can get in? My husband’s going to be really pissed at me if I don’t do what he says.” She set her purse on the counter and took out her billfold.

“Save it,” said the guy, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “If I gave it to you, I could lose my job.”

“But you don’t know my husband.”

“Nope. And sounds like I should keep it that way.”

Realizing there was nothing else she could do, she thanked him and left. On her way to her car, it occurred to her that, at the very least, she’d proved what Del had alluded to this morning was true. Phil did have something stored on Old Mill Road. She was learning fast that Phil was the kind of guy who liked to keep secrets. One way or another, she intended to find that security code. And when she did, she’d be back.

19

Sophie spent the afternoon shopping at Manderbach’s department store with her mother, hoping to find a baby gift for some friends who’d just had their first child. She returned to her office around five. Checking her voice mail, she found that Nathan had called. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she listened to the message:

“Sophie, hi. It’s me. Elaine and I met with Margie Baldric this afternoon. I thought I’d let you know that it went well. We’re planning on doing the wedding in mid-December—over at the Rookery Club. I like that place. I understand you and Bram do, too. Anyway, Elaine wants this very formal affair, but I’m leaning toward something less grand. I thought maybe you could talk to Elaine and see if you can get her to back off on some of the formality. You know me, I’m just a country guy at heart. I’d get married in the woods if she’d agree to it, but hey, whatever makes her happy. Except, I don’t want to wear a tux. I don’t mean to put you in the middle between Elaine and me, but I could use the help. I’ll keep you posted on how everything progresses. Great seeing you today, Soph. You looked fantastic in that outfit—very Jackie Kennedy. Very tailored and powerful. Oh, and sexy, too. Always that. What was the perfume you were wearing? I’d like to get some for Elaine. Later.”

“Yuck,” said Sophie, deleting the message. She had no intention of calling Elaine, and she wasn’t interested in hearing Nathan’s opinions of her. The whole situation was starting to make her uncomfortable. She was sick and tired of trying to spare Nathan’s feelings. From now on, for his own good, she had to get tough with him. He needed to know that he was no longer welcome in her life on any level. Maybe he was the kind of guy who just had to hear it a few times—loudly—to get the point.

When she entered her apartment a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Ethel, her black mutt, lying on a pillow under the dining room table. Ethel was fast asleep, snoring audibly.

“Bram?” she called, wondering if he was home yet from the station.

“In here.”

She followed his voice into the living room, finding him sprawled on the couch, reading a
Newsweek.
“How come Ethel’s up here?” Normally, she stayed down in the lobby on her throne until early evening.

Flipping the magazine shut, he sat up. “There was an . . . incident.”

“A what?”

He patted the seat next to him. “Come here.” He narrowed his eyes and gave her a lecherous grin. “For a kiss you get the information you are seeking.”

She matched his look. “You want a piece of me, huh?”

“We’ll start with the kiss and then see what other pieces are available.”

She sat down. After they’d said a proper hello, she asked the question again. “What
incident
?”

“Ethel barked.”

“No.”

“Yes. Wouldn’t stop.”

“Barked at what?”

“The bellboy who brought her up didn’t really know. She just became terribly agitated and the concierge felt it was best to get her upstairs, away from the guests.”

“But Ethel is the meekest, mildest, friendliest dog in the world.”

“You mean she’s generally too lazy to move anything other than her eyes, and she
tolerates
repetitive social interaction.
Nice little doggy. Are you a good
little doggy? Can you sit up? Can you shake hands?
”

Ethel lurched her way into the room. She understood dog talk.

“Maybe it’s her age,” said Bram, watching her drop to the floor and begin to lick her paw.

“Meaning what?”

“Maybe she’s becoming curmudgeonly.”

“Not our Ethel.”

“It happens.”

Sophie couldn’t believe it. If Ethel barked, she did so out of a sense of protection, of territoriality. “Someone frightened her. She has good instincts.”

“She has terrible instincts. She adores your cousin Solo, who—forgive me for stating the obvious—is a sociopath with paranoid tendencies, and she won’t go near your aunt Agnes, who is the dearest, sweetest woman in the world.”

“Yes, well—”

“We may have to rethink our policy about having a hotel mascot.”

“Look at her,” said Sophie, her heart breaking.

Ethel’s normally droopy eyes were even droopier. Her baleful expression bordered on melodrama. Ethel knew how to suffer. She was the Mildred Pierce of Dogdom.

“Not to change the subject,” said Bram.

“No, please do.”

“I’m not following that crisis at the
Times Register
as closely as I should. What was the name of the reporter who just got fired? Was it Del?”

She nodded. “Del Irazarian.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know. Just curious.”

“Andy called a meeting this morning for all the employees at the paper. He skirted his involvement in the whole mess, but he’s going to institute some badly needed changes. Actually, I ran into him as I was leaving. Something he said, well, it really bothered me.”

“About the 911 call?”

“Yes. In a way. He said he was glad he had an alibi for that night.”

“And it was—?”

“He said he was with Anika.”

“But . . . you ran into her that night at the Rookery Club.”

“And she said she was looking for Andy.”

“So he’s lying.”

“Without a doubt.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he was the shooter.”

“No.”

“Sophie, look at me. You actually think he murdered his brother?”

“
If
Bob is really dead.”

