A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  “This place reminds me of my dad’s country club,” George suddenly blurted.

  Whit shook her head and blinked. “What? Your dad owns a country club?”

  “Yes. There’s a lot of money in Bend, you know.”

  “That explains the whole Ralph Lauren thing. So how did you end up in the news business? There’s certainly no money in it.”

  George leaned back, arms crossed. “A kid from my school, whom I hung out with sometimes, was kidnapped when I was eight years old. Mason Fleming. Everyone thought it was a ransom kidnapping, because his family had money, of course, but no one ever heard from the kidnappers. He just simply disappeared. I was interviewed by the cops and later by a journalist. Everyone had kind of melted away, the story died off, but this one journalist came back months later and interviewed me. He was sure he had found a new thread in the story, but I never heard from him again. I followed the story on the news for weeks and then months. I was obsessed with every scrap of information, every lead. I dreamt about Mason, and thought I saw him sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry. It sounds like a frightening time for you. I remember that story.”

  “Yes. What you’d call a watershed event in my life. Cataclysmic. I learned an appreciation for news. I watched the newscasters deliver the news every morning and read all the different print stories; gradually more and more of the other headlines caught my attention.” He shrugged, “And that was it. I’ve been fascinated with the news since then.”

  “I can understand why.”

  As if making a confession, he looked sheepish, and added, “I’ve kept this under wraps … and I know it’s tantamount to being a traitor, but my major is broadcast journalism, not print.”

  “That explains a lot too!” she teased, and they both laughed. “I won’t hold it against you.”

  The ego that most broadcast “talent” brought to the table was a total turnoff for the humbler print journalist. Two-bit sound bites didn’t qualify as real journalism. At least that had been true twenty years ago when she’d entered the field. Things had changed. Not wanting to discourage him, she said, “Since print journalism is going the way of the dinosaur, broadcast is probably a smart move. Not much separates the two mediums anymore. They’re both online and use video. Can’t say that I’m liking all the changes, but I do appreciate the immediacy of the news and all its formats.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw, to her utter amazement, Mark Sorenson enter the restaurant and head for the sushi bar. A tall, muscular man, he wore tan dress shorts, a short-sleeved black dress shirt, and Italian sandals. Casually, as if admiring the decor, she watched him take a barstool and greet the chef.

  Observant, George said, “How fortuitous is that?”

  “A gift from God, George.”

  At that moment, Charlene beckoned from the doorway.

  “My massage awaits.” He stood. “Good luck!”

  He sauntered toward the bridge.

  Now she could focus on Mark. They were virtually alone in the restaurant; aside from a young couple in the corner, everyone else had probably taken shelter from the storm in their bungalows. She decided to sit two seats away from him, close enough to overhear Mark’s conversation with the chef but not so close as to appear predatory. She slipped onto the padded stool and set her purse on the counter in front of her.

  The chef handed Mark a wineglass of sake. “You’re early for dinner, Mr. Sorensen.”

  Mark gulped a healthy swig of the wine. “Actually, I’m late for lunch. I haven’t slept or eaten in two days.” He had a deep voice that articulated well, like a broadcaster’s. Maybe his mother’s stage and film DNA had something to do with it. “I thought I’d eat an early dinner and go to bed.”

  “Yes. Good idea, Mr. Sorenson.” The chef leaned in and placed a set of chopsticks wrapped in white linen in front of him. “So sorry. We’ll miss Ms. Francis. She always made me laugh.”

  “My mother was larger than life, that’s for sure.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, his head in his hands. “I couldn’t stay at her house. Everywhere I look, I see memories of her. I can’t say that it’s much better here.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have your usual ready for you shortly. More sake?”

  “Thanks, but that’s not gonna cut it tonight. You got something stronger back there? Some Nikka? On ice?”

  The chef nodded and placed in front of Mark a tumbler with ice, pouring an amber liquid into it.

  “Thanks, Sam.” He sipped and nodded his approval. “You might as well leave the bottle.”

