Whole Lotta Trouble

by Stephanie Bond

  “I’m fabulous,” her mother said in her meowing Lauren Bacall voice. “I just got in from San Diego, and I realized that I haven’t talked to you in ages.”

  Since the week before Christmas, but who was counting? “Maybe we could meet for dinner?” Felicia hated the pleading note in her own voice…and the hesitation at the other end of the line.

  “Hm, well I was supposed to meet a friend, but I could reschedule.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to break your plans,” Felicia said hurriedly.

  “No, that’s okay.” Her mother laughed lightly. “My daughter should take priority.”

  Felicia let the “should” part slide. “Do you want to get back to me?”

  A rueful noise sounded over the line. “No, I’ll meet you at eight, say—Braddock’s?”

  The trendy eatery wasn’t exactly the place to indulge in cozy mother-daughter talk, but Felicia wasn’t going to be choosy. “I’ll see you at eight.”

  Her mother hung up without any niceties, but Felicia was accustomed to Julia’s abrupt manner. She was simply happy at the thought of having her mother to herself and a few hours’ reprieve from the trouble at hand.

  Considerably cheered, Felicia unwound Jerry’s scarf and placed it in the drawer in her nightstand. In deference to the falling temperatures, she changed to brown slacks and a warm pink sweater set. She smoothed her hair back with a wide headband and donned her grand-mother’s pearls. Given her mother’s proclivity for the appearance of a woman’s hands, Felicia freshened up her manicure with a slick of clear topcoat and smoothed cream onto her cuticles. She opted for a tan all-weather coat with tailored lines that smacked of Jacki-O, then pulled on brown leather gloves. As she descended in the elevator, Felicia realized that her heart was beating fast.

  What did it say when a woman was nervous about having dinner with her own mother?

  On the cab ride to Braddock’s she compared what Tallie and her mother would talk about over dinner—Tallie’s life—with what she and her own mother would talk about: Julia’s job. Felicia’s entire childhood had revolved around her mother’s demanding legal position. At one point she had thought her mother actually had a second home that she went to when she left with a suitcase, and she’d once asked her mother if she could go with her to the “airport house.”

  As an adult she understood her mother’s desire to have a career, and her childhood wouldn’t have been so lonely if her father had been home to pick up the slack, but he had traveled more than her mother, gone for weeks at a time. When Felicia was nine, he had called from Germany and informed her mother that he wouldn’t be coming home, or back to the States, even. He had met a woman, and they were going to have a baby. He had a new life, a new family. So long.

  At first he had sent her cards and called sporadically, but over time the communication had stopped altogether. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like. By now he was surely gray-headed, or maybe balding. And her half sister would be twenty-five years old. It was a topic her mother refused to talk about; what’s more she would probably be angry if she knew how often Felicia thought about it.

  “Ma’am?”

  With a start, Felicia realized the cab had stopped in front of Braddock’s. She paid the fare and stepped out into the cold, dodging a frozen puddle. Shivering, she waited until a large party, dressed to the nines and obviously headed to a show, eked out of the restaurant entrance, then she ducked inside. Her mother hadn’t arrived, so she took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. The bartender flirted with her, but she gave him the brush-off, wondering idly if she’d ever meet another man who would stir her emotions as much as Jerry Key did. Disgusted that he was still dominating her thoughts, she polished off the glass of wine and ordered a second. Unbidden, Jack Galyon’s hazel eyes flashed in her mind, along with his voice. “Nice name.”

  She wondered if he’d been able to track down the source of that package. She pulled out her cell phone to see if she’d missed a call, then frowned at the empty screen—the battery was dead. Felicia glanced at her watch, slightly irritated that her mother was running late.

  Forty-five minutes later, her irritation had shifted to concern, so she asked the bartender for a phone. He handed her a cordless unit, and she dialed her mother’s cell phone number, her heart thumping. Her mother was rarely punctual, but she usually called ahead to say she was going to be late. When Felicia received no answer on the cell phone, she dialed her mother’s home number. On the third ring, her mother’s sleepy voice came on the line. “Hello?”

