by Norma Lehr
Abby gazed out the patio window at the long row of date palms. Their overhanging fronds cast deep shadows across the now-empty pool. Above the fronds, a scarlet and gold sunset that might have been painted with an artist’s broad brush colored the San Jacinto hills.
Earlier Ginny said her mother would never forgive herself if Abby missed the ball. Could it be true? She never thought of Trish caring much about what pleased her daughter, one way or the other. Interesting, though, how Ginny felt. Maybe this time when she caught up with Trish, they could have the family talk Trish suggested earlier concerning their past relationship. Maybe.
The doorbell chimed and Abby clicked across the tiles in her six-inch strappy heels. Before she opened the door, she called back to her aunt. “If Trish phones again, let me know. Leave a message on my cell.”
“Yowza!” Blade jutted his chin while adjusting his black tie. “It’ll be tough keeping undercover with you on my arm, pretty lady. When we arrive at the Ball, every eye’ll be on you.”
Abby smiled and shook her head as she led him inside and introduced him to her aunt. Ginny gave him the once-over and gave Abby a thumbs-up of approval when Blade’s head was turned.
When Abby bent over to give Ginny a good-night kiss on the cheek, her aunt whispered, “He’s a double for Mark Stevens.”
Abby grabbed Blade’s arm and ushered him outside before Ginny could tell him he looked like a detective actor from the fifties. When they were almost to the convertible, Abby said, “Good, you put the top up.”
“Just for you.” He lightly touched her hair. “Wouldn’t want you mussed up.”
Abby carefully gathered her gown as she got in the passenger’s side. “Trish made the audition and got the singing part for The Follies.” She sighed deeply. “Now Ginny doesn’t know where she is.”
Blade nodded and put the car in gear. “Yeah. So?”
“So, what I’m saying is, she met up with some old men friends for a poker party on Friday and hasn’t been back to my aunt’s since.”
On the way to the Esmeralda Resort, Abby explained about her mother’s addiction and the police coming to the bungalow to talk to Trish about the dead man.
Blade listened quietly. “Do you know his name?”
“They didn’t say, but they did tell me he was here to speak at a convention. I’m praying it isn’t Thomas Levine. I have fond memories of him from my childhood.”
Abby didn’t add that in those years long past she’d also wished many times he was her father.
Blade slowed the car. “Listen, do you want to cancel the ball? I’ve gotta be there, but I can take you back.” He looked disappointed. “Don’t want to, but I will.”
Abby shook her head, recalling what Ginny said earlier. “No. Trish wouldn’t want me to miss this. If she hasn’t come back by tomorrow morning, I’m going over to the Betty Ford Clinic. If she hasn’t checked in there, then I’m going to the police station to ask if they’ve heard anything.”
The two were quiet for the rest of the ride. When they left the VW with valet parking, Blade firmly took her elbow. “If Trish isn’t at your aunt’s in the morning, leave a message and I’ll drive you to the station.”
The sudden grip on her arm and the seriousness of Blade’s tone sent a chill through her. She wrapped her aunt’s filigree shawl across her bare arms. He barely knew Trish yet it seemed he’d picked up on something. Or had she just imagined it?
CHAPTER 4
The Bob Hope Classic Ball—glittering, glamorous, celebrity studded symbol of the good life—turned out to be everything and more than Abby expected. She’d read in a magazine on the plane that this was the social event. The beginning of the five-day PGA Golf tournament. As she and Blade strolled through the entryway, Bob Hope nostalgia was everywhere. To the left, oversized golf balls sat on tall tees holding Hope’s funniest laugh lines. On the right, two screens on either side of the stage kept to the ball’s theme: “Thanks for the Memories.”
Brushing shoulders with golf celebrities as well as musical greats temporarily pushed worrisome thoughts of Trish and the dead doctor aside. “There’s Michael Bolton,” Abby pointed out during cocktails. Minutes later, her shoulders swayed to the piped-in music of Gladys Knight singing “You’re the Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me.” She scanned the crowd of beautiful people. “I love this song. Do you?”