  The chef set a small white tray with assorted sashimi before him, with smaller trays for sauces. He paused in front of Whit. “Welcome to Eden. Would you like a full meal? Or we do have a fine appetizer tray. All the fish is delivered fresh daily.”

  Without looking at the menu, Whit replied, “The appetizer would be great.”

  “And sake as well?”

  “Ahh …”

  Mark glanced her way as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. His tone was bitter. “You only live once. Might as well drink up.”

  “True. Life is short. Sake it is!” She’d have to crack out a credit card for this one, but it might be worth it.

  His dark-brown eyes ran a quick appraisal as he seemed to analyze her. He exuded confidence. Someone used to getting his way, a stockbroker on Wall Street. As if coming to some kind of conclusion, he leaned over and offered his hand. “I’m Mark Sorenson.”

  “Whitney Robinson.” She used her maiden name.

  “You ever had Japanese whiskey?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  He turned to the chef. “This one’s on me. Just give Miss Robinson a glass. I’ll share from my bottle.” Turning bloodshot eyes on her, he said, “I don’t like to drink alone.”

  “I see.” He had a John Wayne, take-charge gruffness about him, with a hint of refinement that she found charming and disconcerting at the same time.

  He asked, “Are you staying at Eden?”

  “No. I’m waiting for my nephew to finish his massage.” It was just a tiny white lie. Friend, colleague; they were interchangeable, weren’t they?

  The chef placed an appetizer tray and glass in front of her, then discreetly bowed his head and walked away.

  “Had a massage today myself.” He poured whiskey into her glass and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She swirled the amber fluid, listening to the ice clink against the glass. Suddenly she remembered John holding up a glass of Scotch, a cigar in his mouth, saying, “Here’s to the good life!” They had settled down for the night in a bombed-out shelter of a house in Baghdad. She blinked the image away and the sharp ache that went with it. “I apologize, but I couldn’t help overhearing just now. Was Niki Francis your mother?”

  “Yes. Yes, she is … was.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to my mother.”

  Whit gently tapped his glass. “Here’s to Niki.” She gingerly sipped, and found the amber fluid surprisingly smooth, with a soft burn finish.

  Mark downed his glass in one swallow. He turned squarely at her, a small smile on his lips. “I didn’t come in here to teetotal. Are you with me?”

  How did this happen?

  Whit nodded, knowing she would regret it. “Cheers.” She polished off her glass and came up sputtering and choking. Holy mother! It had been a while since she’d taken a shot like that.

  After patting her squarely on the back with a hand like a club, he said, “It’ll be better the second time.”

  He was about a hundred pounds heavier than her. There was no way she could match him drink for drink. She’d better get her questions in now. “What was your mother like?”

  “She was beautiful. So passionate about life and so giving. She’d never hurt a fly. A more decent person you’ll never know.” He suddenly punched a fist into his hand, his neck blotching purple above the collar of his black dress shirt. “I want blood.”

  The bass voice sent
a chill up Whit’s spine. Suddenly very glad she’d kept her identity hidden, she confided, “I don’t blame you. I lost my husband last year in Afghanistan.” Was it manipulation if she was simply sharing the truth? No. As long as she was honest, she was in the clear. Her whiskey-addled brain was loosening her tongue. “It’s terrible. I tried to suppress it, but I guess I can’t.”

  He glanced up in surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m so caught up in my own pain, I never thought about how someone else might be feeling.” Grabbing her glass, he poured more whiskey. “Here’s to the ones we loved.”

  Whit raised her glass, and pretended to sip. She had a story to put out, and her thoughts were already swimming. Lack of sleep, an empty stomach … she was toast.

  He patted the seat next to her. “I’m coming over.”

  The bird is in the cage.

  Mark slid his glass over and sat beside her. She felt dwarfed next to his broad shoulders and barrel chest, his elbow and muscular forearm nearly brushing hers. It had been a while since she was so close to a man.

