“So your point is. . .?” I ask.
“You went to school with Terri. She had braces, head gear, glasses, pimples, and bad hair. Can you honestly tell me she was not the target of teasing, bullying, and general torment?” Travis asks. I figure this is one of those rhetorical questions, so I don’t say anything.
He clicks to another slide from the yearbook. It’s from graduation. All the popular girls are huddled together looking pretty and vivacious. Terri Barton is standing alone not far from the circle and staring at them with what looks like longing.
“What does this photo tell you?” Travis asks.
He raises an eyebrow at me after I don’t respond. This question must not be rhetorical.
“Uh. . . That she wanted to be like them? To be accepted as one of their group?”
“Bingo,” Travis says.
“She was everything they weren’t. Ugly, unpopular. . .”
“Bingo,” Travis says again.
“Could you stop saying ‘bingo’? I feel like I’m at the VFW on a Wednesday night.”
“I’ll try,” Travis says in a tone that means he won’t try at all.
“Okay, so Terri got teased a lot. It was twenty years ago. I think she’s over it by now,” I say.
“Is she?” Travis says. “Is she really?” He waves his pointer and it stops on another photo. “I found this on the reunion website.” Terri is once again standing on the outside of the circle of the still-beautiful girls. “Who was she focused on in both these pictures?” He flips between the graduation photo and the reunion photo.
“Is that rhetorical?”
“Just answer, please.”
I study both photos. “She’s staring at Veronica. And Veronica is making goo-goo eyes at Beth Ellen.”
“Bingo,” Travis says. He covers his mouth with is hand. “Sorry.”
“So you think she’s still holding a grudge?”
“Maybe,” Travis says. “It’s a definite possibility.”
“Or she could have a crush on her,” Michael says.
“Do you remember what was going on in high school between these three?” Travis asks.
“I’m going to have to think about that one. I pretty much ignored Terri Barton, too. She was kind of a pariah and most of us less popular girls couldn’t take the chance of talking to or even being seen with her for fear of being outcasts just like her.”
“Would Zelda remember?” Travis asks.
“She might. Though Zelda never really knows what’s happening outside Zelda-World.”
“After lunch, let’s go see her,” Travis says enthusiastically.
I inwardly groan. I was already going to spend lunch with these two, now they want me to spend more time? Then I have an idea. “What about Ivan? You know he doesn’t like to be left out. We can’t leave him in the car. Someone needs to stay with him.”
“Michael, it’s time to unveil our little surprise,” Travis declares.
Michaels springs into action. He does a grapevine dance step across the room, opens the coat closet, grabs something, and grapevines back. He holds up a little red harness for me to inspect.
“A harness for Ivan?”
“Not just any harness,” Travis says.
Michael holds the harness closer to my face. Emblazoned across the side are the words “Service Dog.”
“But none of us are blind,” I say.
Travis rolls his eyes. “Get up to speed, Jamie. Having a service dog for mental instability is the latest thing.”
“I refuse to have a service dog,” I state flatly. “That’d be like announcing to the world, ‘Hey, look at me, everyone! I’m crazy!’”
“Not you. I get to be the crazy one,” Travis says.
“Of course. I had you in mind. You’re so much more theatrical than me,” Michael says like it’s a compliment.
“What do you have to do to prove he’s a service dog? Don’t you need like documentation or something?” I ask. “I don’t want us getting hit with a fraud charge. It’ll ruin my career.”
“That won’t happen. Who is going to come up to a potentially emotionally-disturbed person and ask to see documentation?” Travis says. “I’ll take the fall if anything does happen. You can feign ignorance.”
“I still don’t get it. What is Ivan in his little red harness supposed to do to make a crazy person calm?”
“It’s simple. I act all anxious and then I pet him and it calms me down,” Travis says.
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
Travis points the antenna at me. “Go change your shirt. We have a restaurant to case.”
I cross my arms in defiance. “Michael said I didn’t have to.”
