“Ten-four,” I throw back. Heard that on some TV show, and it sounds very P.I.ish.
Chapter Twenty-One
I go back to the drawing board and write a script for David Spencer at Club Nucleus. During the next call, I plead with him not to hang up. This time it works.
The next day, David and I walk down Hudson Street not far from the club. “What made you change your mind?” I ask while carrying two iced coffees from a nearby deli.
“How you told me that she’s a part of your family,” David answers. “And you’re trying to get the family together for a reunion. And you want to make things right with her, even though she took off years ago. Well, all of that sounds good for Terry.”
I wonder how many little white lies I will have told by the end of this investigation.
“So, the two of you started at the same time at Club Nucleus?” We walk onto a small plaza lined with benches several blocks from the club.
“Yes, and from day one, everybody liked her,” he says.
We sit on a bench in the shade, and I hand David one of the drinks. “You’ve been at Club Nucleus a long time—you must really like it,” I say, still trying to win him over. He nods. “And how’d it go for Terry at the club? Did she thrive, too?”
He shifts nervously on the bench. “Please don’t let Adriana know that I’ve talked to you about this. She never discusses it. Are we clear?” His voice is firm.
“Yes.” Must be job preservation that has David Spencer so adamant about this—and with member privacy a high priority at a place like Club Nucleus, my not saying anything would be crucial.
“One of the younger members fell for Terry and began to pursue her.” David looks away as if he’s thinking back in time.
“Why was that a problem?” I take a sip from my iced coffee.
“Adriana has always had strict rules about not fraternizing with members outside of the club.” David also takes a drink of coffee. “Not allowed at all.”
“Who was the member?” I ask.
He hesitates, but continues, “A dot-com guy, not much older than Terry. Probably in his late twenties when they met.” David folds his arms, still holding the cup, and leans against the back of the bench. “John Palmer. I can still picture him in some quiet corner of the club playing chess with another member or off by himself playing online.”
John Palmer. I’m mentally going through the books on Juliana’s nightstand at Meadow Farm. I recall the inscription in her chess book—JP, 1999. Might well be this John Palmer.
“So how’d he go from chess to falling for Terry?” This has the makings of an interesting story.
“Oh, it was all innocent at first. He didn’t set out to put the moves on her. You have to understand, Mrs. Lake—”
“Please, David, it’s Ronnie.”
“OK, Ronnie. John was geeky, you see.” David chuckles. “Hugely successful, but geeky.”
“Go on,” I encourage.
“And Terry was just curious about, well, everything and always trying to learn new things. So, when she’d bring him a cup of coffee, she’d watch him play for a few minutes.” He shakes his head. “Next thing I see Terry’s reading beginner chess books during her breaks.”
I give him a look. “So she put the moves on him?”
“Not at all. It wasn’t Palmer she was interested in. It was chess. She wanted to learn how to play. She’d say to me, come on, David, why don’t you learn, too. And I did. We’d play together outside of work.”
We both drink from our coffees and contemplate the past. “So what happened? I mean, with John?”
“Well, when she’d bring him something to drink or, say, a message—he always turned his phone off at the club even though it wasn’t a rule—she’d quietly cheer his move on the board or ask a question about strategy. John and Terry quickly developed an easy rapport.”
“David, is that code for relationship?” I ask.
“Not yet. So, a couple months later, it’s after work and I come across the two of them playing chess here, of all places, on this little plaza.” He shakes his head. “The next day, I read her the riot act, tell her that if Adriana were to find out, Terry would be fired. I said she was a fool to be with him so close to the club, where maybe next time the boss instead of me would see the two of them.”
“Were they involved?” I’m all ears.
“She said they were just friends.”
David and I display similar cynical expressions at the same time and laugh.
“Whatever,” he says. “Anyway, around the club, John Palmer seemed to come out of his tech-geek shell. He still played a lot of chess, but he was much more outgoing and friendly to everyone. I think it was due to Terry’s influence.”
