Simple Misconception (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Well, I ran into Jordan the other day—”

  “Mom,” I interrupted, afraid Natalie might say something that would get me into more trouble. My mother shot me a disapproving glare.

  “I am so sorry, Natalie.” Mom sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jordan hasn’t really been herself lately. I don’t know where this attitude of hers came from, but I think it’s the people she’s associating with. You know, up North. You were saying?”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” She grinned. “I was just saying I ran into Jordan the other day and she agreed to help tonight.”

  “To help?” My mother offered a perplexed frown. Her gaze shifted between Natalie and me. “To help where? Is it a charity event? Doesn’t your father co-host something at the children’s hospital every year?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And you . . . and Jordan?” Suddenly, the disapproving scowl was replaced with one of pure joy. My mother threw her arms around us both. Releasing us, she squeezed my shoulder. “Jordan, I am so proud of you.”

  “Um . . . thanks?”

  “The last few days have been, well, I just felt like you were becoming a different person. All those years up away from home . . . I felt like my sweet, Southern girl was gone.”

  “Dad’s from New York.”

  “You and Natalie, going to spread love to all those poor, poor children.” Her eyes were misty. “I’m just so proud. Well, I won’t keep you. You girls have fun.”

  With that, my mother practically shoved us out the door. I was still in complete shock as we made our way down the driveway to the awaiting car, which was a Bentley Continental GTC. I assumed it was Natalie’s father’s. As soon as we were halfway down the street, I began to feel a little guilty. I shook my head.

  “What’s your problem?” Natalie asked, glancing over at me as the wind rearranged her hair.

  “I feel kind of bad,” I replied, resting my arm on the door. “I feel like we lied to her.”

  “We didn’t lie.”

  “Really?” My eyebrow arched, but I doubted she saw it. “We didn’t lie? My mother thinks we’re going to some hospital charity event to spread holiday cheer amongst New Orleans’ terminal children. How is that not a lie?”

  “Well, it’s not true,” Natalie agreed, failing to stop at the stop sign as she sped out of my parents’ neighborhood. “But that’s not our fault. It’s hers.”

  “And where does that logic come in?”

  “All I said was you were going to help,” Natalie replied, a slight smile emerging. “I didn’t say what you were helping with. Your mother concocted that charity story herself. I just let her think what she wanted.”

  I leaned back against the contoured leather seat. Replaying the scene in my mind, I realized Natalie was right. My mother’s mind went into philanthropic overdrive at the word “help.” The rest was history. I became aware Natalie was watching me. She seemed amused.

  “You’re welcome.” Pressing down on the accelerator, she ran a red light. As the car passed under the intersection, I heard a loud horn blare and brakes squeal. A wave of fear washed over me as I braced for impact.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of bright red and blue. Turning, I watched as a cop car got behind us, signaling for Natalie to stop. She pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road. Unfazed, she applied a coat of lip-gloss. The blinding police lights left spots in my eyes. I tried to blink them away. I heard gravel crunch as the officer approached our vehicle.

  “License and registration.”

  Natalie stared up at the officer, a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and thick stubble. After a moment, her blank expression morphed into an apologetic smile.

  “I’m sorry, Officer. I left my license at home.”

  “You don’t have a license,” he muttered, his tanned brow furrowing. He stared down at his ticket book. He tapped it with his pen. Meeting her gaze again, he asked, “Do you realize you just ran a red light?”

  “I did?”

  He nodded. “Almost got creamed by a minivan too.”

  Natalie blinked. “Really?”

  “Really,” he replied, studying her. He paused for a moment before turning his attention to me. After staring at me for an uncomfortable minute, he returned his focus to her. “Where are you two headed?”

  “Just . . . out.” Natalie shrugged, scratching her ear.

  The officer continued to stare at her. “I could write you up for careless operation, running a red light, and driving without a license,” he began, crossing his muscular arms in front of him. “But, since it’s the holidays, I’m going to let you off with a warning. I don’t ever want to see you running red lights in my city again. And you.” He pointed at me. “Do you have a license?” I nodded. “On you?” I nodded again. “Then you drive. Consider this an early Christmas present, ladies. Goodnight.”

  He walked back to his unit, shut off the lights, and pulled back onto the road. Less than twenty seconds later, I watched his lights come back on as he got behind a red Corvette doing well over 100 MPH. Leaning back against the seat, I let out a deep sigh.

  “Wow, you just dodged a major bullet.” I whistled, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal.

  “What?”

  “Nat, seriously?” She stared at me. She said nothing. “Cops never give warnings. You should have gotten something, at least a seatbelt ticket or whatever. Plus, you could’ve totally wrecked the car, running that light like that. You must be really lucky.”

  “Lucky, huh,” she muttered, staring ahead absently. “Must be.”

  “You okay?”

  Something about her behavior was off. The Natalie I knew in high school would have reacted far differently to the outcome. She would have at least turned up the radio and started dancing. She was a little crazy and a lot of fun. Once during our junior year, she found a twenty-dollar bill outside the drive thru at Starbuck’s.

