No Reservations Required (22 page)

38

The following Monday, Sophie woke to the sound of singing. When she opened her eyes, she felt as if she were floating in a beautiful garden. But then she remembered that her arm was in a splint, and the beautiful garden was a bunch of unwanted bouquets provided by one man.

Nathan entered, his tenor voice crooning out Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.” He knew it was one of her favorites, but coming out of his mouth—with the spin he put on it—the song didn’t have the desired effect. She wasn’t happy to see him, nor was she thrilled with his effort to turn her hospital room into a floral exhibit. As far as she was concerned, it was just one more example of his obsessive, excessive nature. If he hadn’t just saved her life, she would have insisted he be barred from the hospital.

Sophie had seen a part of Nathan that not only terrified, but sickened her. Since she was admitted to the hospital three days ago, he would pop in whenever he felt like it. She asked him to call first, but there was a new wariness in her requests, one that he seemed to relish. Perhaps he read it as acquiescence, that he’d proved his point: not only did he have a right to be part of her life, but she
needed
him. He hadn’t said it out loud, but they both knew he’d been following her the day she’d been attacked. Okay, so if he hadn’t been there, she might be dead now. It was that inescapable fact that had caused her to go along with his fiction about how Phil died. In some deeply twisted way, she knew it bound them together.

Sophie had wanted to tell Bram the truth, but she was afraid that if she did, he wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about it. Either he’d go off half-cocked and beat Nathan to a bloody pulp, or be beaten himself, or he’d insist they tell the police what really happened. It wasn’t that he was a stickler for total honesty, but Sophie was sure he’d think that Al could help her beat any charges stemming from lying to the police, and Bram would salivate at the chance of putting Nathan away for good. Her decision to allow Nathan to suck her into his lie hadn’t been a smart one, but for good or ill, it was a done deal. As it stood right now, the police were calling Phil’s death a justifiable homicide. Everything would blow over in time. She simply had to make Nathan understand that they weren’t fated to be together.

But the worst part was how the entire situation had affected Bram. The poor man had to be grateful now to Nathan for saving her life. Bram felt he owed him—big-time—and yet he still hated the sight of him. Nathan had committed the perfect crime. He’d wormed his way into Sophie and Bram’s life in a way that couldn’t be easily dismissed.

“How’s the patient this morning?” asked Nathan, pulling another bouquet of roses from behind his back. This time, they were peach. Sophie hated peach-colored roses. “Here, smell?” He brought them close to her nose.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I know. I don’t like the color either, but the fragrance reminded me of all the nights you and I spent in the Rose Garden by Lake Harriet. Remember?” He moved over to the window and made room on the ledge for his newest gift. “So? How’s the arm?”

“It hurts.” The bullet had fractured her left humerus, then lodged next to it. Sophie had undergone surgery a few hours after being brought to the hospital. The prognosis was good, but the recovery would be lengthy and painful.

“I thought the flowers would help.” He smiled down at her. “Guess it will be a while before we can go dancing.”

“Nathan—”

Out in the hall, Sophie could hear Bram’s laugh. Her blood pressure zoomed. She hated it anytime Bram and Nathan collided. As her husband pushed through the door, she saw that Al Lundquist was with him.

“Well, Mr. Buckridge,” said Al, extending his hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Hi,” said Bram. The smile on his face had already faded.

Nathan grinned. “Just brought Soph some flowers to cheer her up.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “But I’ve got to dash. I have a restaurant to run.”

“So I hear,” said Al. “I’ll have to get over there one of these days.”

“Just let me know,” said Nathan. “Dinner’s on me.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“See you around,” said Bram.

Nathan took one last look at Sophie, and then left.

“So,” said Al, pulling up an orange plastic chair, “how’s that nasty break doing?” He seemed totally unaware of the currents of emotion surging through the air.

“I think I’ll live,” said Sophie.

“She’ll live, all right,” said Bram, sitting down on the bed next to her and giving her a kiss. “I’ll make sure of that.” Folding his hand around hers, he said, “Al has news.”

“About Phil?” asked Sophie.

“About Chris. Get this. Since she was married to the bastard before he died, she’s now a relatively wealthy woman. He apparently had a lot of debts, but after she sells the house and the construction company, she figures she’ll still have enough money to take care of her for a long long time. And she’s going to keep the interests he had in various restaurants. Who knows? She may turn out to be a real restaurateur one day.”

“I’m so glad,” said Sophie. She’d been worried about Chris. The fact that there wouldn’t need to be a trial now was undoubtedly a big load off her shoulders—and Sophie’s.

“Okay, Al,” said Bram. “Now that the case is closed, can you please tell us what the deal was with Bob Fabian? If he didn’t die because of the gunshot, what did he die of?”

