We took our time crossing the bridge, reaching Father Hennepin Bluffs Park on the far side. From there we walked the plowed and shoveled sidewalks until we reached St. Anthony Main, a shopping, restaurant, office, and condominium complex. I guided Fifteen to the Aster Cafe. She stepped inside as if this had been our destination all along.
The Aster was considered by one local magazine to be “the best place to go on a first date” because of its spectacular view of the Minneapolis skyline, the tree-lined cobblestone street outside its front door, its perfect-for-cool-summer-nights courtyard, and the live jazz and bluegrass music it staged—mostly kids just starting out but also veterans like Bill Giese and Gary Rue. I picked it simply to see if our tail would follow us inside. He did. I pretended to ignore him.
I ordered black coffee; Fifteen had a mocha plus something called a Minnesota Malted Waffle, served with berries and whipped cream, despite eating breakfast less than ninety minutes earlier.
Our friend also had coffee.
“Do you think I lost weight?” Fifteen asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You saw me before I went into the hospital. Do you think I lost weight?”
“I couldn’t say. A pound or two? Everyone loses weight in the hospital; all the meals are so nutritiously prepared.”
“The portions are small, too. I was hungry all the time.”
That explains why she attacked every meal as if it were her first, my inner voice said.
“I don’t think losing weight is going to be a problem for you,” I said.
Fifteen lifted a fork filled with waffle and whipped cream to her mouth, paused, and said, “You’re cute.” Which I took as her diplomatic way of saying, “What a jerk.”
“There’s a man sitting at a table off your left shoulder near the window,” I said. “I want you to take two more bites of food and then look at him.”
Fifteen did exactly as I asked. I thought her body stiffened at the sight, yet I couldn’t be sure.
“Have you seen him before?” I asked.
“I don’t remember. Why?”
“He’s been following us.”
To her credit, Fifteen finished her waffle without missing a beat.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Let’s find out.”
I paid the bill and escorted Fifteen back into the street. We retraced our steps, walking casually. At least I was casual. At one point, Fifteen took my hand in hers and did not let go until we reached the bridge. That’s when I glanced behind me. He was there, exactly thirty yards back.
“What are we going to do?” Fifteen asked.
I gave her hand a squeeze.
“Patience,” I said.
When we were halfway across the bridge, I guided Fifteen to the railing. She leaned against it as if enjoying the view of St. Anthony Falls, the Third Avenue Bridge, and Nicollet Island in the distance. At the same time, I turned my back to the railing, removed the glove from my right hand, and unzipped my coat. I made sure our companion saw me.
He kept walking while looking straight ahead as if I weren’t there.
I pivoted slowly, watching intently as he passed.
I gave him a good thirty-yard head start before I nudged Fifteen.
Together, we drifted to the middle of the bridge again and walked toward downtown, this time following our follower. He picked up his pace, increasing the distance between us to about a football field by the time he reached the end of the bridge. He turned right and soon disappeared. We turned left and headed back to the condominium. I did not see him again, and I looked hard.
I rezipped my coat and replaced my glove.
“McKenzie?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Are you carrying a gun?”
“Nope.”
She took my hand again.
* * *
When we returned to the condo, I announced that I was going down to the gym.
“You’re going to work out?” Fifteen said.
“I try to get in an hour a day.”
“Doesn’t walking all that way count?”
Well, sure, I told myself, if all I was concerned with was maintaining my girlish figure. Unfortunately, I have on occasion been asked to perform, shall we say, vigorous activities, and a walk in the park just wasn’t going to cut it. Especially at my advanced years. I didn’t tell Fifteen that, though. She seemed jumpy enough. Instead, I said, “It’s good for the heart.”
Instead of her heart, Fifteen patted her flat stomach.
“I suppose a little exercise couldn’t hurt. May I come with?”
“Of course.”
Fifteen dashed into the guest bedroom and returned a few minutes later dressed in Erica’s workout clothes. The shorts were loose around her waist and backside, yet the top was snug. I tried not to notice.
The second-floor gym had most of the machines you’d find in a pay-by-the-month workout facility, but no trainers. Still, I had spent enough time—and money—in fitness clubs over the years that I knew how everything worked. Fifteen, it turned out, seemed to know as well. There were plenty of grunts and groans along the way, yet forty minutes later her body glistened with perspiration and the warm glow of good health. As for me, I was pushing harder than usual, trying to impress the girl.
What’s wrong with you? my inner voice asked. She’s a child.
I have no idea what you’re talking about, I told myself. I’m just working out.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. Stop it.
No harm, no foul, I reminded myself.
Really, McKenzie? Really?
“I’m sweating like a pig,” Fifteen said.
The remark ended my internal debate.
“You look great,” I said.
“Do you think so?”
“You’ve done this before.”
Fifteen used her wrist to wipe the sweat off her forehead.
“If I have, it hasn’t been recently,” she said.
“At least six weeks, anyway.”
She became very quiet after that, and I apologized.
“You don’t need me to remind you of your problems,” I said.