  “Mother, are you okay?”

  “Hm?” Her mother yawned.

  Felicia’s stomach fluttered with unease. “I thought we were having dinner. Are you sick?”

  “Oh, shit,” her mother murmured, then a man’s voice sounded in the background. Her mother covered the mouthpiece, then came back on, stammering. “I’m sorry, dear, I lost track of time. Can we reschedule?”

  Felicia’s heart twisted. Her mother’s “friend” must have come over after all. She tried not to imagine the state of undress on the other end of the phone as she adopted a casual tone. “Sure, just let me know.”

  “I will, dear.”

  Felicia set down the phone and tossed cash on the bar to cover her drinks, then shrugged into her coat. It wasn’t the first time her mother had stood her up. The last time had been mere weeks ago, Christmas Eve—Felicia had spent the evening with her mother’s maid before dismissing the woman early so she could go home and be with her own family. She’d left her mother’s gift—a velvet quilt she had sewn herself—on the dining room table, and she’d yet to receive a thank you…or any acknowledgement at all, for that matter.

  She hailed a cab and slumped in the backseat, huddled inside her coat. A good cry battled with a migraine for the right to claim her, and she prepared to yield herself to both. She shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. The only thought that cheered her was that she would be able to use her new rice pot and blanching basket to prepare a healthful dinner for one.

  After paying the cabbie, she dragged herself out of the taxi, and for the first time that she could remember, the clean, stately front of her building did not look comforting, but instead seemed sterile and…lonely. But when she walked into the lobby, Del stood behind his desk, ready with a smile. “That was a quick dinner.”

  “Yes,” she agreed with a little smile.

  “You had a visitor.”

  She frowned. “A visitor?”

  “A bike messenger, said his name was Gig, or something like that.”

  “Jag?”

  “Yeah, that was it. He left something for you.” He reached beneath the desk, withdrew a padded envelope, and extended it to her.

  Felicia hesitated, wondering how Jack Galyon had found out where she lived.

  “I hope that was okay, Ms. Redmon. The gentleman said he was an acquaintance of yours.”

  On the other hand, considering his job, the man probably had access to every address in Manhattan. “No, Del, it’s fine.” She took the envelope and gave him a reassuring smile. “Thanks.” She boarded the elevator, pushed the button, and turned the envelope over in her hands. He had written her name in precise, block letters, all capitals. A man accustomed to filling out forms. For some reason, his handwriting struck her as…durable.

  She slid her finger under the flap, tore against the glue, and peered inside. A book? She pulled out the worn volume and ran her fingers over the cover. The Immortal Class by Travis Culley. A memory surfaced—the book Jag had asked her about the day he’d been in her office. The first page was bookmarked with a slip of blue paper on which he’d written in stalwart script:

  No bookshelf is complete without this title. Am closing in on the information you asked for. Will be in touch. J.

  The elevator door opened and Felicia alighted, studying the book and working her mouth from side to side. If she was going to eat alone, she might as well read. And maybe the book would give her some insigh
t into why a full-grown man would want to ride a bicycle for a living.

  Chapter 12

  Tallie’s phone was ringing when she walked into her office Thursday morning. She picked it up, already feeling behind. “Tallie Blankenship.”

  “Where were you last night?” Felicia asked. “I called.”

  Shrugging out of her coat while juggling the phone, Tallie gave a dry laugh. “I went for a run, long story. Besides, I called back—where were you?”

  Felicia sighed. “I went to meet my mother for dinner.”

  “How was it?” Tallie asked cautiously.

  “She didn’t show.”

  Tallie winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, enough about me. I was calling to find out about your blind date yesterday.”

  “Hm, well, let’s see, I was shot at and I have a huge honking coffee stain on my good coat.”