“Well, Michael isn’t in charge of wardrobe,” Travis says. He glares at Michael who fervently pets Ivan.
“Be careful, you’re going to rub the hair off,” I say.
“That’s what he said,” Michael says with a giggle.
Thirty-One
The restaurant is in the upscale part of town. The front of it is made to look like it’s a quaint café in France. It’s tucked down a side street so that it doesn’t clash with the more modern storefronts and high end shops that fill both sides of Lakeland’s main street, Lake Boulevard.
I hope the quaintness won’t translate to big bucks. I’m on a tight budget. Then I remember that all this stuff is on Veronica’s dime. Spend away, I think, then feel instantly guilty. Sure, Veronica is a bitch, but she still shouldn’t be imprisoned and impoverished for something she didn’t do.
I find parking directly in front of the restaurant. I’ve always been good at parallel parking. It’s one of my superpowers.
“Oh, look. It’s so cute,” Michael says, looking to Travis for confirmation.
“It is romantic looking,” Travis says, eyeballing the curtains.
Before he has a chance to comment about the curtains, Michael says, “Wouldn’t it be perfect for our anniversary?”
“Oh, yes,” Travis says. He bends down and pats Ivan on the head. “What do you think, Ivan?” Ivan ignores him, looking stoically ahead. He’s taking this service dog thing seriously.
“Can we hold off on the interior decorating and the anniversary party until after the interview?” I try to ask in a nice tone of voice.
“I wasn’t interior decorating,” Travis says.
“I saw you looking at the curtains.”
“I just think that a fleur de lis pattern would look better than the blue and white checks. They are too reminiscent of Dorothy Gale’s dress. They speak more of Kansas than the French countryside,” he says with a prominent pout.
“We’re here to case the joint. Not redecorate it.” My inner grouch is making an appearance.
“I am completely capable of doing both.”
Michael comes to the rescue by saying, “We need to check out the back door of the restaurant and the back alley.”
“There’s an alley?” I ask.
“Yes. We Googled the place this morning while you were sleeping,” Travis says.
The subtext of this comment means that I was so busy sleeping that I was neglecting my job. “If you Googled it then why do we have to go look at it?”
“Because Google has been known to mess up,” Travis replies tartly.
I’m all set to smart off, but I clamp my lips shut. God, we must sound like an old married couple.
Michael, our little peacemaker, tries to change the topic. “Remember those people that drove off the road into a swamp because the GPS said there was a road there? And then they got eaten by an alligator?”
“I Snoped that and it isn’t true. But there have been instances. That’s why we’re checking it out. Come on, we’ve only got twenty minutes,” Travis says. He gets out of the car and tugs on Ivan’s leash. “This way, boy.” Michael has to do a little hop, skip, and jump thing to catch up with them.
I follow a discreet distance behind. We turn the corner and there’s the alley. It leads to a row of dumps
ters and the back door of the restaurant. Both sides of the alley are fenced. “Doesn’t look like much of an escape route,” I say. “If she were to run, she’d have to run down the alley and out onto the street.”
Travis takes a few steps into the alley when a big tomcat and three of his feral feline buddies come out from behind one of the dumpsters. They’re followed by three others from behind another dumpster. They quickly surrounded us.
“This is just like the rumble scene in West Side Story,” Michael says.
“Or the musical, Cats,” I add.
“I bet they’re the feral cat gang that the city is trying to apprehend,” Travis says.
The cats show us their pointy little shark teeth and walk around us, closing the circle tighter.
Michael whimpers and cups his hands over his genitals. Ivan growls deep and low in his throat.
“Don’t let them know you’re afraid,” Travis says. “And whatever you do, don’t look directly into their eyes, and don’t run.”
“I think that advice is for bear attacks,” I say.
“Whatever.”
