But am I missing something more, something dark, something that makes her a danger to Frank—to us all?
“One last sprint,” Kary yells to the class. “Three, two, one. Go!” We pick up our speed and pedal as fast as we can.
~~~~~
I figure my brother has had enough time to cool off, so Warrior and I decide to take a little drive to Meadow Farm after spinning class. Before Warrior and I can even make it up the steps to the front door, Juliana appears from around the corner with garden shears. She doesn’t even pretend friendliness when we meet.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
“Excuse me? What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you left for Pennsylvania.”
“Change of plans…” She shakes hair from her eyes. “Anyway, you’re not welcome here. Your brother made that perfectly clear to you.” She gestures with the shears as she glares at me.
By my side, a low growl starts up. Warrior isn’t happy about those shears. “Warrior, sit,” I command. He sits, but continues growling. “Juliana, please put down the shears.”
She stands as still as a statue with those damn shears pointing at me. Warrior barks two times. “Come on, Juliana. You know dogs. He thinks you’re behaving aggressively toward me. Put the shears down slowly, and let me get him into the car.”
She does as I’ve asked, and I take Warrior by his leash and put him in the Mustang. With the shears gone, he settles down, and I pull the top up on my car so that he can’t jump out. By the time I turn back, Juliana has planted herself in front of the door and stands there with her arms crossed like a sentry, blocking me from entering the house in which I grew up.
“You’re kidding.” It occurs to me that this might be a good time to try a little Aikido. “You would seriously prevent me from entering my family house?”
“It’s Frank’s home, and he told you to stay away.” Her voice is icy.
“Well, I think I’ll hear that directly from my brother, not some recently arrived visitor. Not some outsider.” I snarl the word outsider.
Juliana flinches ever so slightly, and then recovers. “You should respect your brother’s wishes and leave, Ronnie,” she says in a low, even voice. “He doesn’t want you here. We don’t want you here. You’re a troublemaker.”
“Correction, Jules, darling. You’re the troublemaker. Why haven’t you called the police on Bobby Taylor?” I ask.
I make a move to step around her to enter the house, but she’s too quick for me, and slides in front of me again. Now we’re really in each other’s face. Behind me, in my Mustang, Warrior growls as a car approaches the house, but I don’t turn around to look. “And who exactly is Mrs. de Torres—” The car stops, and its door opens. Warrior woofs in anticipation. “—And, while we’re at it, who is that lovely, young Francesca?” Now I see genuine fear in her eyes.
The car door slams. “Veronica,” Frank yells at me, as if I’m six years old. He bounds up the steps and grabs me by the shoulders to pull me from the door. “I told you to stay away.” My brother turns me from the house and marches me down the steps.
“But, Frank, you didn’t really mean it—” I protest.
“Ronnie, get out of here.” He points in the direction of the road exiting the property. “Leave.”
“But, Frank, we vowed we’d never let this happen again—”
“This is nothing like what happened with Peter,” he insists. “My god, I already said all of this to you before, just yesterday, but you don’t listen. Ronnie, you brought this on yourself. You’ve been pushy, nosy, and annoying. So forget Juliana and me planning a wedding—you’d be such a pain.”
I’m relieved by what he says about not planning a wedding, but the momentary reprieve is quickly shattered as my brother continues. “I am so fed up with all of your nonsense that I’m thinking Jules and I will just elope.”
Shocked, I plead, “But Frank, what about your fam—”
He cuts me off. “Now go. And don’t come back.” I’ve never seen my brother quite this angry. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart.
Juliana quietly walks up to Frank and links arms with him. He squeezes her hand. He’s made his decision; I feel defeated.
Then I look into Juliana’s eyes. One moment I think I see victory, but the next it’s confusion and sadness. Confused and sad is certainly how I feel, and Warrior and I take our leave.
~~~~~
Classmate Fred runs at me on the mat as I gesture in a way to invite him to grab my wrists. When I raise my arms a bit higher as he approaches, the energy of his attack changes, and he reaches for me with outstretched arms. Just at the very moment he grabs me (timing is everything in this technique!), I step back and turn in the direction where I intend to throw him. Fred’s momentum, along with my help, propels him forward and down, and he safely falls with a perfect roll.
