by Tyler Colins
I explained who I was. “I'm hoping you'll talk to me about Cholla—Collie—Poniard.”
“Did she burn another hubby or do something equally nasty or distasteful?” The tone held no bitterness, merely curiosity.
“I understand she's a—”
“Bitch?”
“Among other things,” I replied casually. “I'd like some first-hand background on her. I've got the feeling she's far from what's been portrayed in the press when you were a couple.”
“I'd be happy to enlighten you.”
“I can be in New York tomorrow. Will you let me buy you dinner?”
“Anywhere I like?” he challenged with a carefree chuckle.
“Anywhere you like,” I granted.
* * *
After a two-year interlude in Australia, Dan Spades had returned to his home state of Maine. He was living outside of Bangor at a convalescent home—or retreat, as they called it on the website—for injured athletes. He wasn't listed as a counselor or therapist, or anything else for that matter, which got me wondering in what professional capacity the former sports announcer served.
He responded to my voice-mail message at midnight.
“Uh, yeah?” I asked sleepily.
“Ms. Fonne?”
“Uh, yeah, speaking.”
Lively laughter erupted. “I'm sorry. I should have checked the time. It has the tendency of getting away from me.”
“No worries.” I forced my eyes open and my mind to de-fog.
“You said you were a private eye from Hawaii looking to discuss Cholla Poniard,” he prompted while I struggled to engage a snoozing tongue.
After quick sips of water, I gave a rundown and mentioned Race.
“I'm sure Shortly's tales are similar, but I'm happy to share—hold on… What? Excuse me for a second.” He returned a full moment later. “I've got to run. Can we connect tomorrow?”
“I can call back during the day … or pop down to Maine Thursday morning.” What the heck? It was on the way to North Carolina. Sort of.
“Let's meet for breakfast at 7:15 on Thursday. Does that work?”
“It does.”
After receiving directions for a “first-rate” diner and a hearty good-bye, I put in a call to my colleagues. Both were still at the agency: Linda was writing a couple of wine review blog posts and Rey getting into the role of a sashaying shrimp. I gave them a quick rundown.
“We should have gone with you,” Rey groused.
“And what? Slip and slide through the snow?” I joked weakly. “I'll be back in a few days, hopefully with some worthwhile information. What's Xavier up to?”
“He flew to Seattle for something work-related. Said he'd either be back tomorrow night or the next.”
“When are you back again?” Linda called out.
“Monday.”
“Hugs to your mom and nephew.”
“Yeah, from me, too,” Rey sing-songed. “What about your new pal, Mr. Army-Tank Smith? Are you gonna let him go?”
“For now. I suspect our paths will cross again.”
“Ya think?”
“Yeah, Cousin Reynalda,” I replied with a dry chuckle. “I think.”
Chapter Fifteen
Race thanked Paige, our tall and lanky server, after she placed midnight-black espressos and decadent desserts on a fine white linen tablecloth sporting stains resembling Rorschach inkblots. The décor at Bam-BooBoo reflected the prices: expensive. Bamboo [of course] melded with gleaming brass panels and vibrant stained glass, while a large bustling open kitchen featured copper shelving, designer kitchenware, and an etched glass wall. Plush and comfortable seats featured—what else?—bamboo designs.
The opulent place smelled of spices and fruits, roasted meats and sautéed seafood. Dinner had started with ginger-glazed pork belly followed by scallops in pumpkin sauce, served with a pleasant Pinot Gris. Seated by a long tall window, Race and I enjoyed a fabulous view of Central Park feathered with soft white snow.
The former tennis pro/star forked a golfball-sized chunk of pistachio-almond butter-cream torte past slender lips and chewed with gusto while I dug into a triple key lime pie as beautiful as a Florida Keys sunrise.
“I love dessert.” He smiled happily. “When I was in training, I always watched what I ate. For years, desserts were nothing more than plain yogurt and fruit.”