I look around for an escape route. Maybe there’s a fire escape ladder I missed. “What’re we going to do?” I consider asking Travis to make the ultimate sacrifice and let them attack him so the rest of us can get away while the frisky felines are dining on his brains. I saw that in a zombie movie once and it worked like a charm.
But before I can ask, the back door of the restaurant creaks open and a man wearing a chef’s jacket and hat peeks out. He must see the terror in our eyes because he whispers, “Are they still there?”
“If you’re talking about the piranha cats, yes,” I say.
“Come inside,” the chef says. “Slowly.”
We all inch toward the door. Even Ivan grasps the importance of making no sudden movements. As soon as we’re safely inside, the chef shuts and locks the door behind us. I think locking the door is little overkill, but with cats you never know.
Travis picks up Ivan and hugs him closely to his chest.
“How long have you had issues with those cats?” I ask.
“Every day for the last week,” the chef says. “The city is supposed to come get them but they have a waiting list.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Holly Ryder making an escape with those kitties out there,” Travis says.
Michael looks around at the kitchen. “I’ve never seen a real live kitchen, much less a fancy French one,” he says
“I could give you a tour later when I get off,” the chef says.
Travis snatches up Michael’s hand. “He won’t have time.” He glares at the chef.
Michael blushes.
“We need to get to the dining room. I’m sure Holly Ryder will be here any minute,” I say. The last thing I need right now is a gay boy cat fight.
“That’s right, we have important work to do,” Travis says, glaring at the chef as if to insinuate the chef did not. The chef blatantly winks at Michael. Travis yanks on Michael’s hand and leads him out the swinging door into the dining room.
The Maître d’ intercepts us before we’ve gone ten feet. He doesn’t look very pleased with us. He sniffs the air like Ivan took a dump or something.
“I hope it’s potty-trained,” the Maître d’ says haughtily.
“He’s a he not an ‘it.’ And, of course he’s trained. I’m mentally unstable and I need him with me. Believe me when I say you don’t want to see me lose it,” Travis replies.
The Maître d’ takes a step back. Mentioning that you’re mentally unstable seems to bring that out in people.
The Maître d’ seats us at a tiny table in the very back. We’ve barely unfolded our napkins (blue-checked to match the curtains) when Holly Ryder makes her appearance.
The Maître d’ nods his pointy chin in our direction. The first thing I notice is that Holly Ryder weighs ninety pounds soaking wet and is maybe all of five feet tall. She’s wearing a simple yellow sun dress and strappy sandals. She has long brown hair twisted up in a messy bun and she’s very pretty in an Ivory girl sort of way. No wonder Clark had the hots for her.
She stops at our table and looks right at me. “You must be Jamie Bravo.”
I stand and shake her tiny hand. “Yes, I am. And these are my associates, Travis and Michael.”
“Oh, my, you even have assistants,” she says. “And what a cute dog.” She notices his red harness. “Can I pet him or is he off limits because he’s working?”
“Sure, you can pet him. He’s friendly and this is his lunch hour,” Travis says. Holly Ryder sits and scratches the top of Ivan’s head. Ivan closes his eyes and his tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth.
A waiter appears with a basket of bread and a bowl of little pats of butter shaped like little sea shells. I can feel my Fitbit disapproving. I ignore it and reach for the bread. So does Holly. The boys fight with their better selves and then join Team Bread.
The waiter takes our drink order. Iced teas all around. The waiter looks at us expectantly with his eyebrows raised. I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. I can’t read French anyway. Holly knows what she’s having. So do Travis and Michael. I take the easy out and say, “I’ll have what she’s having.” It was something with a weird name but has roasted red potatoes with it. I love potatoes. They’re my favorite vegetable after spaghetti sauce.
I want to get on with the questioning before the food comes and talking has to wait for empty mouths. “So tell me about Clark Warren. Did he really stalk you before stalking was fashionable?”
Holly butters her bread, saying, “Oh, it seems so silly and harmless now, but at the time it scared me. Now I know that he was just trying to be romantic. I’m afraid I overreacted.” She takes a miniscule bite of the bread.
