Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  At eight o’clock, between bites of my daily oatmeal, I dialed the home number of the attorney whose name Cynthia had given me some time ago, the one who had refused to hear my information about the Ivanova case.

  The one who was working on a story for City of Angels about fraud in the matchmaking business.

  The one I’d had dinner with last night.

  “Scott Crossland, please,” I said to the obviously elderly person who answered the phone.

  “Just a minute,” he said. I could hear the rattling of dishes in the background.

  “Hello.” It was the same deep voice.

  “Gotcha,” I said to him.

  “Who is this?” He sounded annoyed. Another night person out of his element.

  “The Fortune Hunter. Your mystery date.”

  “How did you get this number?” He sounded seriously alarmed. Well, who could blame him, after Fatal Attraction?

  “Relax. I don’t have designs on your fortune or anything else,” I said deliberately. I hoped he’d remember uttering those exact words in, I thought, rather patronizing tones the night before. “I—”

  “Then what do you want?” he asked with exaggerated care. Clearly, he thought he was talking to a lunatic.

  “I want you to call Cynthia Weatherford,” I told him. “After that, what you do is up to you.”

  “You know Cynthia?” he asked, in a surprised tone.

  “Do you want her number?” I asked him.

  “No.”

  If he didn’t call her, I would ask Cynthia to call him and explain about my part in the City of Angels story. When she and Jeff Riley had signed me up for my big chance at investigative research, they’d mentioned that someone else would be looking into the legal aspects of the matchmaking services. I should have realized they would use the same person, Scott Crossland, that she’d referred me to earlier. He was retired, he said. Special projects only. I wondered how in the world we’d gotten matched up by Ivanova Associates, unless they were onto us both.

  The phone rang. I tried not to snatch it up. I would be cool. I would be insouciant. I would not drop the receiver. “Hello?” I inquired politely.

  “What can I say?” Scott Crossland asked me.

  “I can think of a few things,” I told him.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s not it.” I waited.

  He sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s it,” I told him. Why is it so difficult for men to apologize? Too hard for men, too easy for women. “All right,” I said.

  “All right?”

  “Apology accepted,” I said. “Good-bye.”

  “Wait—”

  I hung up on him.

  There were lots of things I wanted to know, but I hadn’t slogged through all that dating material for nothing. I knew he would call back, and I was determined to keep the upper hand this time. To get what I wanted.

  The phone rang again.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Is this a Rules thing?” he asked me.

  I had to laugh. “No, it’s a good-bye thing. You thought I was some trashy golddigger, and now you know better. I thought you should know. End of story.”

  He laughed. “Not trashy,” he pointed out.

  “How comforting.”

  “Look, Ellen, about last night…I am sorry.” He paused. “Just a second. Please don’t hang up, okay?” He apparently covered the receiver with his hand, but I heard him say, “I’m on the phone, Daddy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  It was a surprise to hear a man in his forties call his father “Daddy.” It made me warm to him. Just a little.

  “Sorry. I’m back,” he said. “Where were we?”

  “You were groveling.”

  “Oh, yes.” He laughed again. “Satisfied?”

  “I thought you were just warming up.”

  “I had no way of knowing, you know. You didn’t exactly tell me you were working for the magazine.”

  “I asked you if you’d be willing to believe there could be some other explanation, and you said no.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You did. What can I say? I want you to know that, even last night, you seemed like a very nice woman. I didn’t like embarrassing you.”

  Ha. But he sounded so contrite, I decided to forget that I’d started out this conversation wanting to make him squirm. “Well, at least you did some checking. That’s more than I did. I didn’t even get your name when you called.”

  “That was deliberate,” he muttered.

  “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “That was deliberate,” he said more loudly. “I didn’t want to give you time to check on me. Besides, I was flippant when I gave the name William Collins to Ivanova Associates, and I didn’t think about being associated with the Jane Austen character. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

  The good news was that he’d read Pride and Prejudice or at least seen it on TV. The bad news was that he assumed no one else had.

  “At least you didn’t call yourself ‘Mr. Darcy.’”

  He chuckled again. “I don’t have that kind of hubris, no matter what I might have led you to think. Are you willing to let bygones be bygones if I promise that I was playing a role last night?” He hesitated. “Cynthia thought you might be able to help me.”

  “We might be able to help each other,” I corrected him. “There are a lot of things I want to know. There is one thing that bothers me, though. How did we get matched up?”

  He exploded with laughter. “I know I gave you a hard time, but I didn’t think it was as bad as that,” he said.

  “I didn’t exactly mean it that way,” I protested. “I mean, do you think they could be onto us, and this was just a diabolical way of letting us know?”

  He hesitated. “I’m fairly sure that’s not the case,” he said finally. “I’ve already been given the names of three other women.”

  I remembered what Melanie Klein had said about men his age being demographic superstars in dating and matrimonial services. “And?” I asked him.

  “And what?”

  “And how did it go? I’m not asking for prurient details,” I rushed to assure him, before he could jump to conclusions again. “What I mean is, did they all check out?”