  Just as she picked it up, Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” came on the radio. She proceeded to hold up the line by singing and dancing to the entire song, convincing some other patrons in the cars behind us to sing along, too. She got some cheers and some jeers, but watching her kneel on the hood of Lauren Prescott’s car with that twenty held high in the air might have been one of the funniest things I had ever seen. Tonight, she saved herself at least a couple hundred dollars and a possible trip to jail, and didn’t even crack a smile. I could understand zoning out. Natalie had always been a daydreamer, like me, but this went beyond that. This was troubling.

  “Natalie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You okay? You seem kind of out of it.”

  “Yeah, totally. C’mon. I could definitely use a drink. Let’s go celebrate my good luck.” She reached for the gearshift, but I grabbed her hand. She glanced at me, confused. “What?”

  “You can’t drive. You don’t have a license, remember?”

  “So?” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “We’re not going that far.”

  “Nat, that cop said I should drive. Look, you lucked out. Probably shouldn’t keep testing it. Especially in the Quarter. Especially at Christmas.”

  “Jamestown, I love ya, but you’re a terrible driver. It took a lot of effort to get this car. If I bring it back banged up because of your clubbed foot—”

  “I’m a bad driver?” I sputtered. “Look in the mirror. I’m not the one who ran a red light and three stop signs!”

  “Aww, am I making you nervous?”

  An eighteen-wheeler without the decency to switch lanes blew past us, shaking the car and throwing my hair into my eyes. Scrambling to brush it back, I watched as Natalie calmly pulled hers into a ponytail. She seemed unaware of our alarmingly close call. After it, however, I became acutely aware that we were in a dangerous place, parke
d along the side of the highway at night. I realized if I wanted to get off this shoulder and not become roadkill, I’d have to come up with a compromise that Natalie would find acceptable.

  “Look, Nat, how about this? Let’s go back to your place and get your ID. You can’t get in most bars without it anyway, right? You drive. Deal?”

  “You won’t lay off this, will you?”

  “No, probably not.”

  “Fine. Whatever. But I’m warning you . . . If wife number five catches us and we lose this ride, you’re paying for the Uber. Both ways.”

  “Deal.” I grinned.

  Shaking her head, she slammed down on the accelerator and peeled out. As my neck snapped back, I was grateful to be in such a well-engineered vehicle. I was positive she left tire marks on the roadway with that stunt. At least that was classic Natalie. Bracing myself against the seat, I said a silent prayer, promising I wouldn’t get myself into too much trouble if I managed to survive this ride. I didn’t know, at that time, that this ride was only the beginning of a dangerous, life-altering journey and that with my prayer, I was making a promise that there was no way I would be able to keep.

  7

  Natalie’s father lived in an exclusive, gated community called Acadian Heights—or the Heights, as it was generally known. Its residents included wealthy professionals and businessmen, as well as local and national celebrities. More than a few New Orleans Saints’ and Pelicans’ players and coaches called the Heights home.

  One of the most expensive places to live in the metro area, the Heights consisted of nearly 500 elegant homes interspersed among two, championship golf courses laid out over 1,500 acres of prime real estate. At its center was an enormous clubhouse complex featuring a restaurant managed by a world-class chef and professionally-staffed golf, tennis, and swimming centers.

  Driving through the security gates adjoining the main guardhouse, I caught glimpses of wide fairways and huge golf greens through groves of moon-lit pine trees. Rounding a curve, my eyes suddenly fixed upon a brightly-illuminated wonderland, flooding my mind with memories from long ago.

  Over six years had passed since I last visited the Heights. In that time, I had forgotten how spectacular was its transformation at this time of year. Truly, the Heights gave Christmas in the Oaks a run for its money.

  The ornate lampposts and uniform mailboxes lining its curbs were all hung with natural garland, not the artificial foliage sold in department stores. Potted poinsettias proliferated. I could only imagine how much was budgeted for the community's landscaping contractor.

  To enhance the festive ambiance, the Heights’ homeowners’ association had long ago mandated that every residence be decorated for the holidays. As far as I could remember, it seemed no one ever violated this rule. I never once saw an unlit house during Christmastime.

  Adorned with identical white lights, fresh green garlands and red velvet bows, however, these fabulous homes seemed strangely sterile to me now. Nowhere to be seen were giant inflatable snowmen or singing Hawaiian Santa Clauses.

  When I was young, I always loved how elegant the Heights looked at Christmas. I thought it so much nicer than my own neighborhood, where decorations covered a much wider spectrum. Displays ranging from the solemn and religious to the whimsical and tacky created a rich gumbo of holiday cheer.

  Now, driving past these houses, I found their uniformity vaguely disturbing. Somehow, the magic was missing. I wondered if compulsory decorations planned by well-meaning people with way too much free time somehow violated the spirit of the season.

  Within minutes, we pulled up to Natalie’s house. A gorgeous, Mediterranean-style home with a side-loading, three-car garage, six bedrooms, and three and a half baths, it had been the most impressive house I had ever visited until my recent encounters with Ambassador Gatlin Cross and his Cape Cod compound. Still, it was breathtaking, and when I was younger, I loved staying there.

