Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  Flipping through the pages, I saw that there were more ways to come together than I had ever imagined. There were dry cleaners who arranged dates for customers (Looking for 16/33. Natural fibers only. No permanent press.). There were agencies that fixed up scientists with each other, since nobody else wanted to meet them. There was the predictable video cruising, and there were cyberspace chat rooms (virtual vixen meets pulsating modem), services that got you lunch dates and ones that got you Russian brides.

  All of which went to prove, apparently, that despite roughly two thousand years of advice to the would-be-matched, dating and matrimonial angst was alive and well. If there was some way of getting two people together, somebody had thought of it. And promoted it, too.

  One section of the file was a copy of a dense sociological study of the characteristics of the clientele. It looked very serious. I was tempted to read it, but I couldn’t afford to get distracted. I had to get on to Ivanova Associates.

  When I finally found the entry, I discovered that Cynthia had already highlighted it for me in orange pen. There wasn’t much.

  Will not talk to interviewers, Cynthia had noted. Very exclusive. Caters to the well-to-do. The very well-to-do. Very hard to get a client list, but rumored to be unusually receptive to older women. Interesting????

  I put it down, disappointed. This was nothing more than I’d learned at the trial, except for the relative enthusiasm for older women clients. Maybe well-off men were suspicious of the hot young numbers trolling for rich husbands and really preferred women of their own class and age with mature opinions and a history a bit longer than a Superbowl commercial.

  Right.

  According to that theory, Jordan Jensen would be married to a respectable neurosurgeon instead of someone whose only tangible symbol of higher education was the wings she’d had pinned on her at flight attendant’s school, before she became a model. Not that I have anything against flight attendants, but there were an awful lot of them in the beach community where I lived, and it just didn’t look like a calling for people overly interested in the life of the mind. As a matter of fact, it looked like the perfect job for my daughter, but I didn’t want to dwell on that.

  Before I could get too far along this unsatisfactory line of speculation, the phone rang. Since it was the middle of the day, I picked it up, expecting a client.

  It was Cynthia.

  “Hi,” she said breezily. “It’s me. Did you get the package?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This is Cynthia Weatherford,” she instructed me patiently. “Did you get the package?”

  “Yes, sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” I lied. I didn’t like the idea of her calling me up with her intimate “it’s me” as if she knew I would know who it was instantly. Even though I had.

  “Have you had time to look through the files?”

  “Not all the way through, no. But thank you so much for sending all that material. It seems very thorough, even though there wasn’t much on Ivanova Associates.”

  “The owner wouldn’t talk, and the assistant was very closemouthed. I reviewed the notes before I sent them to you. Does this topic interest you?”

  “Ivanova Associates? Sure.” Could she have forgotten I was on the jury? “You remember, I—”

  “No, not that specifically,” she interrupted. “I know you’re interested in that. I mean matchmaking services generally.”

  I felt more than a frisson of discomfort. “Well, I’m not really interested…that is, since Michael died…”

  She gave a little laugh that made me want to hang up on her. “Really, Ellen. I’m not talking about your personal life at this point. I mean, does the subject interest you at all?”

  “You mean in a general, I’d-like-to-read-about-it kind of way?” I wondered if she was conducting her own survey about possible reader interest in the article she’d already started to research.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Sure. As a matter of fact,” I confessed, “I think your notes are fascinating.” It was true. It was much classier than the National Enquirer and just as riveting.

  “Good,” she said. “I have a proposition for you.”

  I knew I was going to regret letting Cynthia back into my life. “What is it?” I asked cautiously.

  “You remember how disappointed I was that the magazine never ran the full series on the dating and matchmaking services?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’ve talked to the editor, and he thinks it might be worth another shot.” She paused. “He’s particularly interested in the high-end exclusive services.”

  “Like Ivanova Associates.”

  “Right. It might be a good angle to investigate what happens to the business when the charismatic founder and chief matchmaker is killed—that sort of thing. We’d have to see what the research turns up.”

  “But I thought they wouldn’t talk to interviewers,” I said. I didn’t see how I fit into this, but I was interested to see where it was going.

  “They won’t. So somebody is going to have to research it. I’m hoping that person will be you.”

  “Research it how?” I asked her.

  It was clear that I didn’t have the instincts of a reporter. She sounded impatient that I could be so obtuse. “By posing as a client, of course.”

  Oh. “I’m not sure…”

  “Look, you won’t have to write it; I’ll take care of that. I’d do the research myself, but obviously I can’t with this leg. Besides, I’m probably too well known to get away with it. But you can.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Well, you can. You’re attractive, and you look the part. You sound the part, too. You have the perfect job—just the sort of thing a dilettante rich woman might do.”

  I could see that she had a lot of respect for my work. I laughed.

  “I mean it, you fit the bill. Besides, Jeff—that’s our editor, Jeff Riley—is very intrigued about the older-woman angle.”