After we’ve done this four times, we switch, so that I now become the attacker or uke. It’s Fred’s turn, as nage, to execute ryotetori kokyunage and send me flying into forward rolls. Ever watch football players soar through the air to catch the ball and then land in a forward roll? That’s how much energy these rolls require.
We continue to throw each other, but after two more sets, I’m huffing and puffing. I feel a bit wobbly and ask permission to leave the mat for some water.
The class continues practicing while I drink, and Isabella Sensei walks over to ask me if I’m all right.
“Feeling tired,” I answer. “Should not have taken this class and spinning on the same day. Also, guess I’m a little stressed.”
After class, outside by my car, Will invites me to lunch. “You look as if you could use a friend right about now,” he says.
Warrior barks out the half-open car window. “Will, have you met my protector and best four-legged pal?” I ask, working hard on fake it till you make it so the whole world doesn’t see how sad I feel. Putting down the window all the way, I give Will the condensed story of Warrior and my son, Tommy.
Will asks for permission to reach his hand to Warrior so that the dog can smell him. I nod and he does so, and before I know it, Will has worked his way up to scratching the German shepherd’s neck. Clearly he’s at ease with dogs, and Warrior warms up to him at once.
“OK, time for lunch,” Will announces. “Follow me.”
We each drive to a nearby diner, where I leave my car windows open for Warrior. Inside, Will and I find a corner booth. I guess I’m in somewhat of a daze, because Will orders for both of us, and I merely nod in agreement. I sit glumly, my hands fisted together covering my quivering mouth.
“Come on, Ronnie. Let it out,” Will says.
The tears immediately spill from my eyes. I tell Will everything that happened at Meadow Farm—my confrontation with Juliana; how I feared Warrior would attack her; Frank’s talk of elopement, his accusation that our disagreement is entirely my fault, and his telling me to leave Meadow Farm while physically propelling me toward my car, banishing me, maybe forever.
“Oh, Will, I feel as though I’m running out of time,” I sob. “What if marrying Juliana turns out to be the worst thing that ever happens to Frank? I’d never forgive myself for blowing this.” I sniffle, and Will gives me his handkerchief. I clear my nose, sounding like a foghorn.
Glancing down at his previously unused handkerchief, I ball it up and stuff it in my bag. “I’ll wash this and get it back to you next class,” I say in embarrassment.
Will laughs and puts his hands over mine on the table. “Now listen, Ronnie…” I sniffle. He smiles. “The best strategy for you is to get back to work and finish this investigation.” He reaches for one of two files he brought into the diner.
“Here’s Juliana’s, or Julie Jones’s, community college transcript, plus details of the women’s-only residence in New York where she lived while in school. I included the manager’s phone number.” Will slaps the file on the table. “Make an appointment. The time Julie spent there covers her life through
her early thirties.” I look inside the file, rubbing my eyes.
“Ronnie, you’re close to having Juliana’s total story.” Will hands me a paper napkin to dab my eyes. “Now get back to work. It’ll help take your mind off what happened today.”
He reaches for the other file. “Consider this one your homework assignment from me. If you’re going to be an accidental detective and snoop around in places that could get you into trouble, you should at least know what you’re doing.” He beams that fantastic smile at me, and I start to feel a whole lot better. “Now pay attention. Let’s call this Surveillance 101, and here are the basics…”
~~~~~
I lean back in the gigantic white porcelain tub that sits in the middle of the bathroom, which I gutted before I moved into my cottage. The only item on the wall opposite the tub is a monstrous blow-up photograph of Sean Connery as James Bond.
When I’m stressed out, I like nothing better than a glass of pinot noir, candlelight, and a soothing hot bath. Looking up at the photo, I stare into Sean Connery’s eyes. He’s in black tie and holding a gun, of course. A bath-time conversation with 007 is usually a sure-fire technique to unload whatever is bothering me. But tonight it’s not working; I keep seeing Frank’s angry face instead. So I step out of the tub and nod goodnight to Double O Seven. I turn out the lights and flop onto my bed, asleep almost before I hit the mattress.