Al scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I suppose I can talk about it. We’re nowhere on the case, and if my gut tells me right, it’s probably headed for the cold case file. It seems he was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” repeated Sophie. “How? By who?”

“Like I said, we don’t know. We don’t even know what the poison was. But you’re right. The bullet didn’t kill him. We rushed him to the emergency room. The doctors were sure they could save him, but he died on the operating table. His body just flat-out shut down. They did some tox screens, and they’re positive he ingested something lethal, but as far as what it was, who did it, and why, we’ve got nothing but a big goose egg.”

“So two attempts were made on his life that night,” said Sophie softly. “He was dying even before Phil shot him.”

“Appears so.”

“I guess when your number comes up, it really comes up,” said Bram.

“At this point, the case remains open,” said Al. “But it will probably be ruled a suicide. A sad end to an amazing life.” He stood. “Well, duty calls. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone and get back to the grind.”

“Thanks for coming, Al,” said Sophie.

“You get better now.” He cracked a knuckle.

She winced. “I will.”

As soon as he was gone, Bram asked Sophie to scoot over so he could lie down on the bed next to her.

“Don’t get any frisky ideas.”

“Of course not,” he said, turning on his side and putting his arm around her waist. Very gently, he pulled her close. “How long was Prince Charming here?”

“Only a few minutes.”

He was silent a moment. “Soph?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh. You must be exhausted.”

“Cute.” More silence. “Nathan said he was in the parking lot Friday afternoon because he’d come by to see Margie. Except, she wasn’t around.”

“Right.”

“The police bought it, Sophie, but I didn’t.”

She’d been expecting this conversation. She was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

“He was following you, wasn’t he.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “Yes. I think so. I can’t prove it.”

“He’s clever.”

“I never know for sure. I think he’s been . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Stalking?”

She hadn’t wanted to say that word out loud, but yes. That’s exactly what it felt like. “I don’t know what to think. Believe me, I’ve been doing my best to eject him from my life, but he never seems to get it.”

“Oh, he gets it, all right. But he’s got a different agenda in mind. Do you think . . . I mean, is it possible he’s dangerous?”

Sophie looked down at her wedding ring. “I think he could be.”

“I don’t care if the pope makes him a saint. If he causes us any more problems, I’m getting a restraining order against him.”

All she could think to say was, “Okay.”

“God, I wish he hadn’t just saved your life. I was the one who should have been there. Instead, I was sitting outside Phil’s apartment, watching his girlfriend pack.”

“You didn’t know.”

“But I should have. Al warned me to go home and keep a low profile. What I said on my radio show might have pushed him over the edge.”

She turned and kissed him softly. “No more of this. What’s done is done. We’re both alive, and that’s what’s important.”

He stared at her a moment, then smiled. “If my wife says it, it must be true.”

She couldn’t help but grimace.

Glancing around the room, he continued, “I would have brought you flowers, but they’re so impersonal. Know what I mean?”

She laughed. “Absolutely.”

“So,” he said, dipping his hand into his jacket pocket, “I brought you this instead.”

Her eyes lit up. “Kransakaka! From my favorite bakery?”

“Nothing else would do.”

“Oh, honey, you know the way to a woman’s heart—at least, this woman’s.”

“True.”

This time when he kissed her, he didn’t stop.

39

“I have
never ever in my whole life
had someone talk to me like that,” blurted Margie. “You
have
to
do
something about him, Dad. I think, at the very least, Henry owes me an apology.”

Bram had taken his daughter to the Rookery Club for dinner. Sophie would be released from the hospital tomorrow, and he wanted to spend a little time with Margie before he brought his wife home.

“Look, honey—”

“That man
hates
me. Me! I’m one of the nicest people I know! Besides, what have I ever done that was so bad? He thinks I’m leeching off you and Sophie just because you’re helping me out! I mean, that’s what parents are
for.
They’re supposed to help their kids. Like, I didn’t
ask
to be brought into this world.”

“Calm down, sweetheart.” People in the restaurant were starting to stare.

“He called me a
brat
, Dad. He even spelled it, like I was some sort of moronic dweeb.”

“Well, yes, dear, that was totally beyond the pale.” Bram sipped his Manhattan and tried to look concerned.

“Damn straight it was. In my opinion, he’s drawn a line in the sand.
Our
family against his. That’s the way I see it. And if he wants war, he’s got one.”

“Margie, Sophie’s father is used to giving orders. You interrupted him while they were working. It’s really not that big a deal.”

“Not a big deal? Not . . . a . . . big . . . deal! Dad, he sat there and accused me—
me
, the last word in diplomacy and tact—of sticking it to Sophie every chance I got.”

“Well, actually—”

She turned her outraged eyes on him. “I try
so hard
with that woman. She is
not
my idea of a mother figure. Even my business partner, Carrie, agrees she’s way too snooty, too self-centered, too . . . too judgmental and uptight to ever give me the kind of love and attention I deserve.”