We'd chatted about his current career first, slipped back to those successful years on the tennis circuit, and then talked a little about my life as meteorologist and private investigator. Seconds before the sweet treats had arrived, Cholla had entered the discussion.
Race spoke of his ex-wife with nonchalance. He spoke of the “crackbrained woman” like someone discussing a magazine article; there was no outward rage or hostility, or mention of vengeance.
“She got me good financially.” He gestured for another espresso. “But given her childhood and youth, I totally get it.”
Curious, I cocked my head and eyed the thirty-seven-year-old.
“Her dad left her and her mom when Collie was two. Monique-Marie, her mom, took her to Paris and eventually landed a job as a baker. She had to work long hours and things were tight. It was really tough the first long while. They lived in some sort of loft where pigeons roosted on the windowsill and 'pets' weren't cats and dogs.”
“Who was her father?” I asked casually, knowing but wanting to confirm.
“A rich dude named William … uh … Winford Vaunt.” With interest, he watched an attractive older woman bedecked in silk and pearls stroll past. “When Collie and I lived in San Antonio for a few months to be close to my sick mom, I remember her saying, a few times in fact, how much she'd hated having had to count coins. During her younger years, she believed she'd be—and this was said with a gawd-awful Southern accent—'forever poi'. She watched her mother age big-time as she worked long hours and decided she'd never ever allow a man to use her and then toss her aside like an old newspaper.”
The chuckle sounded sad. “Things changed when she'd turned seventeen. Monique-Marie was married again at that point, to a dude named Pierre Pasco Poniard. He wasn't rich, but he wasn't poor—or 'poi'—and he put out money for her daughter's education. Collie and her mom never got along much, so she decided to take the guy's last name and returned to England, and earned an MBA at London Business School.”
“Impressive.”
“So is the fact that she went to the Chelsea College of Art & Design and took theater studies at Birkbeck, at the University of London. She joined a theater company for a year and blew people away with her acting, costuming and make-up skills.” His smile was a fleeting one. “She's multi-talented, that one.”
“What happened between you two?” I prodded gently.
“She got bored with tennis, even though she was damn good at it.” He shrugged a broad shoulder. “The crowds we hung with seemed to have become a mind-numbing experience. And it appeared I wasn't doing much for her, either… Collie's interest in something only lasts so long. She needs to be constantly challenged.”
“Why'd she not simply ask for a divorce? Why start rumors you were a drinker and druggie?”
Race sat back, exhaled slowly and eyed a terrazzo wall as if it were a screen into the past. “Firstly, I believe she wanted to paint me as the big bad wolf so that she could receive as much alimony as possible. Secondly, I believe that woman has an evil streak. I'd seen her play wicked games within our circles, but whenever I'd mentioned something I'd noticed, she'd laugh and say it was just that: a game.” Race shook his head. “Look at what she did to Spades. That was out-and-out wicked.”
“He wasn't into young women, was he?”
“Of course not. But you spread a rumor like that around, and it's going to blow itself out of proportion. Even if it's not true—and it wasn't in his case—it will stick to you like white on rice for the rest of your life.” He drew a sharp breath and pushed aside the empty plate.
“You're not bitter or angry, are you
?” I asked.
“Not anymore. She's got serious issues.” He tapped his temple. “You can't hate someone for that. You can only hope and pray they get professional help.”
* * *
“What first attracted me to her was that sexy red lipstick. It was perfect for those seductive lips—like Puccini and opera,” Dan said matter-of-factly as he poured cream into his cup. “Rose Rouge it was called, a color created solely for her by a French manufacturer, based on the vibrant reds that starlets wore in the 30s and 40s.”
Forking up fluffy scrambled eggs, I peered past a frosty window to the Kenduskeag Stream. I'd made it safely to picturesque, museum-rich Bangor (and surprisingly awake after a mere four hours sleep).