  That was the part I really fit. “There’s one thing, though—,” I started to protest.

  She carried on as if she hadn’t heard me. “Plus, you’re single. That’s very important. If we get found out, at least we haven’t completely misrepresented ourselves. You’re genuinely eligible.”

  I was starting to feel really nervous about the whole prospect. “There’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

  “What?” she asked irritably.

  “My bank balance isn’t eligible. The clientele is supposed to be well-off, remember?”

  “The magazine will take care of all that,” she said dismissively, as if it were obvious.

  “The magazine will make me well-off?”

  “Ha, ha, Ellen. The magazine will take care of the sizable matchmaking fees for personal attention by the heads of the services.”

  “Services? Did I hear a plural?”

  “Well, yes. Ivanova Associates and Kathleen Wyndham. They’ve gone head-to-head for years, so we’d want to get the story on both of them.”

  What she wanted was beginning to sink in. “You mean I’d really have to go on dates? Get matched up with someone?”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  Words could not begin to describe it. “Well—”

  “Look, Ellen,” she said impatiently, “I thought you’d jump at a chance like this. If you were serious about finding out anything significant about Ivanova Associates, you’re not going to find a better way to do it. You’ve already seen that they won’t talk to reporters, and Natasha didn’t allow interviews. What choice do you have?”

  “But…going out with these men? I mean, isn’t it a kind of fraud?”

  “For God’s sake, Ellen. You don’t have to marry a single one of them. You should hear yourself. You make it sound as if being introduced to some well-to-do marriage-minded captain of industry were a fate worse than death. Buck up. This isn’t Crossing Delancey. The pickle kings are already taken. Besides…”
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  “Don’t say it,” I warned her.

  She ignored me. “You might actually meet someone,” she said.

  I had a fleeting vision of Cynthia constructing this entire stratagem just to find me a mate. I wouldn’t have put it past her, but I dismissed it as beyond even her powers.

  “Or not,” she added, before I could think of how to respond. “Anyway, that’s not the point, is it? I need somebody to work with, and you want to put your conscience to rest. If we collaborate on this, we’ll both get something we want, won’t we? You know we can work together; we’ve done it before.”

  In high school, a period of my life I hoped never to resurrect. Still, she was right. I wasn’t going to get a better chance, and my work schedule wasn’t so rigorous that I couldn’t fit in an assignment like this. It was just the matchmaking part that made me queasy. “Well—”

  “We’d pay you, too, of course,” Cynthia said.

  And I could use the money.

  “But if you’re afraid…”

  I hated it when people used that Psych 1 stuff on me. Even if it was true. Still…

  What the hell. It might even turn out to be an adventure, a commodity my life had been remarkably short on of late. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it,” I told her.

  I could hear her exhaling into the phone. “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that,” she said.

  Three hours later, I presented myself at Cynthia’s front door again, ready for inspection. “Jeff has to approve you,” she’d told me. “Wear something elegant.”

  Easier said than done, naturally. But when Jeff Riley answered Cynthia’s door, I understood what she meant. Jeff was elegant himself in the relaxed, Hollywood/L.A. style—all linen and cotton—and very slim. His black hair was pomaded back from his face, and he wore two diamond studs in one ear. He looked about thirty. Any waiter within a radius of fifty miles would have rushed to give him the power table immediately.

  I was glad she’d warned me. His eyes flicked to a very good Hopi bracelet I was wearing with a simple cream silk shirt and pants. “Nice work,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”

  I told him, and he nodded. “I like Hopi much better than Navajo, don’t you?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’m Jeff Riley,” he said, opening the door. “Cynthia’s inside. Come in.”

  Cynthia was artfully arranged on her couch, sipping San Pellegrino. She was uncharacteristically silent, which I interpreted to mean that Jeff had rather more to say about her assignments than she had let on. In any case, for whatever reason, she’d ceded him the leading position. He seemed to expect nothing less. I’d worked with the type in art installations, so I wasn’t particularly intimidated, except a little by his awe-inspiring stylishness.

  “Has Cynthia explained to you what we’re interested in?” he asked me, when I had been directed to a seat facing him, with the sun in my eyes. I tried not to squint. I knew he was interested in the older woman’s angle, but a Grandma Moses was presumably beyond the reach of matchmaking services.

  “To some extent,” I told him. “But feel free to elaborate.”

  Cynthia frowned at me, as if I were insufficiently serious. I sat up straighter, to mollify her.

  He crossed his legs in that perfect masculine triangle reminiscent of a GQ cover model. I would have bet he never set a well-shod foot in a dating service, whatever his sexual inclinations.

  I noticed that since this quest had begun in the wake of the trial, I was starting to size up everybody by “would they?” or “wouldn’t they?” Well, I would, apparently, at least under special circumstances, or why else was I here?

  “There may be more to these services than the public knows about,” he said seriously. “Cynthia told me you were on the Garcia jury and that you’re interested in finding out more about Natasha Ivanova’s death.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I just nodded.