Blade nodded while he gazed into Abby’s eyes. “My theme song for tonight, lady.”
His intimate remark flustered her. Her cheeks burned. Tough to take a compliment like that without losing herself. She turned away as her thoughts raced back to New York and her Toppette days in the early ’80s. Without the cares or burdens of marriage and kids, she and her dance mates spent nights making the rounds of Manhattan nightclubs to hear Gladys and her cousins, The Pips.
“Knight performed here a couple of years ago.” Blade scanned the program sheet. “It’s noted here in the ball history. Tonight we have the pleasure of hearing Michael McDonald.”
“He’s great too. Most elegant looking with all that beautiful white hair.” Another celebrity suddenly caught her attention. “There’s Kurt Russell by the side door.” Abby squinted above the crowd. “I wonder if Goldie is with him.”
“Didn’t they break up?” Blade seemed unconcerned. He turned as guests brushed past them on their way to dinner. “Let’s go find our table.” He raised an eyebrow. “Time to chow down.”
Abby didn’t recognize anyone who was anyone at their table, but Blade seemed to be interested in a covert sort of way with the table behind them. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Have you spotted the rumba dancer?”
Blade lightly pinched her wrist. “Keep cool, sweet cheeks. Keep your attention here at this table. Start your salad and I’ll be back in a flash.” He stood, nodded an excuse at the other four couples and left.
Abby finished her salad while she small-talked with the woman on her left who wore long white gloves. She’d made a good start on the main course—broiled salmon with miso glaze—before Blade dropped back into the chair beside her. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say something—anything—but he only pushed his salad aside and dug into the salmon. Obviously his mind was elsewhere.
When he finished eating, he carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and turned to Abby. “What’s for dessert?”
A heavyset woman to his right giggled. “Fresh berries with sabayon sauce. It’s to die for. Here it comes now.”
Fifteen minutes later Blade apologized as they headed for the dance floor and the musical tribute to Les Brown. “I couldn’t take the chance the subject would take off. I followed and laid low. Subject is back in sight now, so everything’s copasetic.” He put his arm around Abby’s waist and pulled her close as they slow danced to “Sentimental Journey.”
Suddenly Abby felt tipsy. From the wine at dinner? Or the combination of his masculine cologne and the texture of his tanned skin pressed against her face? She could blame it on the wine, but she knew better. The tingling came from him and their chemistry. The feel of his body next to hers was intoxicating.
When the orchestra played “I Can’t Believe that You’re in Love with Me,” Blade had her swinging.
“Hey,” she laughed. “You really are light on your feet. You make some smooth moves. Have you taken ballroom?”
“Nope. When I was a kid, my parents were dancing all the time around the house. Sometimes they grabbed us kids and gave us a twirl. On Saturday nights they went to a weekly dance at the Portuguese hall down the street. When I turned thirteen, they took me along. You’ll recall my mother ice skated.”
“Right. You told me the story when we were in Tahoe. Hence the name Blade.”
He gave her a wink and held her tight in a low dip. “You remember.” He held her there and didn’t let go for a beat or two longer than the music called for. Pulling her close to his chest, he brushed her lips with his. “You are so beautiful.” Admiration shone in his dark eyes. “I could
dance and hold you like this all night.”
Abby, completely flustered, said, “Me too.” Later, when she thought about it, she blamed it on the wine.
After three more dances without a break, Blade suddenly straightened, full of tension. “Gotta go,” he whispered in her ear. “Hang around for another twenty minutes and a cab’ll pick you up in front.”
“Don’t worry.”
He guided her off the floor.
“I can make it back—”
“Take the cab.” This time it sounded like an order.
Early the next morning, Ginny followed Abby into the bathroom while she brushed her teeth. “Haven’t heard from your mother, but last night one of the poker players dropped by looking for her.”
Toothpaste foamed in Abby’s mouth. She quickly spat it into the bowl and rinsed. “Who? Did he give his name? What did he say?”
Ginny handed Abby a cup of tea. “Come sit on the patio and we’ll talk.”