I’m in our library with my brothers. Frank, Peter, and I joke and laugh and throw popcorn at each other. We’re happy as can be.
“Peter, please come!” It’s a woman’s voice elsewhere in the house. “Peter, please hurry.” The voice is familiar.
Peter gets up to go to her. I realize who it is. Her. The wife. The one we all thought we would love when they married. How could we know she had one goal from the beginning—to keep Peter all to herself and completely erase us from his life. We never saw it coming.
“Wait, Peter.” Frank stands and puts his hand on Peter’s arm, but our oldest brother shakes it loose. Tears fill my eyes.
“Peter, I need you,” that wretched voice pleads from somewhere outside the room.
I run up to my brother and hug him as if I’ll never see him again. “I love you, Peter.”
“I love you, too, Ronnie, and you, Frank.” He breaks away and rushes out.
Frank consoles me, but then his cell phone buzzes. He checks the text. “Sorry to do this to you, Sis. Got to go.” He dashes out, too.
I run through the house, sobbing and looking everywhere for my brothers. Then I hear the sound of a car engine and rush to a window. Frank pulls away in his Porsche, Juliana sitting next to him.
“No, Frank, no!” I scream and hurry outside. But I’m too late. My brothers are gone, and I’m completely alone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After that nightmare and all the tossing and turning the rest of the night, I feel hung over from a lack of sleep. Instead of driving, I jump on the train into Manhattan early in the morning and now sit at a café where I try to wake up.
I feel like crap and defeated, but my one hope is to finish this investigation of Juliana. Once I’ve got the whole story, I’ll mail the material to Frank’s office, if he still won’t talk to me. Maybe he’ll forgive me then. I drink my coffee and pull the papers from the file Will gave me yesterday.
How Will managed to get a copy of Julie Jones’s transcript at Manhattan Community College is beyond me, but I’m happy he did since it sure does make for interesting reading. I flip through the pages listing her coursework and excellent grades. Besides the many required literature and writing classes, I note the strong emphasis in history, philosophy, and psychology.
Juliana certainly was well rounded in her studies. I realize my image of the rough-and-tumble Teresa Gonzalez is transitioning into a picture of the Juliana Wentworth my brother adores. Even though she still went by Julie Jones at this stage of her life, in my mind I now envision a younger Juliana instead of the more grown-up version of the thirteen-year-old Scranton Gang girl.
I read that Juliana, Julie, completed the writing and literature program—attending part-time—and received her two-year degree in 2004, but I notice a ten-month gap in the transcript from late-2000 into 2001. Not a single class. Did Julie take a break to have a baby?
I wonder which of her professors would remember Julie and, if so, speak to me about her, especially since I’m not a police officer in the midst of an official investigation.
I also see Julie was a member of the chess club at the college. So she obviously continued playing even after she broke off her wedding plans with Palmer. I pull out my tablet, go to the school’s website, and send an email, requesting contact information for the faculty member who is the chess club advisor.
I look back at the file. Scribbled on the inside is a note from Will that in 2005 Julie requested a copy of her transcript be sent to UCLA. Finally, we have a connection to her more recent life on the West Coast. This link will definitely speed up my investigation, and perhaps allow me to skip talking with her professors here in New York. I look at my watch, pay for the coffee, and turn off the tablet.
Outside, I hail a taxi and head for my appointment at a ladies-only hotel on West 32nd Street called The Hamilton Residence. I thought apartments exclusively for women were a relic of the 1950s and ’60s—you know, all those quaint stories about actresses like Grace Kelly, Candice Bergen, and Ali MacGraw living at the Barbizon when they first started out. But a bit of online research showed me I was wrong. It’s now the 21st century, and a number of these residences are thriving today. As a matter of fact, The Hamilton has a waiting list.