  She sat up straight, forcing distance between them. Now that she had lured him in, all bets were off. Even if the police had not indicated that he was a person of interest in the case, he was an only child, and she assumed he would inherit his mother’s fortune. She also reminded herself that, to an investigative reporter, everyone was guilty until proven innocent.

  She reached into her purse and turned on the recorder. If she needed to use anything he said, she’d come clean and ask his permission.

  She thought about Dr. Heinemann and wondered if Niki had been a patient. “I’m not trying to pry into your mother’s private life, but when I came in just now, I met Dr. Heinemann, and I thought, well … maybe he could help me with my grief.” Again, just a white lie; it never hurt to have a therapist.

  He bottomed his glass again, and poured another. “She was a regular; swore he was magical. But I’m not so sure now. I spent two hours with the guy this afternoon. He suggested I focus on saying goodbye to my mother. Forget about the circumstances of her death. Let that go. It would prolong my grief. Let it go?” His neck was turning purple again. “To think that she was murdered makes me sick to my stomach!”

  “Have the police said how she died?”

  “They won’t say. I’m not sure they know yet.”

  “Hey, Sammy!” a voice bellowed from behind them. They both turned to see a hulking kind of guy, wearing a white martial- arts robe with loose-fitting black pants. The robe had the Eden Retreat logo embroidered in black ink on the right breast. He had the whole Arnold Schwarzenegger thing going on: square jaw, muscles, and accent, with each word spoken like it was its own sentence.

  “Can you toss together a tray of sashimi? I’m starving.”

  The chef nodded and quickly went to work. The hulk reached out a muttonlike arm and patted Mark on the shoulder. “Tough break about your mother. You know, I loved her like family. We all did.”

  Mark nodded. “She was easy to love.”

  “I’ve got a break in about thirty minutes. I can fit you in. Work out some of the tension.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, but I had a massage earlier with Adele.” Mark lifted his glass. “I’m about to drink away my troubles and go get some much-needed sleep.”

  The hulk glanced her way, his hazel eyes sharp. “Sleep, huh?” He lifted his square chin toward Whit. “Who’s this lovely lady?”

  Mark twisted toward Whit. “Oh, sorry. I’m piss-poor company today. Whitney Robinson, this is Wilhelm. He’s a physical therapist and a masseur here at Eden.”

  He stepped around Mark and offered his hand, which was surprisingly soft; it should be, with all the lotions and oils the massage therapists used every day. She could imagine him in a boxing ring more easily than she could see him doing yoga. Still clasping her hand, he said, “Any friend of Mark’s is a friend of mine. My offer to Mark is an offer to you. I have a doctorate in nutrition and wellness. I offer an amazing massage, but overall wellness is my specialty. Mind, body, and soul. Niki was a regular for several years. I actually have clients that come up from California, Washington, and the Midwest. So you see, you would be in good hands.”

  Whit smiled. “Thank you. I can’t right now, but I’ll come back another time.”

  With a disappointed sigh, he leaned in close. “Consider it an open invitation.”

  Sam, the chef, called to him, gesturing toward a takeout box, and Wilhelm turned abruptly, collecting his dinner. Before leaving, he paused next to Mark. “Again, buddy. My condolences.”

  Whit turned to Mark and asked, “So, did your mother recommend him?”

  Mark chuckled. “Oh yeah. Her and half the ladies in Medford. Why not? Good-looking guy like that?” He popped a piece of sushi into his mouth and chewed. “Why? Are you thinking about taking him up on his offer?”

  She shrugged, feeling warm all over from the whiskey, the tinkling music soothing in the background.

  “My mom loved the guy. You probably would too.”

  Whit quickly covered her glass when he offered her whiskey. “I have to drive.”

  He swung his arm toward the wall of windows, where lightning lit up the sky and illuminated the valley floor. “Not in that storm?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Well, I’m staying here tonight.” He glanced at her plate. “You haven’t eaten your sashimi.”

  She would have been much happier with a bowl of chicken lo mein noodles. But after munching a mouthful of sashimi, she reeled him back on point. “I’m sure the police are doing all they can.”