Bram groaned. “Are we still acting like your mother’s newest theory has merit?”

Sophie snuggled next to him. “No. Not really.” She’d been thinking about it all day. “Andy might have lied to the police because he felt he needed an alibi, even if he’s not guilty.”

“But why not simply tell the truth? I mean, isn’t that always the best way to handle it?”

“I suppose,” said Sophie. “But maybe we don’t have the whole picture.”

Bram put his arm around her shoulders. “So he got Anika to lie to the police for him. That’s not smart. If he did kill Bob, it could make her an accessory.”

Sophie hadn’t considered that.

“You could blow his alibi out of the water.”

“Apparently Anika has forgotten that little detail— or hopes I have.”

“Maybe you better talk to her.”

That’s exactly what Sophie had concluded. “I thought I’d call, ask her to stop by.”

“Tonight?”

“If possible, yes.”

“What about dinner?”

“Let’s order in. Whatever you want.”

“Hey, how about I go get us some of that Thai food from that restaurant up the block? I’ll make us a pitcher of martinis. And we can put a movie in the DVD.”

“Sounds perfect.” Too perfect, thought Sophie. Margie was always out there lurking, waiting to ruin an otherwise wonderful evening.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Not today,” said Sophie.

“Well,” said Bram, lowering his voice and whispering in her ear, “I’ll remedy that later.”

Anika agreed to stop by the Maxfield Plaza at six thirty. Sophie couched her request by saying they needed to talk about Anika’s position at the hotel. Sophie explained that she had no time to meet tomorrow or the day after, but was free tonight and hoped that Anika would have a few minutes to get together. She never mentioned the real reason for the meeting.

Sophie had a few minutes to kill before Anika arrived, so she drifted through the hotel, checking the appetizer buffet for Maxfield Club members on eleven, the Fountain Grill on the mezzanine level, and finally the hospitality suite, otherwise known as the Lindbergh room, on the main floor. She wasn’t exactly surprised to find her father polishing the brass knocker on the hospitality room’s door.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t tell me we have a staff to do these kinds of things. I know about the staff. I hired most of them. The fact that they don’t do their job in a timely fashion isn’t my fault.”

Sophie sat down on the edge of one of the club chairs.

“That old boyfriend of yours was here again today.”

“Nathan?”

“That’s the one.” As always, he chewed on an unlit cigar. “He had some sort of meeting with Margie. Elaine Veelund was with him.”

“Nathan and Elaine are getting married.”

Her father hooted. “Well, if two people ever deserved each other—”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Their mothers spoiled them both rotten.”

Sophie stood up. “You liked Nathan. You always said that.”

“Your mother liked him. Not me.”

“You never said you thought he was spoiled before.”

“You mean back when you two were teenagers? What good would it have done? You were head over heels in love with the guy. I was just your father. What the hell did I know?”

Sophie was aghast, but also intrigued. “Tell me more.”

“Well, if I’d figured you were going to marry him, I would have sat you down and tried to talk some sense into you. But then you went off to that college in California, so there was no point. Nathan was history.”

“He was a beautiful young man. Poetic. Sensitive. He worked hard for important causes.”

“Okay, he was nice-looking enough. But hard work? Nah, I never saw that. In my day, we would have called a young man like him a playboy—and it wasn’t a nice term. Nathan expected the whole world to be impressed with him, and if they weren’t, he got mad. His mother gave him everything he ever asked for, didn’t she? Can you think of one toy Prince Nathan didn’t have?”

“
Prince
Nathan?”

“That’s what Pearlie and I called him.”

That was news to Sophie.

“ ’Course, I heard his mom told him after you dumped him to either get a job or go to school. He was moping around, not doing anything, and she finally put her foot down. I thought it was about time. But then he took off for Europe and she paid for him to go to some fancy school over there. You know, Soph, I’ll bet you’re the only girl who ever turned him down, and he couldn’t believe it. It probably still eats at him.”

“We loved each other.”

“I’m sure you loved him. He acted like he
owned
you.”

It was as if her father were talking about two entirely different people. Had Sophie been so infatuated with Nathan that she’d missed all that? Nathan had come back into her life when her parents were on their round-the-world tour, so this was the first time her father had weighed in on the subject of Nathan Buckridge.

“If you told him no,” continued her dad, “say, you couldn’t do something on a particular night, he’d show up anyway. If you said you had to study, he’d stand outside in the hallway and recite some stupid poem until you came out, until you gave in and went off with him. He never understood the meaning of the word no.”

Amazingly, he still didn’t, thought Sophie. How was it possible that she’d never seen that in him? Or perhaps she’d seen it, but she’d never realized how destructive it could be.

“If I were you,” said her father, taking the stogie out of his mouth and studying the tip, “I’d watch out for that guy. He’s not all there”—he tapped his forehead—“if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. So he’s a big-time chef. So give the boy a cigar.” He held his up. “He’s grown up that much. But that doesn’t give him the right to keep sniffing around my daughter’s life. What the hell’s he up to?”

“He’s an old friend.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorted. “You’re still blind as a bat, Soph. I been home, what? Two months? I got eyes, don’t I? Stay the hell away from him or you’ll be sorry. That’s all I’ve got to say. Now get on out of here and let me finish my work.”