Abby tied her robe and followed her aunt through the slider and into the sun.
“The ‘who’ is a nice-looking young man who came to the Springs to make contact with your mother. He called when he arrived, and she invited him to the poker game. He went in hopes of talking to her after the game broke up, but with the death of the doctor and the chaos that followed, there was no time. Seems Trish accused all of them of being responsible for the doctor’s death. After her outburst, she left in a hurry. One of the players followed her out.”
Abby’s teacup clinked against the glass-top table. “Death of the doctor? Thomas Levine? That’s definitely who it is?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Abby paused, trying to take it all in. In a moment she asked, “Young man? How young? Did he say what he wanted to talk to Trish about?”
Ginny gave a girlish shrug. “Anyone under sixty is young to me. I’d say he was probably middle to late forties. That was all he’d say about Trish, except now he wants to talk to you.” She rummaged in the pocket of her track-suit. “Here’s his card.”
Logan Stamm. She looked up, confused. “He’s owner and manager of a radio station in Reno. What do you think he wants with Trish?”
“I dunno. Since we’re in The Follies, I thought maybe he wanted or needed permission to play some of our old records. Maybe interview us for his show. If that was the case, he most certainly wasn’t interested in me. He made it clear he wanted to speak to Trish.”
“Okay.” Abby got up. “I’ll put this guy on the back burner until after we drive over to the Ford Center.”
“Don’t need to. While you were dancing on the polished floors of the Esmeralda, I rode on over to talk to admissions.” She set her jaw, causing her short red hair to bounce against her cheeks. “They haven’t seen her but promised to call immediately if she checks in.” Ginny handed Abby the morning paper. “The death of the plastic surgeon made the front page. They left out the names of the other players, except for the dentist, I guess because the incident happened at his villa. He seems to have just … died. No explanation yet. There’s no picture of the deceased.”
A flashback to her childhood brought instant tears. “I know this man. Or I did.”
Ginny reached out for the paper. “You knew him?” She scanned the article. “One of Trish’s admirers?”
“She brought him by Grandma’s a few times. When I was just a kid. He was nice to me.” She wiped the tears from her cheek. “I often dreamed he was my dad. Wished is more like it.”
Ginny wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t remember him. The name doesn’t ring a bell. Seems like Dorie, Trish and I were never there at the old house at the same time. Busy years back then.” She eased herself into a chair. “I’m sorry you’re feeling sad, but we’ve got to locate your mother.”
“I know. Top priority.” She imagined Trish must be devastated by her old friend’s death. Abby gulped down the rest of her tea and took a bite of a cinnamon bagel. Where to start? The police, to see if they’d heard any more from Trish? Last night Blade mentioned he’d go with her, but he hadn’t called. With the news article in one hand and the radio guy’s card in the other, she had to make a decision. Ginny gave Abby the keys to her Global Electric Motorcar with a parting reminder that Ginny had an appointment with physical therapy at four. She rubbed her hip and scowled. “I’d go to town with you, hon, but I need to stay off this new hip. I really pushed it last night when I went to the clinic. I’ll try to sit more. Anyway, someone should be here in case Trish calls or drops by. If she does, I’ll call your cell.”
With an idea that she might see Blade eventually and would want to look her best, Abby dressed in new Capri denims and a yellow ruffled cotton tank. The red, open-air car seemed to fly down the street at thirty-five mph—the restricted posted speed. She headed for Palm Canyon Drive to visit the office of the dentist, Preston Reynolds. It was Sunday, but she still thought someone might be in the office. Once in a while her own dentist worked extra hours on weekends. She put her visit to the police on hold. The station would be her next stop. What had Trish told them about Thomas Levine? Whatever it was, Abby wanted to know. If Abby asked and they refused to tell her, she’d inform them her mother was missing.
She turned onto Belando Street, one block west of Palm Canyon Drive, and parked next to the curb in front of a compound of self-contained office-type cottages. The first place had been remodeled into Reynolds’ dental office. Lights shone from inside. Good! It looked as if he had come in after all. Before she ventured in, she checked her messages. Nothing from Blade.