  He rolled his eyes, his expression suddenly thunderous again.

  She waited patiently, as he seemed to disappear into his own thoughts, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to his troubled mind. “I’m going to find the bastard who did this to her if it’s the last thing I do. I’ve hired a PI; he’s flying in tonight.”

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  He snorted. “Not that I know of. I don’t trust these local yokels.” He put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. “I don’t understand what happened. She was going to New York this week to shoot a new movie. We had reservations at Nobu’s.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You sure you don’t want more?” He lifted his head and grabbed the half-empty bottle. “I haven’t eaten much lately and I’ve got a nice buzz goin’.”

  “No thanks.”

  He topped off his glass. “The weirdest thing is … I just talked with my mother a few days ago. She never told me she was sick. I feel like she betrayed me. Why keep it a secret?”

  “She was sick?” This was the first she’d heard of this. If Riggs had known, she’d not mentioned it.

  “That’s what the medical examiner said.”

  “What kind of sickness?”

  “I don’t know. She was such a health nut, it’s kind of hard to believe. It hurts that she never told me.” He nursed from his glass. He was clearly hell-bent on getting drunk. In fact, he was well on his way. His words were starting to slur.

  “Was it cancer?”

  “Something like that. A tumor. At the base of her skull.” He touched the back of his neck and weaved on the stool, then caught himself with a steadying hand on the counter. “Whoa. Easy does it. Guess I better slow down. Anyway, yeah … the doc called it some kind of monster tumor. I asked the medical examiner if she suffered. He said she probably had headaches. And Annie, that’s her housekeeper, said that Mother complained about not feeling well and refused to eat.” He rubbed bloodshot eyes, clearly intoxicated. “Why did she shut me out? I would have been here for her, and none of this … I … I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

  Whit wished he hadn’t drunk so much so fast.

  Blurry-eyed now, he smiled sadly. “She used to take me on pony rides. Down in California. On the beach. You know, I never missed my dad. They divorced when I was just a kid; didn’t see him much. She always told me I was the man of the house. It wa
s a ranch, really. We always lived on big property. Usually had some family or other living there with us. Kind of a commune. My uncle … Uncle William helped raise me. He’s coming up tomorrow. Gonna be a hell of a day. Man, oh man …” His deep voice cracked. “I don’t want to bury her!”

  Whit felt the sting of tears. “I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, she blinked rapidly.

  “Yeah. So why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Maybe she just didn’t want you to worry.”

  “I don’t know. Damn. It’s too late now!” He suddenly stood up, staggering a little, and caught the counter. “How in the hell am I supposed to live in a world where … where the one woman on earth who loved me, no matter what, is gone?” He dug in his pocket and tossed a tip of rolled-up bills on the counter and waved to the chef; then, as an afterthought, he spun around and grabbed the half-empty bottle. “Hey. Thanks for … being my drinking buddy. And, Whitney Robinson, sorry about your husband.”

  “Thanks.”

  Disappointed, Whit watched him cross the bamboo bridge. He’d never said how the police believed Niki had actually died. In conclusion, she decided he seemed like a decent guy, probably not the killer. She reached in her purse and shut off her recorder.

  Beyond the windows, dark storm clouds slowly boiled in the hot wind. The tension in the sky matched her mood. Time pressed in on her from all sides. The hordes of reporters from other media outlets had descended on Medford like locusts, devouring her leads faster than she could gather them. It was the nature of the beast, but she was in crisis, trying to navigate through a storm of her own. Maybe the stringers had gathered some good intel since she’d been away. The stress had begun to feel like an anvil slowly compressing her slightly sloshed brain. With any luck, Mrs. Delano might have something worthwhile.

  CHAPTER

  17

  THE OLIVE GREEN–AND–WHITE two-story Queen Anne home sat well back on an expansive lawn. Oak trees lined the long driveway, the branches weaving in the blistering wind. The earlier torrential storm had dissipated, leaving behind scattered thundershowers.