  “What in the world happened?”

  “The place we went to was robbed.”

  “While you were there?”

  “Yeah, but get this—the guy I met was a cop.”

  “That was convenient. Did he save the day?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s exciting.”

  “Right. Then he decided to stop by last night to apologize for lunch, and he caught me leaving for a run. I thought he was a mugger chasing me so I ran out in front of a car, and he saved me from that, too.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  “No.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he spend the night?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re going to see him again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Tallie sighed. “Trust me, it just wouldn’t work. I didn’t want to start something, you know? And it kind of creeps me out to think that our mothers set us up to have sex.”

  “They didn’t set you up to have sex.”

  “Sure they did—they set up their single children, hoping that things would go well, and generally when things go well, single people have sex.”

  “I’m sure your mother didn’t think that far ahead,” Felicia offered. “Mine doesn’t seem to, but let’s change the subject from my mother to something even worse—Jerry Key.”

  “What now?” Tallie asked, gripping the phone tighter.

  “He’s sleeping with one of his clients who just happens to be one of my authors—one of my married authors.”

  Tallie gasped. “That’s appalling. I mean, I know that kind of thing happens, but what a mess. How did you find out about it?”

  “I saw them.”

  “You were spying on Jerry?”

  “No, he stood me up for a meeting, and I had a hunch where he’d be. When I went to confront him, I saw them together.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Felicia murmured.

  Tallie’s chest blipped with panic over the dark tone in her friend’s voice. The man was a jerk, but if her best friend threatened to reveal his uglies, he might hold it against Tallie, and she needed his cooperation to smooth the way with Gaylord Cooper. “I’m meeting with Jerry this morning,” she said carefully.

  “Well,” Felicia said lightly, “don’t let him bully you. Remember, you have Ron behind you, and even Jerry doesn’t mess with Ron.”

  “Ron called me yesterday,” Tallie said, glad to change the subject.

  “How is he?”

  “Worried about things at the office. But I didn’t get to talk to him for long—we were cut off.”

  “He’ll be back soon enough. Whatever the reason he’s gone, this could be a boon to your career.”

  “Assuming things go well today.”

  “Will you have time to meet for a drink after work? We’ll celebrate.”

  “Sounds good,” Tallie said, sensing that Felicia didn’t want to spend another evening alone. “I’ll tell you all about this funky manuscript that Jane—I mean Jané—brought to me yesterday.”

  “Nice try—I want to hear all about your supercop.”

  “I’m hanging up,” Tallie said, then set down the receiver. But she stared at the phone for long seconds, worried for her friend, whose life seemed strangely entwined with Jerry Key’s a full year after their breakup. And judging by Felicia’s brooding moods and increasing migraines, entwined in an unhealthy way.

  A rap sounded at her door and she turned to see Norah, still wearing her coat and gloves, her eyes rounded. “Gaylord Cooper is here.”

  Tallie’s heartbeat spiked. “Already? He’s not supposed to be here until eleven.”

  Norah glanced over her shoulder, then put one hand beside her mouth and whispered, “He said he came early because his enemies wouldn’t be expecting it.”

  “Ah, of course. I’ll be right there.” Tallie hung up her coat, stifling a yawn. She’d spent most of the evening finishing the IRS accountant’s manuscript. (As it turned out, the man had killed someone “officially” through paperwork—clever.) And skimming the manuscript that Jané had given her. (Not bad, though not as fabulous as the woman had let on.) Then in preparation for today’s meeting, she had surfed the Internet, reading anything she could find on the fifty-something-year-

  old Gaylord Cooper…little of it comforting.

  She smoothed her hand over her jacket, grateful to have found one good suit in the back of her closet covered with dry cleaner’s plastic. It was a warm-weather suit, but the dark green set off her eyes and gave her a reason to wear her emerald stud earrings. She looked better than usual.