The diner, Cod & Capers, was warm and cozy, and smelled of freshly baked bread and muffins, fried eggs and bacon. It appeared to be a popular venue, for all sixteen tables were taken. As the name implied, the interior had a Cape Cod theme going, no doubt because the owner, Florence, hailed from there. It was what lobster-infused mac-n-cheese was to the world of comfort food.
Dan Spade's story was similar to Race's. Cholla had started getting bored of the relationship and related revelry seven months into the relationship, but had hung on for several more before filing for divorce. Again, rumors started and it wasn't long before Dan's sports announcing career was in shambles. He, too, claimed she had a nasty streak and called her a “control freak”.
“She's very aware of everything and never shows her true colors. She's very careful about how she portrays herself, particularly when she's playing a role.” With a sardonic smile, he stared outside. “She had this habit of pursing her lips and picking fabric, like a little kid might a blanket, whenever she was scheming something. It took me a while to notice and later, whenever I did, I'd beat it out of the room as if Robespierre were coming after me with the guillotine.”
“Race suggested she was challenged.”
“She has problems,” he said with a lame shrug.
“You bear no malice?”
“I did, but what's the point of remaining angry and vindictive?” Another shrug. “What's done is done.”
I took a sip of a feisty French roast. “Is there anything else you can share?”
“Watch your back.” He winked. “She's a chameleon and she's damn dangerous, but nailing her with anything will prove next to impossible.”
I suspected he was spot on. “What do you think of her half-brother?”
“If Cholla's a Diamondback Rattlesnake, James-Henri's an Inland Taipan. Stay the distance.” He glanced at a ship-wheel porthole clock above the kitchen counter. “I've got to head back. Cholla's mucked up a few men's lives, but there was one she didn't succeed at ruining. Tucker Track Ching's. He was a successful realtor when they met—still is, in fact. She didn't win him over like she did me or Shortly. That didn't sit well, I'm sure.” A frown pulled at a box-shaped mouth. “I'd bet my savings, what laughable little is left, that she'll even the score some time, in some way, when the time is right. No one ever gets the better of Cholla Poniard.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“The last I heard he was in Miami.”
I filed the info in my mental cabinet, thanked him, and motioned the server for the bill.
A minute after we said our goodbyes, Nat King Cole announced a call.
It was Rey. “Hey ho.”
“Hey ho.” I glanced at the clock. It was 2:30 a.m. on Oahu. “What's up, besides yourself?”
“We'd have called sooner, but you weren't answering.”
“I forgot to turn my cell back on,” I said ruefully. “Why are you up at—”
Before she could respond, Ald broke in—angrily and wearily. “You owe me two dinners, Fonne, at the very least.”
Oh-oh.
“Around midnight, your colleagues were found leaving the premises of a house to which they had no key.”
Oh-oh.
“Fortunately, it was your favorite detective who intercepted the call or Detectives Fonne-Werde and Royale would have been spending the night in what they used to call the hoosegow.”
Oh … oh.
Ald disconnected.
* * *
I caught up with Rey and Linda again thirty minutes later, after taking a cab to BGR. The gals were back home.
“Really, it wasn't that bad,” Rey insisted as something was being poured.
“We merely took a quick look around,” Linda stated. “We weren't in there more than eight, maybe ten minutes—”
“You shouldn't have been in there at all,” I advised, scanning the departures sign for the flight to Wilmington. “You're lucky Ald didn't throw the book at you or that Cholla returned home. She could have charged you with trespassing, or worse.”
“You want to hear what we saw or not?” Rey asked crustily.
“I do,” I confessed, surveying the busy second-floor Domestics Terminal.
“She's got expensive tastes,” Linda started.
“Did we think otherwise?” I asked dryly.
“She's also got a lot of nudie art around,” Rey continued.
“Art coffee table books from yesteryear. We did locate a safe in the salon,” Linda said.
“And you—very smartly—didn't open it,” I said (hoped).
“We woulda if we had safe-cracking skills,” Rey sniffed. “That's on the agenda.”
“The hell it is,” I advised sharply. “You and those B&E tools—”
“Will you stop lecturing?” Rey interrupted brusquely.