  “I didn’t go out with them.” He sounded horrified. “That would hardly be fair.” He cleared his throat. “I checked them out in the capital department, if that’s what you’re asking. You were the only one who didn’t, um, ‘check out,’ so that’s why I contacted you.”

  “I see.” If he didn’t think it was fair to actually go out with rich women in the name of research, I wondered what he thought of my little project. I wasn’t about to ask.

  “Anyway, I’m not in this for the dates,” he said.

  “Well, neither am I,” I emphasized. I could hardly get the words out of my mouth fast enough. I wondered how much Cynthia had told him. “Did Cynthia tell you why I’m really interested in Ivanova Associates?” I asked.

  “Apparently not.” He sounded amused. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” So I told him about the trial, and Ramon, and my quest for the truth about Ivanova’s death.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was the Garcia trial when you called before,” he said, when I had given him a brief summary. “I remember the phone call, but I’m sure you never said anything about Natasha Ivanova,” he insisted.

  “I tried to, but you were in a hurry to hang up.” I paused. “You hinted that I might not be cut out to serve in a criminal trial. You told me I couldn’t afford you.”

  “Oh, Christ. I can’t believe this. Look, I don’t like to make excuses, but that was a very bad time for me. My father had just gone into the hospital. Christ,” he said again.

  Mission accomplished. He was squirming. “We don’t have to go into that again,” I said magnanimously. “So, there’s nothing fishy about Ivanova Associates yet, right?”

>   He hesitated a split second too long. “Well…”

  “Tell me,” I demanded. I wanted to strike while the iron was hot and he was feeling guilty.

  “I think we have too much to talk about on the phone. What about lunch?”

  It was my turn to hesitate.

  “I mean, now that it’s clear that we don’t have to keep playing Wall Street meets Rodeo Drive, we can relax and talk this over.” He sounded as relieved as I felt. “I’d like to hear what you’ve found out.” He laughed. “It’s just lunch,” he said.

  “Okay,” I told him. “But it will have to be late. I have an appointment at ten.” We agreed to meet at one at the Pier Cafe, right below my house, although I didn’t remind him of that. “If I’m late, start without me,” I told him.

  After all, it wasn’t as if it were a real date.

  For my appointment with Julia Livingston, I decided to stop hiding in my clothes and dress in something a little more like Matisse and a little less like one of Rembrandt’s somber Dutch portraits, particularly since I wouldn’t change for lunch, and the Pier Cafe required a certain amount of dressing down. After a lengthy bit of rummaging, I selected a yellow silk shell and white linen pants, with sandals. For good measure, I dug out some long silver Navajo earrings set with various colored stones, which I hadn’t worn for years. It wasn’t exactly daring, but it wasn’t my usual working attire, either. I felt so decadent that I splashed on some Opium behind my ears. I usually didn’t bother with scent, but today it felt right.

  I didn’t own a thing that was green.

  Julia wouldn’t have noticed if I’d been wrapped in butcher paper. Despite our ten o’clock appointment, she was manifestly not expecting me. Her hair was hanging in untidy wisps, and her face was red and blotchy, as if she’d been crying. She even slumped a little. Her expression was startled, as if she’d opened the door to a reptile of uncertain provenance and intentions. “Oh,” she said in a distressed tone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said (what else?). “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I thought we had an appointment.”

  She put a hand to her forehead and pushed back her hair. “No, no. You were right. I should have called you, but I forgot.” She wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, as if she were cold. “I’m…I’m not feeling well. I’m afraid it slipped my mind completely.” She looked away. “I’d invite you in, but…”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure you’d like to be getting back to bed. Why don’t you call me to reschedule when you’re feeling better?”

  She smiled wanly. “I want to give you a check,” she said. “Wait just a minute, please.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I called after her, but she’d already drifted down the hall.

  She came back in a couple of minutes with a check for two thousand dollars. She didn’t look at me.

  “That’s far too much,” I told her. “I haven’t bought anything for you yet. Besides, you don’t have to put up any money up front. I trust you.”

  “I want you to have it. For your time. I don’t like to owe anyone.”

  “I know what you mean.” I wondered what this was all about. Money matters were rarely that straightforward. I looked at her, shivering in the doorway. She’d aged ten years she could ill afford since I’d last seen her. I hoped it really was the flu, and fixable.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked her. “Groceries? Errands?” I hesitated. “Anything else?”

  She looked at me expressively and shook her head. If she considered saying more, it didn’t show. “No, thank you. I’m all right. Really.” She sounded terribly weary.

  “Right. I’ll let you go then. Take care of yourself.” I walked a few steps away and then turned back. “I’ll call you,” I was going to say, but she’d already shut the door.

  Since I’d planned to spend the morning with Julia Livingston, I had a couple of hours free until I met Scott Crossland for lunch. The pier was only steps from my townhouse, so I figured I had time to pick up some groceries and go home for a quick pit stop before one o’clock.