  Pasting on a brave smile, Tallie walked out into the reception area, where Gaylord Cooper stood holding a black briefcase and wearing a long black trench coat, fedora, and sunglasses straight out of the forties. Norah and passersby stared outright, but Tallie tried not to react to his outlandish getup. “Hello, Mr. Cooper. My name is Tallie Blankenship. I’ve worked for Parkbench for nine years, and I’m a big fan of your work.” She extended her hand.

  Gaylord stared at her, which was unnerving, since she couldn’t see his eyes. “I don’t shake hands, Ms. Blankenship. Germs can be deadly.”

  He spoke with a slight British accent, although according to his bio, he had been born and raised in Myron, Minnesota. Tallie dropped her hand and nodded curtly. “I understand, Mr. Cooper. Would you like something to drink—coffee perhaps?”

  “I brought my own distilled bottled water,” he said. “Where is Ron?”

  She chose her words carefully. “I was under the impression that Ron had spoken to you about his temporary leave of absence.”

  “He left word through my agent that you, Ms. Blankenship, would be editing this manuscript, but that’s simply unacceptable.” He whipped off his glasses dramatically, and his bushy eyebrows came together over pale blue eyes. “How do I know that you can be trusted?”

  Tallie blinked, then spoke in her most calming voice. “Mr. Cooper, why don’t you come into my office and we’ll discuss your concerns.”

  He pursed his mouth, and for a moment Tallie had a terrible vision of standing before publisher Saundra Pellum and explaining how she had single-handedly lost the company’s biggest star.

  Tallie made a rueful noise. “That is, if you’ll give me a moment—I haven’t had a chance yet to turn on the air filter in my office.”

  His expression turned to curiosity. “Is it an ionizer?”

  She had no idea. The contraption was something her mother had sent her to sterilize evil city air. She’d only turned it on once, and the noise had nearly driven her mad. “Ionizer? Of course.”

  A glimmer of admiration flitted through the man’s eyes. “Perhaps, Ms. Blankenship, we can discuss this matter after all.”

  She smiled. “Right this way, sir.”

  Tallie hurried into her office and scooped up the stack of papers sitting on top of the squatty air filter, searc
hing frantically for the On button. Her fingers found a red toggle switch, and when she hit it, thankfully the machine whirred to life. She was glad she had tackled the slush pile this week; she had returned a mountain of manuscripts to the mail room since Monday, giving her office the appearance of being relatively neat.

  “May I take your coat, Mr. Coop—?”

  “Shhhh,” he cut in, finger to lips. He closed the door, then crossed to her desk and set his black briefcase on the corner. After adjusting the combination with manicured hands, he flicked open the briefcase and withdrew a device that resembled a handheld piano tuner. Tallie watched in silence as he walked the perimeter of the room, sweeping the gadget over walls, outlets, vents, and furniture.

  “It’s clean,” he barked finally, returning the tool to his briefcase.

  Tallie squinted. “I’m sorry—what were you looking for?”

  “Listening devices,” he said curtly. “They’re everywhere, you know.”

  Tallie glanced up to the far corners of her office, then back. “I can assure you, Mr. Cooper, nothing that goes on in this office would be interesting to eavesdroppers.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said, unbuttoning his coat. “We’re going to be discussing my manuscript, aren’t we?”

  “Oh…right.” She reminded herself that they were in his fantasy world of conspiracy theories and espionage.

  He removed his coat, revealing a pin-striped double-breasted suit, a white shirt with enough starch to make her mother smile, and a red ascot. He folded his coat carefully over the back of one of her mismatched visitor chairs before perching himself on the edge of the other. From his pocket, he removed a leather-bound notebook and clicked a pen into readiness.

  “Now then, Ms. Blankenship, I’ll need for you to answer a few questions.”

  Tallie lifted her eyebrows, a bit distracted by the fedora he still wore. “Questions?”

  “Yes. Does anyone in your family work for the federal government?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Are you of Russian or German descent?”

  “No.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”