“Sounds as if he was in love.” I smile.
“Yep. He fell hard,” David agrees. “And Terry was very happy, although she had to hide it, but I could tell.”
“That’s nice.” Or was it, really?
David says nothing. I wait. Still nothing.
“What’s the final chapter in their story, David? Did they run off into the sunset together? Did they live happily ever after?” He still doesn’t respond.
David sighs. “They made plans to run off into the sunset, but they didn’t live happily ever after.”
“What then?” I’m always a sucker for a romantic story, but I prefer one with a happy ending.
“Four months or so after I first saw them playing chess on this plaza, I noticed Terry, at her desk, fussing with a ring on her finger. She had the stone turned down, and she was trying to take it off and put it in her bag. I’d just walked in, and she acted as though I’d caught her breaking the law.”
“Was it an engage—”
“John Palmer had given her a beautiful ring. Terry was so happy. She said they were going to be married the very next week, nothing fancy. City Hall and then a small celebration for a few friends at a restaurant. She asked me to come, to be part of it. She didn’t have any family around and didn’t know many people outside of where she worked.”
Hmmm. “What did Adriana do when she found out?” I ask.
“Adriana wasn’t happy when Terry broke the news. First of all, Terry was involved with a member. Second, the boss was losing a valued employee. But Adriana was decent about it, since Terry had being straight with her and given her plenty of notice.”
“Sounds as if they did live happily ever after,” I offer.
“No.” David looks sad and his posture sags a little.
“She wasn’t in an accident or something—”
“No, no.” His voice goes quiet. “She was a runaway bride.”
My jaw drops open—literally. “Wha—”
“She took off the day before their marriage…just left him a note at the club…said it was better for him if they didn’t marry, and that she didn’t mean to hurt him. I saw the note, torn in half, on Adriana’s desk.” David finishes his iced coffee. “I guess Palmer tossed it, and maybe Adriana found it. Anyway Adriana quietly flipped out. You know, she originally discovered Terry in Orlando, gave her a start in New York. I don’t think the boss ever got over it.”
“And Terry? What happened to her?” I feel Teresa—Juliana—slipping through my fingers, again, in this early life of hers.
“She just disappeared. Something bad must have happened for her to bail. None of us ever heard from her after that.” David gets up and tosses our empty cups into a container.
He returns and starts speaking again. “John stayed away from the club for about six months. Finally, one day he showed up again, back to his pre-Terry geeky self, playing chess all the time. A year later Hewlett-Packard bought his company, and he moved to Utah to start a new business.”
David pulls a paper from his pocket. “Here. John Palmer’s contact information in Salt Lake City. Never, ever, say anything to Adriana. I could lose my job for giving you this.”
“I promise I won’t.” I look at the paper and then at him. “David, why
are you giving me Palmer’s address?”
“Because Terry had a heart of gold. I still miss her friendship. If she can reunite with family, then that’s a good thing. Maybe John Palmer can help you find her.”
“Thank you, David.”
“You’re welcome.” He walks away, stops, and turns back to me. “Ronnie, were you ever really planning to join Club Nucleus?”
“Maybe. Haven’t decided yet.”
David smiles, gives me a skeptical look, waves quickly, and walks out of the plaza and up Hudson Street.
Me? I’m thinking of the chess-playing Juliana telling Bobby Taylor that she’ll leave the country if he doesn’t back off. I now understand this is no idle threat, since she’s done this disappearing thing before. I’ve got to call Will.
Oh, Frank, you better guard your heart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The crowd is screaming, and I have a headache. Inside an octagonal ring, two mixed martial artists, both with overly tattooed upper bodies, appear—in my nonexpert opinion—to be evenly matched. They come at each other with a combination of boxing, wrestling, judo, karate, and jujitsu. Every time one of them falls onto the mat, pinned by the other in some unfathomable joint lock, the decibel level in the place skyrockets. The fighters’ stage names, which I hear repeated often by the announcer, are the Bronx Bulldozer and the Deadly Assassinator.