“I’m reminded nearly every minute of every day. McKenzie, do you think we have a soul? A biblical soul? One of the doctors I talked to when I was in the hospital, he said when we lose our identity we lose our entire sense of self—that’s what he called it. He said we lose our understanding of who we are. I was eating ice cream at the time and I said I liked it and he said it’s not enough that we like ice cream, it’s knowing that we like ice cream that makes us the people we are. Where we went to school, who our friends are, all the things we’ve done or were done to us, the sum total of our experiences, all that defines us as a person. He was kind of a douche, but I know what he meant.
“Only, do you think we could forget all that and still be a good person? Maybe forgetting it all can help us become a good person. We’re not born jerks. We become jerks over time. If we forget our crimes and whatever else turned us into jerks, we would stop being jerks, wouldn’t we? We could become the people we were always meant to be and not worry about all that other stuff. I mean, out of sight, out of mind. Forget it like it never happened, and what’s left over—that’s our soul and it can be whatever we make of it. Don’t you think?”
“Possibly,” I said. “We’ll ask my friend tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I want to see your friend.”
“She might help you remember who you are.”
“I don’t know if I want to remember who I am—who I was. Not if I can start over.”
If they’ll let you, my inner voice said. I was thinking about the men who tried to kill her in such a terrifying manner. They still remember who you are. And the crimes you committed.
* * *
Fifteen held my hand and leaned against my shoulder on the elevator ride back to the seventh floor, and continued to hold my hand as we walked to the condo. She released it when I unlocked the door and
held it open for her. Once inside, I announced that I was going to take a shower. She said she was going to do the same. I went to the master bedroom, closing the door behind me. I took off my shirt and kicked off my Nikes and passed through the walk-in closet to the bathroom. I heard a gentle knock on the door and returned to the bedroom. Fifteen had opened the door and was standing just inside.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I was thinking. You’ve been so kind to me. I was thinking … if you want to…”
“If I want to, what?”
“If you want—you’re not married.”
“Pretend that I am.”
Fifteen’s face colored a deep crimson. She turned abruptly and hurried from my bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” she said over her shoulder and then, “Oh God, oh God. El, what were you thinking?”
Are you happy now? my inner voice said.
* * *
Thirty minutes passed, and I was sitting behind the desk next to the bookcase and surfing Web sites on the PC, looking for information about amnesia. An hour later, Fifteen emerged from the guest bedroom. She was dressed in the same clothes she had been wearing when she arrived the day before. She looked like she had been crying, and for a moment I felt I should gather her in my arms and tell her, “It’s going to be all right”—which, all things considered, was probably the worst thing I could do.
She spoke to me from across the room. Her voice was soft, though, and I couldn’t hear what she said.
“Hmm?” I asked.
“I should get out of here.”
“That’s a good idea. Why don’t we run down to Rickie’s later and get something to eat, listen to some jazz. You should change, though. Wear something nice.”
“But…”
“No buts. Nina runs a high-class saloon.”
Fifteen hesitated.
“Go on,” I said.
“McKenzie, you have a generous soul.”
“Sweetie, I could tell you stories that would bring tears to your eyes.”
* * *
I maneuvered the Jeep Cherokee out of the underground garage, across Washington Avenue, to the Sixth Street entrance of I-94. Since Fifteen was sitting next to me, I took the carpool lane, something I seldom get a chance to do. A white Toyota Corolla followed close behind. There was only the driver in the car, though, and it annoyed me. I violated most motorized vehicle laws on a regular basis; this one I took seriously. Go figure.
It was only a minute or so before we reached the stretch of freeway where Fifteen had been thrown from the pickup truck, where my Audi was destroyed. She seemed to know it, too, the way her body stiffened and her jaw clenched.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded, yet did not relax until we approached the Dale Street exit, a couple of miles down the road.
I took the exit and hung a right. The Toyota stayed with us. It continued to follow when I went east on Selby Avenue. I pulled into the lot next to Rickie’s, parking the Cherokee so that the nose was pointed toward the street. The Toyota drove past and kept on driving. I stayed in the Cherokee.
“What?” Fifteen asked.
NPR was on the radio.
“Just waiting for the news report to finish,” I said.
“You care what’s happening in Somalia?”
“It’s a small world, after all.”
The Toyota didn’t return.
* * *
Nina must have told the staff about our houseguest, because they positively fawned over her. Fifteen enjoyed the attention, although I began to suspect if she heard the words “poor thing” one more time, violence might follow.
It was decided that Fifteen was indeed old enough to drink—certainly the strawberry lace dress that she had pilfered from Erica’s closet supported that impression—and they started pouring her elaborate concoctions containing vanilla ice cream and rum that she drank with a straw. When she started on her third, I suggested that she might want to modulate her intake, but she assured me that she could handle her milk shakes.
Dinner was pan-seared scallops with a bean and pancetta ragù that Nina’s head chef served herself.
“If you don’t care for it, I’ll make something else,” she said.
That caused a double take. I had never heard Monica Meyer utter a word before that was even remotely solicitous, especially about her food.