“Are we talking about
my Sophie
? That small blond woman I live with? Because, if we are—”

She cut him off again. “Oh, I knew you’d take her side, try to make light of it. But Henry wounded me, Dad.
Deeply.
”

“Margie, there are no sides. We’re a family. And believe me, Sophie doesn’t think you’re a leech. She loves you. She just isn’t always sure you like her very much.”

“Well, she’s right about that.” Margie took a sip of her wine.

“I’ll talk to Henry, I promise. See what’s up.”

She turned her attention to the menu. “Fine.”

Bram watched her. “Are we still pals?”

“I think I’ll have the salmon.”

“Margie?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you angry at me?”

She didn’t respond.

“Because, if you are, you have to understand, you’ve put me in the middle here.”

“Right, Dad. I get it.”

“Do you?”

“I have to fight my own battles. Don’t worry, I’m up to it.”

“I don’t want you to fight anyone, honey, especially Sophie or her father.”

“Let’s change the subject, okay?” Her eyes brightened. “Hey, look. There’s Mrs. Josefowicz again. I should go over and say hi. Did I tell you? She’s thinking of using Carrie and me to do her niece’s wedding next spring.”

“That’s great,” said Bram, watching her get up and walk over to the table. Mrs. Josefowicz and her companion seemed delighted to see her. Margie sat down, and immediately the threesome were deep in conversation.

Picking up his drink as he rose from the table, Bram passed by his daughter, whispering into her ear. “I’m going back to the De Gustabus room. I won’t be long.”

Margie gave him one of her dazzling smiles and waved over her shoulder.

So much for her lousy mood.

The other reason Bram had for coming to the club tonight centered around Al Lundquist’s comments about how Bob Fabian had died. Bram had the beginnings of a theory, and he wanted to poke around and see if he could firm up something.

Flicking his eyes to the NO RESERVATIONS REQUIRED sign above the door, he squared his shoulders and entered. It was Monday night. He assumed Vince and Lyle would be dining on stir-fried bat wings—or whatever. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Baldric,” said Vince, looking up from his plate. “Join us.”

Lyle nodded hello.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Stuffed goose neck with a red ant chutney,” said Vince. “And crisp roasted termites over polenta.”

“Oh, yummy,” said Bram, feeling his stomach lurch.

“You missed the dried fly larvae on toast points,” said Lyle. “That was our appetizer.”

Bram thought he detected a smirk. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to drown my sorrows for my bad timing.” He lifted his glass, saluted them, then took a hefty swallow. “I want to talk to you boys.”

“Yeah?” said Vince. “About what?”

“Bob Fabian.” Bob’s photo was still sitting on the buffet, but the crepe paper had been removed. He’d been dead almost three weeks now.

“Shoot,” said Vince, taking a sip of wine.

Bram pulled out a chair and sat down. “My connections in the St. Paul Police Department tell me Bob didn’t die of a gunshot wound.”

“No?” said Lyle, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Nope,” said Bram. “Seems he was poisoned. It will likely be ruled a suicide.”

Both men continued eating. Neither looked surprised.

“Know anything about it?” asked Bram.

“Why would you think we’d know anything?” asked Vince.

“Well, actually—”

“You still think I did it?” asked Lyle. Glancing at Vince, he added, “Baldric here came to my condo the other day. Accused me of shooting Bob in cold blood. Now it appears he thinks I poisoned him. You got a one-track mind, Baldric. Like I told you then, Bob was my best friend. I owe him my life. You think I’d hurt him, you’re crazy.”

Bram scratched his head. He knew he was missing something. “But you guys . . . you were the last people to see him that night.”

“So?” said Vince.

“Then again, you loved him.”

“Right,” said Lyle. “And FYI, Bob would never have committed suicide. He was very religious. Thought Valerie was in heaven. If he took his own life, he figured heaven would be banned from him forever.”

“Kind of an innocent way to view life,” added Vince. “Especially for a West Point grad, and a Viet Nam vet. But that’s what he thought.”

“If it wasn’t suicide,” said Bram, “then it must have been murder.” Lyle glared at him. “Try thinking outside the box for once, Baldric.”

“Meaning what?” said Bram.

“Meaning,” said Lyle, “that there’s more than two options.”

“For instance,” said Bram.

“Well,” said Lyle, “if you were to join our little culinary club, attend our Monday night dinners regularly, we might, say, over a bottle of root beer, let the truth slip. But we’d have to trust you first. And the only way we’d ever trust you is if you became a member. Blood brothers. That sort of thing.”

Bram sat up straight. “You’re kidding, right? You’d tell me what really happened if I joined your group?”