Why didn’t he call? Same old, same old with him. Sure, he was working a case, but a short message would have been appreciated. Obviously, he didn’t care enough about Trish’s whereabouts. Why should he? Last night Abby hadn’t acted too concerned either.
She tapped the steering wheel and nodded wistfully. As she basked in the warmth and beauty of the desert, her thoughts drifted back to last night at the ball. She’d been aware of a slow thawing of her emotions. Dancing and laughing with Blade had been wonderful. When he lowered her into that sexy ballroom dip and kissed her, she’d wished the evening would never end. And that they might wind up at his cabin sitting by a reflective pool while he told stories of Elvis and other celebs who had once stayed there.
Ho-hum. Her dream had been dashed because of his tailing mission. So shape up, she told herself. The guy has a job to do.
How about tonight? They could still get together, but she hadn’t heard from him. Seemed whenever she started falling for a guy who showed her a little emotional support, she wound up flat on her face.
She knocked on the door of the dentist’s office, waited and listened.
A woman called out, “We’re not open today. Is it an emergency?”
“Kind of. Could I come in for a minute? Or can you come to the door?”
A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Abby took a step into an empty, plush waiting room. A receptionist, a deeply tanned brunette in her early twenties, opened a glass partition and peered out. “The dentist isn’t in today. Did someone tell you he was?”
“No. I just took a chance he might have dropped by the office.”
“Some Sundays he does, if a patient has an emergency. He’s not coming in today.” She hesitated. “Do you have a toothache? I can refer you to another dentist.”
“No. No. Won’t be necessary.”
“Did you need to make an appointment?” She peered at Abby through green, narrow-framed glasses. “Doctor cancelled his appointments for a few days.” Removing her glasses, she looked at Abby with wide-eyed concern. “His friend—best friend, I guess—died and Preston, I mean Doctor Reynolds, has taken a few days off.” She wiped her lenses with a tissue and checked her computer. “Shall I pencil you in for Wednesday? He’ll be back in the office then.”
His best friend—Thomas Levine? “I really need to talk to him.”
“Sure, of course,” the brunette said. “I can make a conference appointment. Let me see�
��”
“No. This is personal.”
The receptionist gave her a long look. “Tooth implants, huh?”
“No. Really I’m an old family friend.” Not exactly a lie if you counted relatives. Trish was his friend. “Anywhere I can reach him today?”
“I don’t think so. He’s at the Bermuda Dunes, the PGA. When Preston plays golf, he’s unavailable.”
“Okay,” Abby said. “I’ll try him at his villa this evening. I’m from out of town and I’ll need directions.” Not exactly another fib ….
The efficient one brought out a small city map, penciled in Oro Ridge and circled the villa. “He gave you the gate code, right? I don’t have it.”
“Uh-huh,” Abby said. When she got there, she’d figure out some way to get into the Ridge. Once in, she could search for her mother’s car. “Do you have his home or cell number?”
“I’m really sorry.” The young woman winced and looked apologetic. “I’m not allowed to give it out. Office rules.” She used a red pencil and made a star on the map. “This is his place.”
Abby nodded. “I understand. Any chance my mother, Trish Malone, was in to see him last week?”
Another check on the computer before the receptionist shook her head. “Don’t see her listed.”
Abby took a business card and put it in her purse. “This is the first time I’ve been in Preston’s office. Mind if I look around?”
“Can’t let anyone in the back, but take your time out here. If the doctor calls in, can I tell him your name?”
“Abby. He’ll know who I am.” Second thought, he probably wouldn’t unless Trish told him. Taking her time, she wandered around the immaculate white waiting room with expensive, cane-back chairs and lime-striped pillows. Looking for what, she didn’t know. Two posted signs on the far wall in large black letters stated:
YOUR SAFETY IS OUR FIRST CONCERN
BLOOD TEST FOR AIDS VIRUS BEFORE TREATMENT IS MANDATORY