Fifteen made sounds that seemed almost sexual in nature and announced, “This is amazing.”
I said, “If you’re looking for suggestions, Chef…”
“No one cares what you think,” Monica said.
That’s my girl, my inner voice said.
“McKenzie is a great cook,” Fifteen said.
Monica patted her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be better soon,” she said.
Monica left the table, and Fifteen said, “She’s not a nice person.”
“Actually, she is,” I said. “We just like to tease each other.”
Fifteen shook her head as if she didn’t believe me.
After dinner, Fifteen and I found a table in Rickie’s upstairs performance hall. Connie Evingson had a terrific jazz repertoire. I’ve heard her channel everything from Lerner and Loewe to Django Reinhardt, from Peggy Lee to the Beatles, and she was drawing on all of it, with a four-piece orchestra backing her up. Halfway through her first set, she threw me a wave from the stage and I gave her one back, and then quickly glanced around to see if Nina had noticed. Fortunately, she was downstairs. The exchange gave Fifteen a smile that a moment later became a frown.
“Did you tell Nina that I tried … that I hit on you?” she asked.
“No. Why would I do that?”
She gave it a few moments’ thought before answering, “Then I will. I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“She’s been so kind to me, it’s only fair.”
“Fifteen, wait—”
She was out of her chair and heading for the steps that led to the bar downstairs before I got the words out.
Evingson did a nice mash-up of Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday” and the more up-tempo “Yesterdays” by Otto Harbach and Jerome Kern, and I thought, I’m the one who’s going to get mashed up when Nina gets her hands on me.
Fifteen returned ten minutes later. Her eyes were bright and shiny.
“I told her,” she said. “I told Nina what happened. I told her everything; that I went into your bedroom.”
“What did she do?”
“She hugged me and kissed my cheek and said, ‘Don’t ever do it again.’” Fifteen spoke as if she couldn’t believe her own words. “Someone that kind—McKenzie, Nina’s even nicer than you.”
“Everyone says that.”
We settled in and listened. Evingson sang “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” from her first CD. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fifteen’s lips move with the lyrics—All I want is a room somewhere, far away from the cold night air …
She sighed deeply when the song finished, and I wondered if like Eliza Doolittle, she had come to a decision.
* * *
The three of us left Rickie’s together. I arranged it so that Nina and Fifteen rode in Nina’s Lexus. I sat in the Jeep Cherokee and waited while Nina started her car, let it warm for a minute, and drove off. I followed cautiously behind. Traffic was light at that time of the morning. If there was a white Toyota Corolla lurking about, I didn’t see it.
* * *
Nina and Fifteen reached the condo ahead of me. When I entered, Judi Donaghy, another one of my favorites, was on the stereo system and threatening to drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log at a volume that invited ill will from our neighbors. Fifteen was in the middle of the room dancing and twirling about with reckless glee, completely unconcerned that Nina and I were watching. Or that I took several photographs of her with my cell phone.
“How many ice cream drinks did she have?” Nina asked.
“Let’s just say that if we learn nothing else about
the girl, we know she’s not lactose intolerant.”
Nina managed to attract the young woman’s attention.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Can I have another one of those mochas?”
“Sure.”
Nina poured a mug from a coffee and espresso maker I had purchased a couple years ago. Fifteen waved at it as she danced.
“Jura-Capresso,” she said. “Retails for about thirteen hundred dollars.”
“That’s exactly right,” I said. “Although I got a deal on it.”
Fifteen pointed.
“The Baccarat vase on the dining room table?” she said. “Full-lead crystal handmade in France, worth about four hundred and fifty.”
Nina leaned in, giving Fifteen a good look at her diamond pedant necklace—a large diamond cradled by a circle of smaller diamonds that I bought at Nordstrom’s. Fifteen lifted the pendant off Nina’s chest, glanced at it, and let it fall.
“Eighteen hundred,” she said as she danced away.
Nina looked at me, and I nodded. She seemed impressed but I don’t know if it was from Fifteen’s expertise or the fact that I paid so much.
“You’re starting to make me nervous,” I said. I showed her my watch. “What about this?”
She stopped moving for a moment and looked close.
“McKenzie, you’re filthy, stinking rich and yet you wear a thirty-dollar Casio? Where did you get this? Sears?”
“How did you do that?” Nina asked.
Fifteen paused before answering. Most of her cheerfulness seemed to dissipate.
“I have no idea,” she said. “Maybe I worked for a department store or something. Or I was a personal shopper—there are people you can hire who will shop for you. Make sure you’re always in fashion. Maybe I did that.”
“I used to date a woman who had a personal shopper,” I said.
“The psychiatrist?” Fifteen asked.
“No, a corporate attorney.”
“You’d be amazed at the riffraff McKenzie spent time with before I came along,” Nina said.
Fifteen repeated the word “riffraff” and laughed more heartily than the joke deserved.
“Let’s get you to bed, young lady,” Nina said. She sounded just like she did when she spoke to her daughter.
* * *
Nina returned from the guest room ten minutes later.
Unidentified Woman #15 Page 5