Will Benson and I sit on bleachers in a huge warehouse not far from the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport. I don’t see many women in this crowd, so how in the world did I end up here? I think I agreed to come when I brought Will up to speed on runaway bride Teresa/Terry/Juliana, and he interrupted me to suggest we watch a mixed martial arts fight.
Mixed martial arts? I asked. What does that have to do with Aikido, which I love?
Nothing, he answered, except it was an opportunity for me to broaden my horizons.
When I told him I preferred to stay home and watch paint dry, he told me to stop being such a snob and come check it out.
Besides, he added, I might learn more about Bobby Taylor. It seems Will got a tip that Bobby Taylor is working security for one of the mixed martial arts companies that puts on events in this area. So we expect to see him here at this fight.
I’m surrounded by boisterous fist-pumping teenagers and back-slapping twenty- and thirty-something guys in the bleachers. I could be the den mother of most of the men cheering the cagefighters below, who one moment are on their feet punching each other and the next sprawled on the mat grappling.
Will nudges me. “Look to the left, Ronnie. The guy walking down the aisle toward the ring.”
My eyes open wide. “Yep. Bobby Taylor. I saw him arguing with Juliana in front of the coffee shop in Moosic.”
Taylor leans over to speak to a gruff-looking man in a ringside seat. Bobby’s tee-shirt rides up, and I’m reminded that his tattoos are as ample as those on the gladiators in the ring.
“Hard to believe this is the guy who’s been bothering your brother’s girlfriend,” Will says. “They’re worlds apart. Whatever the connection, it must be an interesting story.”
“She’s paying him off to keep him away from the girl, Frankie. Or Francesca, to use her formal name.” I say. “Sounds like blackmail to me.”
“You never know. It could be more than that. Often something looks one way on the surface, but when you find out the back story… Hey, nothing surprises me anymore.” Will sips his beer. “Ronnie, won’t you let me get you a beer?”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” My throbbing head couldn’t handle a beer at the moment. Is it my imagination or is the decibel-level of these screaming fans higher than it was fifteen minutes ago?
I shift my gaze from Bobby to the ring as the Assassinator jabs at the Bulldozer but misses. The Bulldozer responds with a strong left hook and connects. Then he follows it with a liver punch, and the Assassinator folds over in pain and staggers back.
“Will, if I were out there, I would have thrown up after that last punch—” Before I can finish my thought, the Assassinator, who has regained his balance, moves in quickly and tries for another jab, but he’s slow. The Bulldozer moves to the side and kicks out the legs of his opponent, who goes down with a crash. The crowd jumps up and goes wild. They want blood.
I make a face showing my disgust. “Will, this is so not like Aikido.”
“Yeah. It’s a different world from the dojo, Ronnie.”
I remember how I had wanted to study a martial art for the longest time. As I researched which one to study, I learned that Aikido techniques are especially effective for women, who in most cases don’t have the same brute strength as men.
I had also read that Aikido is considered by many practitioners to be one of the most spiritual martial arts, sometimes called a moving Zen. Finally, at age forty-eight, I signed up for classes, and here I am seven years later, a newly minted black belt. But I wouldn’t dream of going up against one of these mixed martial arts fighters, that’s for sure.
Will nudges me again. “Looks like Bobby’s stepping up to do his job.”
A crazed, swerving fan tries to push his way over to the cage and yells, slurring his words, “Bulldosjher! Busht his head! Kill the Ashashin!” Bobby does his best to hold the gigantic guy back as reinforcements rush up to help. Three guys are needed to escort the screaming, tipsy—OK, drunk—fan from the warehouse.
Will grabs my arm and guides me down the steps of the bleachers. We exit through a different door and watch from a distance while they let the guy go. All the security guards go back inside, except for Bobby, who stays. Once he’s sure they’re all gone, he turns around and slugs the fan in his gut.