  While I was picking out my dinners for the week—most of them in tiny square containers shrieking “Low Fat” in neon colors—I tried to convince myself that the valedictory tone of my conversation with Julia was just a figment of my paranoid imagination. I couldn’t imagine what Diana would say if I lost another client. Well, I could, actually, but I didn’t want to think about it. Not only that, but the time I’d spent on the trial and the research for City of Angels had already eaten into my business, even if you didn’t count the people who had dropped me as a potential consultant because I was so mean about poor Natasha. The bottom line was, I needed the Livingstons, whatever I had to do to keep them interested in buying art.

  Maybe it really was just the flu. I made a mental note to call her in a couple of days.

  I carried the bag of frozen dinners and yogurts and fruit down the path from the garage to my front door, wondering for the umpteenth time if I shouldn’t get a grocery cart. I might have, but the only people I’d seen using them in the complex sported blue hair and tight perms. I still had a little pride left, but it was a long haul, and on rainy days, it was crucial to remember not to get a paper sack.

  I set down the bag on the front porch and took out my key. The bag started to topple, so I balanced it with my leg while I stuck the key in the lock. This was another ritual, the stork-opening-the-door posture.

  The kitchen was just inside the front door. I started to put the groceries on the counter, but I stopped. Two wine glasses were set out on the bar, one completely full and the other half empty. I leaned over and smelled the contents. It was definitely wine, but there was no bottle in sight. They were my wine glasses, too. I looked at my watch. It was only 12:30 in the afternoon, and Andy had classes at the community college all day. Besides, she rarely drank, and never around me. The only other person who had a key—besides the complex manager, who would scarcely have made himself free with my liquor cabinet—was Mark, and he was in surgery all morning. I’d seen him driving off when I left for the Livingstons.

  I wasn’t alarmed, but I was puzzled. I looked at my collection of wine, but I couldn’t see that any bottles were missing. When you only have a dozen or so in stock, it’s easy enough to tell. I looked around for a note or some other evidence of visitation.

  My eyes lit on the sliding glass door, which led to the balcony overlooking the ocean. The blinds were moving; the door was open about an inch.

  I was sure I’d left it locked. Since Michael died, Andy and I had a locking-up ritual that we followed religiously, a rite to keep the Bad Guys away. It made us feel less vulnerable, even though a ten-year-old with a pocket knife can get through a sliding glass door. Still, the balcony was at the second-story level, and I’d never felt overly concerned.

  Nothing else about the room looked disturbed, but I raced upstairs to check for evidence of burglary. I opened my drawers one by one; the contents appeared to be in their normal state, which was, I admit, excessively tidy. I’d never outgrown my childhood sense that some disaster would befall me if I let things get out of order. I didn’t need a shrink to interpret that, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Maybe there was some innocent explanation, but I had a creepy feeling about it. So many people were trying to warn me about things lately that I wondered if this was more than a sick practical joke. Maybe it was another message, and the message was “I can get to you any time I want.”

  I thought about calling the police and reporting two wine glasses on my kitchen counter but reconsidered. As soon as they learned that I had a daughter who was a college student and nothing was missing, they’d never believe a sinister explanation, and I couldn’t blame them. Besides, there was always the outside chance Andy might know something about it after all, so I would have to wait till she got home to be sure.

  I rummaged through the drawer for the window locks I didn’t usually bother with unless I was going on vacation and scr
ewed them onto the tracks. I left the glasses on the counter to show Andy, but I decided I’d better leave a note in case she came in with friends. I settled on “DON’T DRINK THIS” with a big arrow pointing to the glasses. It was ridiculous, but I didn’t want to take any chances on poison or drugs.

  I was halfway out the door on my way to the pier when an ugly thought wiggled into the back of my brain.

  Scott knew where I lived. He also knew I had a ten o’clock appointment and would be out of the house.

  I couldn’t think of a logical reason, other than general kinkiness, why he would want to break into my town-house and fill up my wine glasses, but the truth was that I didn’t know a thing about him. Cynthia liked and worked with him, but that was not an ironclad recommendation. Maybe he was using the matchmaking service for some sinister purpose of his own. Weirder things had happened. Tune into any Sunday night true-crime movie, and you’ll discover that people are always getting lulled into a sense of false security by someone who seems friendly and harmless. Read the interviews with neighbors after some particularly horrific crime: The accused is always a Nice Guy, the last person in the world you’d suspect.

  This was going nowhere, except that I was scaring myself out of ever leaving the house again. Either I canceled lunch and the chance to get more information, or I risked it. I decided that not much could happen in a public place, even if Scott Crossland was a dead ringer for Ted Bundy. Besides, he’d seemed much nicer this morning on the phone. I would be careful. I checked my purse for the pepper spray that usually rolled around in the bottom of the capacious interior. I moved it up to an interior pocket, closer to the top. Armed and dangerous, that was me.

  Scott Crossland was eating a fish taco. He looked a lot different in a polo shirt and stonewashed jeans, or maybe it was just the daylight. He looked less serious, too, and not a little dangerous himself. I was glad we both knew this was Not A Date. At least I didn’t have that to worry about, too.