I inhaled slowly. “What's next?”
“Some shut-eye,” Linda replied. “Afterward, we plan to check out Randy's house, or what's left of it, before we visit him in the hospital.”
“That sounds productive and legal.”
“What about you?”
“I'm on my way to see Mom and Quincy. My flight leaves in an hour.”
“Good stuff. Leave everything in our capable hands,” Rey said a little too cheerfully. “We'll have stuff to report next time we talk and we'll update you on snoopy Mrs. Browne. Toodles!”
…Toodles?
Chapter Sixteen
“I can't wait to show you Jason's comic book shop. He reno'd it and it's awesome!”
My nephew Quincy was charged, not from the three-layer white-chocolate cake and marshmallow-heavy hot chocolate, but because his aunt was treating him to a day of pre-teen fun. Those thrilled smiles, in turn, charged me.
It was 9:00 Thursday evening. Mom was having a late dinner with a new man in her life, Wilton MacBream or MacBrill, or something like that. I thought she'd sworn off men after a short relationship nearly ten years back with Theodore the Duck Master—a “rather unconventional chap” per Charles Droolingham, a neighbor hailing from the land of crumpets and tea, thrones and crowns, and perpetual dampness. A Duck Master, we learned, was someone who not only fed and cleaned after the waterbirds, but shepherded them in a ceremonial manner through a given venue. Who knew!?
Quincy and I had just finished chatting about his favorite things: comic and graphic books, gaming, and cooking. My multi-talented nephew and buddy would surely grow up to be an artist or chef—and, no, that wasn't proud auntie talking.
Loon-black eyes sparkled with glee as full lips pulled into a Genie grin. Instead of a Nick Carter 90s bowl cut he'd been sporting for four years, the soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old was now wearing a long fade with long top and fringe. Given his new height—the kid was growing fast—it made for a more mature appearance.
He looked a lot like me, who looked a lot like my dearly departed sister, Reena Jean. Quincy came to us six years ago, when thrill-seeking Reena Jean had been washed out to sea after standing doggedly on a pier during a Category 4 hurricane. She'd challenged Mother Nature to “bring it on” and Mother Nature had obliged—by yanking her off the pier into her enfolding arms.
He cut two more slices of the sugary homemade creation. “Thanks for convincing your mom to let me have the day off tomor
row so we could spend it together.”
“You don't get off that easily.” I regarded the plates with trepidation while my teeth ached with the thought of chomping down on more sweetness. “You get extra homework this weekend.”
His response was to tuck another forkful into his eager mouth. “And you get another swimming lesson.”
“Yeeha.” As a mediocre—okay, crappy—swimmer, I didn't much like the water, but I'd made it a personal pledge to not only learn to stay afloat for more than ten seconds, but to become acquainted with a surfboard (maybe that would only be in the small, shallow Hawaiian Hilton Lagoon, but acquainted we'd become).
“What do you think of Mom's boyfriend?”
“He kinda looks like … you ever see Jackie Earle Haley in Watchmen?”
I winced. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is he nice?”
“He's smells like fish.”
“Fish?”
“He owns a fish store.”
“Is he nice?” I repeated.
My nephew's head tilted from one side to the other. “He's okay. He got me two really cool seafood cookbooks for Christmas.”
I smiled into my mug.
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?”
Cash/Richie flashed before me. “Nope.”
“Too busy being a detective, huh?”
“Detecting keeps the three of us pretty engaged,” I replied nonchalantly. “What about you? Are you interested in anyone?”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to keep the walls from hearing. “Yeah, but you can't tell MawMaw. She thinks school comes first.”
I scanned the pale, angular face and saw Reena Jean staring boldly back. “When did you start calling her that?”
He shrugged. “A while ago, I guess.”
“You were saying?” I prompted with an easy smile.
“I'm kinda liking Lee.”
“Is she in your class?”
“… No.”
“Does she go to your school or live in the neighborhood?”
“… Both.”