I hop out of the cab and look up at the building. What’s not to like? The huge brick edifice is stately and elegant. And safe. It even provides a doorman to sweep visitors through the imposing, colonnaded front door into an enormous lobby that holds clusters of upholstered furniture.
I give my name at the reception desk and sit down on a huge sofa in one corner of the room. Checking my phone, I find a message from the community college with the chess club faculty advisor’s contact info. I then compose a quick email requesting an appointment. I may find it useful to talk with him. As I hit Send, a woman walks over and greets me in a gracious manner.
“Mrs. Lake, welcome to The Hamilton. I’m Madeleine Avery, the manager.”
I stand up. “Hello. So nice to meet you, Mrs. Avery.” We shake hands.
She sits down opposite me. “When my assistant scheduled the appointment, she noted that you wished to inquire about a past resident…” An amused smile plays on her face. “…and not that you wanted to stay here.”
“That’s correct, Mrs. Avery.” I smile back.
“We do respect our residents’ privacy, but how exactly may I help you?”
“I’m trying to locate a distant family member for a reunion I’m planning.” I fold my hands in my lap. “We lost touch with her ten years ago when she lived here at The Hamilton—”
“I’ve been here thirty years, and I make a point to get to know all our young women at The Hamilton.” She tilts her head. “What is her name, Mrs. Lake?”
“Julie Jones. She might have been using her middle name, Terry, instead of Julie.” Here we go again with the little white fibs. “My daughter, Jess, was so fond of her growing up.”
A long pause and I can see Mrs. Avery going through a mental checklist. Then her face lights up. “You mean the very studious Julie? Of course.” She shakes her head. “We have many young ladies who come through The Hamilton, but not many who live here as long as she did. The longer-term residents are easier to remember. Plus, Julie was simply unforgettable.”
The manager pauses, as if making a decision. “Since we’re talking about a resident who left so long ago, I think I can share with you what I remember about Julie.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Mrs. Avery.” I cross my feet at the ankles and sit up straighter, as if I’m being interviewed for approval to stay here myself. “I guess Julie w
as pretty busy taking classes?”
“I would say that if she wasn’t at school, she spent most of her time in this very room studying.” She gestures toward the opposite side of the vast lobby. “See that wing chair over there in the corner?” I nod, and she goes on. “If you were looking for Julie, most likely you’d find her sitting in that chair studying, surrounded by her books, papers spread out on the coffee table, her laptop open.”
“Sounds as if she was a dedicated student,” I say. “Did she make any friends among the other residents?”
“Julie was friendly and helpful to everyone,” Mrs. Avery says. “But I remember she was very private. She kept to herself.”
“How long did she live at The Hamilton?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she answers. “I’d have to look it up.”
“No need—”
“I knew she’d be leaving,” she says, and then her tone becomes wistful. “I just didn’t think it’d be quite so soon.”
I decide to go for the information—gently. “I thought you said she stayed an extended—ooohhh. Right. The baby.” Those words hang in the air for such a long moment that I’m worried I’ve blown it, but then Mrs. Avery sighs.
“I remember when Julie started showing a few months after she arrived. She didn’t attempt to hide it.” She shrugs. “I tried to quietly offer her opportunities to talk about it, in case she needed moral support, but she absolutely would not discuss it with me.”
“I’m sure you did your best, Mrs. Avery.” So, Julie/Juliana was definitely pregnant. “She was fortunate to have you here, even if she didn’t want to talk to you about it,” I say. “How about the father? Did he get involved?”
Mrs. Avery shakes her head quickly. “No. Not at all, as far as I could tell. Julie said nothing about the father and just quietly continued with her studies as her pregnancy progressed.”
“Did she have the baby while she was here?” I ask.
“Oh, no. Julie was finishing up a school term and getting bigger and bigger—she was probably about eight months along—when she gave me notice that she’d be leaving in two weeks,” Mrs. Avery says and looks at me. “At that moment, I must admit to boldly asking her about her plans. You know, would she keep the baby? Or put it up for adoption?”
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