“Ugh!” The man doubles over and staggers. He appears to be drunk, which renders him unable to fight back despite his size. Bobby lands another blow, this time under the chin, and the man goes down. Then Bobby straddles the guy and strikes him over and over, the man’s head whipping from side to side with each blow and slamming against the concrete surface of the parking lot.
Horrified, I can’t stand it another second. “Stop!” I yell. Running with Will toward Bobby, I pull out my phone and snap some pictures. “I’m calling the police,” I threaten.
Bobby looks up. “Mind your own business, bitch.” He stands and moves toward me. I cringe, remembering the creep in the motel alley choking me not long ago.
“Hey, man,” Will yells at Bobby and places himself in front of me. “That’s enough.”
The doors swing open and two other security guards come out. They quickly survey the scene, especially the beaten-up fan-man sprawled on the ground barely conscious and then notice Bobby’s bloodied fists.
“You better get inside fast, before the boss sees this,” one of them says. That guard guides Bobby Taylor by the arm, who continues hissing obscenities at me.
Then right before he goes through the door, Bobby takes his parting shot, staring straight at me. “Hey, bitch,” he sneers. “You, I won’t forget. I’m coming for you.” I continue snapping photos with my phone. Bobby and the guard hurry inside.
The other security guard calls 911 and reports what he believes to have been a probable drunken brawl. He tells the operator that the guy needs immediate medical attention. The only witnesses to dispute his story are Will and me.
The security guard looks at us the entire time he speaks on the phone and walks in our direction as I continue taking pictures. He then surprises me and makes a sudden grab for my phone, but it falls to the ground.
Will steps in. Again. “Buddy, back off,” he says in the guard’s face. I pick up my phone and quickly move out of the way. The guy retreats and rushes inside.
“Let’s get out of here, Will. I’ve seen enough mixed martial arts for a lifetime and enough Bobby Taylor until I decide my next move.”
“Decide your next move? Ronnie, you need to watch your step,” Will says as we hurry to our car.
“What do you mean, Will?” I ask. “We’re fine.”
“This rushing into the middle of things without thinking first is dangerous,” he chides as he beeps open the car locks.
I’m indignant. “Bobby Taylor is a scumbag bully. You saw how he was slamming that guy’s head against the concrete.” I get into my side of the car and slam the door shut. “Someone had to do something.” I glare at Will as he gets into the driver’s side.
“OK, Ronnie. Look, we know that Bobby Taylor is one mean dude. And we know help is on the way for that drunk slob he beat up. So, calm down.” He slams his door shut and glares back at me. “At the moment, that guy doesn’t concern me. You do. The red marks on your neck the other day concern me—”
“The marks went away in a few hours,” I interrupt. “See? No black and blues.” I lift up my hair to show him my unmarked neck.
“The point is you came close to disaster again just a few minutes ago.” Will slams his palm hard on the steering wheel, and I sit up fast.
“What is it with you?” he snaps at me. “You’re like the proverbial bull in a china shop.” Will goes on, his tone turning cautionary, “One of these days, you’ll end up seriously injured if you continue acting first and thinking second.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Will and I stop for supper on the way back, even though we’re giving each other the silent treatment. At the restaurant, things start out a bit tense as we order. But for some unexplained reason, Will and I don’t hurry the rest of the evening along, and that turns out to be a good thing in terms of my getting to know him better.
Before I realize it, what we had thought would be a quick bite morphs into a leisurely two-and-a-half-hour meal. Mr. Hunky Third-Degree Black Belt Private Eye happens to be one very interesting man, and he and I talk about all sorts of things, none of them having to do with my investigation. Why am I surprised to discover that Will Benson is excellent company?
Once we’re back in New Jersey, Will drops me off at my car, and I head home. As I drive through the EZ-Pass lane on the highway, the sign flashes You Have Paid, and my cell phone rings. My niece’s voice shrieks through the earpiece.
Stunner Page 13