“What exactly did he do that was romantic?”
Travis and Michael lean in closer. Travis has his notebook out and is discreetly taking notes.
Holly answers, “He used to leave notes on my car windshield telling me that he’d seen me at the Pizza Hut or wherever with my friends. Or he’d drop a note with the RA at my dorm. I had no idea who he was or what he looked like or anything. I felt like I had no privacy, you know, that somebody was always spying on me. Then one day I found a rose in my Norton Anthology of English Literature. It was placed by the poem “Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May,” with an invitation to the Spring Fling Dance. It scared me. It was so creepy and rape-y, you know? I went to the campus police. They asked around and found out it was him. They told him in no uncertain terms to stop.”
“Did he stop?” Travis asks.
“No, and that’s what got him in trouble,” Holly says.
Michael is all eyes as he says breathlessly to Travis, “This is just like that one Lifetime movie.”
“Which one?” Travis asks.
“The one where the woman is in jeopardy. It was based on a true story.”
“Who was the actress?”
“Meredith Baxter-Birney,” Michael says.
“Before or after she was a lesbian?” Travis asks.
“Before, I think,” Michael says.
“You sure it wasn’t that movie with Valerie Bertinelli?”
“I’m sure,” Michael says.
Travis says, “I always get her mixed up with Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched.”
“Valerie Bertinelli?”
“No, silly. Meredith Baxter-Birney. It’s that blond dippity-do thing they do with their hair.”
“Elizabeth Montgomery isn’t a lesbian, though.”
“I know that, but her daughter is.”
“Tabitha?”
“Not her show daughter, her real daughter. I don’t know her name.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Can we get back to Holly’s story, please?”
Michael nods, leans in and asks, “So what happened to get Clark in trouble?”
I shoot him a withering glare. I’m supposed to be the one asking questions.
&nb
sp; “He waited for me outside the library one night. He said he just wanted to explain. I told him that he needed to leave me alone. He grabbed my arm when I tried to walk away.”
“That’s like the opposite of leaving you alone,” I say.
“Luckily, one of the frat guys I knew came along just then and scared him off. I reported the incident to campus security. They sent him a letter with the warning that if he ever came near me again, he’d be expelled.”
“And he stopped?” I ask.
“Yes. I felt bad later. I met him at a book fair a few years ago and we laughed about it.”
“A book fair?”
“I write the best-selling children’s books about Herbert the Snail,” Holly says. “Maybe you’ve heard of them? The Snail Trail. The Snail Mail. The Snail Fail. The Snail Pail. The Snail Tail.”
“Catchy titles,” I say as the waiter brings our food to the table. Now I’m glad I didn’t order escargots.
Michael and Travis begin making yummy food noises. Travis has a fancy salad with two poached eggs on top, and Michael’s salad has beets on top. I can’t decide which one looks more disgusting.
My meal doesn’t look half bad. At least it’s chicken. Holly takes a healthy bite. She makes a yummy noise, too.
I cut my chicken and take a bite.
“How’s your Coq Au Vin?” Holly asks.
I frown at the name of the dish. Had I known it was called a cock, I wouldn’t have ordered it. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have put it in my mouth. Travis smirks. He knows me too well.
“It’s pretty good,” I barely manage to say without choking.
Between bites, I ask Holly how she feels about Clark now and how often she sees him.
“Oh, he’s the nicest man. I met his wife a few times when she joined him at the book fairs. She seemed very nice, too. I’ve heard he’s a really good editor,” she says.
“When we talked with Clark, he seemed very embarrassed about his incident with you. It’s funny though. . .” I took a bite to add some suspense. I chewed, swallowed, and then continued, “He didn’t mention seeing you at any book fair.”
“Is he a suspect?” she asks. “I know my opinion may not amount to much, but I really don’t see how he could’ve killed his wife in cold blood.”
Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Page 19