  “This might turn out to be some ‘Lifestyles of the Rich, etc.’ piece that deals with a very select segment of the dating game, but I have a hunch there’s more to it than that. Anyway, when people won’t talk, they invite scrutiny. We’ll have a lawyer looking into the legal and financial issues, to see whether there is any whiff of fraud. After all, these are very well-to-do people, not your average file clerk responding to ‘how’s your dating IQ?’ questionnaires in the mail. When serious money is involved, there’s always the chance that something shady is going on.”

  “I don’t have any experience as an investigative reporter,” I thought it was only fair to tell him. It sounded more like a job for Mike Wallace than for me.

  “No problem.” He smiled. He had perfect teeth, too. “All you have to do is go through the motions as a wealthy…widow?”

  I nodded again.

  “Of a certain age. We’re also interested in that aspect of the story. It’s unusual, to say the least.”

  He smiled again, making me sure that when he was seventy-five he would be dating Winona Ryder’s granddaughter (or grandson, I wasn’t sure). What was the point of railing against reality? They were all Donald Trumps at heart.

  “I don’t suppose anyone would recognize you from the jury,” he continued, “but just in case, I suggest you use another name. Maybe your maiden name?”

  “Santiago,” I said.

  He frowned.

  “It means ‘St. James,’” Cynthia volunteered.

  “Good.” He seemed relieved. “Use that.” He consulted his watch. “You don’t have to misrepresent anything else about yourself, except, of course, you won’t mention the magazine or anything about the trial. We’ll give you an exclusive address where they’ll forward your matchmaking mail, but you’d better use your own phone number. I’ll also give you a list of references to provide in case anyone asks you to supply them. They’ll confirm your financial status—not your real one, but an inflated version—and that sort of thing. That’s one of the things we’re interested in: Does anybody do any checking, or can just anyone with the cash to pay the fees get matched with a mate? Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. How’s your memory?”

  Maybe he thought I was even older than I looked. You get that way, when you’re always younger than everybody else in the room. “I think it’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  Cynthia was frowning again, but I didn’t care.

  “Because you won’t be taping your conversations, as you would be if it were a legitimate interview. So you’re going to have to write down what these directors and your ‘dates’ say afterward, or at least summarize the gist of the conversations. Think you can do that?”

  “I am absolutely certain I can’t remember an entire conversation well enough to quote it back verbatim with one-hundred-percent accuracy,” I told him. “It wouldn’t be fair to pretend otherwise.”

  His eyes slid to Cynthia, beside him on the couch, then back to me. “Well, that kind of hundred percent accuracy isn’t called for. Cynthia can help you reconstruct what you need.” He looked embarrassed. “She’ll be doing the writing, anyway. You’re off the hook as the researcher.”

  So much for Woodward and Bernstein. He slid a paper across the table toward me, barely touching it with his fingers.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s your contract with City of Angels.”

  I picked it up. They were going to pay us a quite-indecent sum of money in the event of publication, and there was a substantial kill fee. I skimmed over the rest, until I got to the part where I promised not to hold them liable in the event that something untoward occurred on one of my “dates,” or words to that effect. I looked up.

  “It’s standard boilerplate,” Jeff said, but he looked away.

  “Then why do I get the feeling I’m venturing into something out of Sea of Love?” I asked.

  “Jeff’s too young to remember that movie,” Cynthia hissed.

  He smiled, like one granting a favor. “No, I’m not. Al
Pacino. Ellen Barkin. Multiple killings through the Personals column.”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “If you get murdered, I’ll double your fee,” he said with a straight face.

  I had to laugh. Cynthia relaxed.

  “There’s something else, too.”

  “A Plot With a View at Forest Lawn?”

  “If you find out anything new about the murder, we want right of first refusal on the story.” He uncrossed his legs. “Realistically, it’s probably too much to hope that you’ll find out the verdict was wrong, or anything like that. But whatever you might learn, we’d like first crack at making a story out of it.”

  I shifted uncomfortably on my chair. The sun was now directly in my eyes, and I could scarcely see him. “Actually, I’m hoping the verdict turns out to be right.”

  He shrugged. “That’s not as interesting, but we might even be able to do something with that.” He stared at the ceiling. “‘Second Thoughts: an ex-juror searches for the truth,’ or ‘Twenty-Five-to-Life: a juror comes face to face with Reasonable Doubt and decides to hang tough.’” He grinned.

  My stomach felt queasy. “It’s not a joke,” I told him.

  “Did I say it was? Readers certainly wouldn’t think so. You might even get on Geraldo.”

  “He’s kidding,” Cynthia said hurriedly, seeing my look.

  “Whatever,” Jeff said. “It might make a nice human interest story; it might not. Let’s just see what develops out of the other one. Did you ever talk to the Garcia kid?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about his mother?”

  “Of course not,” I told him, horrified. “A member of the jury is the last person in the world his family would want to see.”