  Instead of pulling into the driveway, Natalie parked along the curb. I found this decision to be odd, but said nothing. When she jumped out of the car instead of using the door, I realized why she had parked where she did: She was trying to make as little noise as possible. I imitated the action, hopping out of the car as quietly as I could, but still managing to make more noise than her. We ran up the driveway in silence, careful to avoid being detected by the motion-sensor floodlights. Finally, we made it to the front door.

  Like all the other homes, the Weisman house was decorated according to the tasteful, neighborhood requirements. As I studied the lights affixed to the roof, I found myself wondering if the homeowners’ association purchased all the decorations for the residents to insure absolute uniformity. While I was looking over the décor, Natalie was sifting through the immaculate flowerbed, cursing to herself. She finally located a rock. She picked it up. This was no ordinary garden rock, but actually meant to hide a house key. The thought of anyone living in a two-million-dollar home in a multi-million-dollar neighborhood using a plastic hide-a-key rock made me laugh. Natalie shot me a dirty look.

  “Dad’s been out of town on business,” she whispered, placing the key in the lock. “He was in Amsterdam for a conference or something. Supposed to be home tonight, but who knows. Only wife number five’s here. If we’re lucky, she’s had her evening Xanax cocktail by now, but I don’t want to take a chance.”

  “Why would your dad have to go to a conference in Amsterdam if he heads up a hospital in New Orleans?”

  Turning the key, she frowned. “How should I know?”

  Confident the door was unlocked, she returned the key to its rocky domicile then tossed it back in the garden. Looking around, she opened one of the large, wooden front doors. Like my house, somewhere inside an alarm chirped, but didn’t go off. Tiptoeing into the darkened foyer, I forgot about the step down and almost fell on my face. Luckily, Natalie was in front of me. I crashed into her. After shooting me another dirty look, she continued her journey. I followed her as she made her way through the massive living room with its off-white walls, light-wood floors, sixteen-foot ceilings, and nine-foot marble fireplace, and then hurried over to the winding staircase.

  I knew from past visits that the kitchen, which was so magnificent in appearance, design, and function that my mother might have actually committed murder for it, was located along the far left side of the house near the garage, and that the master suite, which was the only room in the house I had never seen, was located just beyond the stairs on the right. I could only assume if “wife number five” was not in the living room or in the study down the hall, which, by the way, reminded me of the library in Beauty and the Beast when I was younger, she must be somewhere in the master suite.

  As we took the stairs, my sandals clunked on the wood. Natalie’s scowl re-emerged. I removed my shoes and carried them the rest of the way. Being upstairs again brought back a plethora of great childhood memories. I stood at the top of the steps for a moment. Finally, Natalie waved her hand, bringing me back to the present.

  The upstairs of the Weisman house looked like a horseshoe with a narrow balcony that wrapped around above the living room, offering an aerial view of the first floor and its splendor. There were three bedrooms and one bathroom to the right of the stairs and two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a game room to the left. I always thought it was cool that Natalie was an only child who lived in a six-bedroom house, but thinking back on it, that house was filled with so much unused space it was almost comical. Natalie’s room was the last one on the right, with a personal balcony overlooking the pool and cabana outside. I always knew Natalie was less-than-tidy, but what I saw when she opened the door shocked me. In a house perpetually maintained by an obsessive-compulsive cleaning lady named Cecelia, Natalie’s room stood out as a blinding eyesore.

  In the center of a room at least twice the size of my childhood bedroom was an antique canopy bed with a mat
ching nightstand and dresser. Had I not known this from previous visits, I might not have believed it because at that moment, it was barely visible beneath a thick layer of clothes, purses, shoes, and random jewelry. The polished wood floor was also littered, as if the bed were an erupting volcano from which fabric had flowed and covered everything. Although I would never in a million years call myself a neat freak, just the sight of this mess made me wince. Flipping on the light switch, Natalie sighed as she leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the damage.

  “Oh my God, were you robbed?”

  “Just start looking,” she muttered, kicking a Prada purse out of her way as she began searching through the first giant pile.

  “Look where, exactly?” I picked up a cute Gucci bag, admiring it. “This room is a disaster area, Nat. A random search could take hours, make that days. Do you have any idea where you left it?”

  “I don’t know. I never use the damn thing. I didn’t drive in Estonia . . . just took trains, or Taavi . . .” She trailed off, a strange look in her eyes. Blinking it away, she shrugged. “No clue.”

  “Well, it’s gotta be here somewhere,” I replied, kneeling amongst a sea of sweaters and grabbing a handful of purse straps. “You couldn’t have flown back to the States without it. Wait. Didn’t you have it on Wednesday?”

  “How should I know?”

  She began dumping the contents of a hemp knapsack onto the bed. For a carefree, spirited person who could take off and move to Europe one day without a second thought, Natalie definitely had a lot of baggage on the home front. I couldn’t understand why one person would need five lip-glosses in a single bag, but then again, it was Natalie. Applying logic to anything she did was usually a wasted effort. After checking another ten or so purses and managing to wade through ankle-deep clothes, she cursed. Leaning against the bedpost, she pulled out the hair band binding her blonde locks. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head.