“Well, you’d have to swear you’d never pass it on to your ‘connection’ in the department. There are rules to secret societies,” said Vince.

“You’re not a secret society.”

“Yeah,” said Vince. “True. We’re just two silly old guys with lots of survivalist literature in the trunks of our cars.”

“You are?”

Vince knocked him on the shoulder. “Kidding again.”

Bram stared at the crispy little bodies covering the polenta.

“ ’Course, you never know what secrets lurk in the hearts of men.” Lyle stifled a burp. “But join our group and you can find out.”

Bram didn’t know what to believe. One thing was for sure. They were certainly enjoying themselves at his expense. If they really had murdered Bob, why all the good humor? The whole thing seemed way the hell too bizarre. But, it appeared the only way he would ever get the answer he wanted was to join their group. Unless that was another joke.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

“We have to vote,” said Lyle.

“And then drink a cup of fresh horse blood,” said Vince.

“Horse blood!”

Lyle laughed. “It’s just so fun to watch your reactions, Baldric.”

“Raise your left hand,” said Vince.

“My
left
hand?”

“We don’t do things in here like regular folks,” said Vince. “But you already know that.”

“We’re adventurers,” said Lyle. “By the way, Baldric, I took a leave of absence from my job. I’m entering rehab on Wednesday.”

“Good man,” muttered Vince.

“The hand,” said Lyle. “Raise it.”

Bram raised his hand.

“Repeat after me,” said Vince. “I, Bram Baldric, do solemnly swear that I will live life to the fullest, not be afraid of new ideas—or foods—and that I will keep my trap shut about whatever is said in this room.”

Bram repeated it, word for word.

“Welcome to the De Gustabus Club,” said Lyle.

Vince slapped him on the back, then got up to shut the door.

“You guys are total
madmen.
”

“Yup, very likely,” said Vince. “Here. Try some of the termites.”

“No, you first,” said Bram, eyeing the tiny fried varmints warily.

“Well,” said Vince. “It’s all pretty simple. After Valerie died, Bob went on and on about how much he missed her. Like Lyle said, he believed in heaven. He thought that when he died, he’d be reunited with her. So, ergo, he wanted to die to go be with her, but he couldn’t kill himself.”

“So we told him,” said Lyle, tucking into a thick slice of the goose neck, “hell, we didn’t have any problem with killing. We’d both killed lots of people in Nam. ’Course, this was a little different.”

“A lot harder,’ said Vince. “Harder than we ever imagined.”

“See, Vince and me, we think heaven is a crock, but hell, every man to his own beliefs, right?”

“Right,” said Vince firmly. “So here’s the deal. We thought that maybe, in time, Bob would change his mind. We told him we’d give him one year. If, during that period he had a change of heart, he’d let us know. But, if he didn’t tell us, he could expect that on the anniversary of Valerie’s death, we’d take care of it for him.”

“Send him to his heavenly reward,” said Lyle. This time, he’d stopped eating. His voice was thick. “He was never the same after Valerie died. We could tell he was just biding his time. The old zest for living had already gone out of him. We just helped the rest of him go.”

“I mean, we didn’t want him to die,” said Vince, putting his fork down, his expression sobering. “But we made a pact. We loved him enough to do what he wanted done. We miss him like hell. And we figure he’s in his grave, but maybe, just maybe, he was right. Heaven does exist. Maybe he’s up there right now looking down on us, smiling, his arms around Val, right where they belong. God, I hope he got his wish.”

Bram just sat there. He wasn’t sure if he should be appalled or moved—or if he should believe it at all. “What did you use to poison him?”

“None of your business,” said Lyle, sniffing into a handkerchief.

“We may want to use it again,” said Vince, winking at Lyle.

“You’re kidding, right?” said Bram.

Lyle grinned. “Yes, we’re kidding.”

“But not about Bob.”

“Well, maybe we are,” said Vince. “Then again, maybe we aren’t.”

“Your problem, Baldric,” said Lyle, “is that you think we sit around here every week playing Russian roulette with poisonous blowfish.”

“Yeah, that about covers it,” said Bram.

“Well, we don’t,” said Vince firmly.

“What about the police?” asked Bram. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll eventually figure it out and put you in jail?”

Both men shook their heads.

“Not unless you tell them,” said Lyle.

“We’d deny it, of course,” said Vince.

“So,” said Lyle, shrugging, “life goes on. Such as it is.”

Bram’s head was spinning.

“Now that we’re done with the initiation,” said Vince, dishing Bram up a plate, “let’s eat.”

“Vince has outdone himself tonight,” said Lyle, wiping at his eyes with the handkerchief.

“Remember our motto,” said Vince, pushing the plate across the table.

“No reservations required?” repeated Bram.

“Amen,” both men replied.

Vince grinned. “Come on, Baldric. Dig in.”