The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  “That’s tomorrow,” I said. “This . . . this must be a joke. Things like this don’t really happen.”

  “Apparently they do,” Thalia said dryly.

  “Was your car in the garage last night?” I asked.

  “Yes, but the garage doors were wide open. Marcel could have done it when he left the party. That toad. Now that he’s been to my house and seen that I have money, he’s making his move.”

  “You have to go to the police.”

  “Oh, no,” Thalia said firmly. “I know how to handle this. I’m going to leave a little package under the bench with a note of my own telling him to go to hell.” She stamped out her cigarette.

  “How can you be so sure it’s Marcel? It could be Etienne’s wife, couldn’t it? I mean, she can’t be too happy about you carrying on with her husband.”

  “She wouldn’t be asking me for money. She’s loaded.”

  “Well, what about their son? He’s a big fan of Hollywood movies. And you have to admit this is pretty melodramatic.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Julien is a darling young man. We get along very well. It’s clearly Marcel, and I’m going to put a stop to it. He’s a sniveling little coward. As soon as he gets my note about refusing to cooperate, he’ll back off.”

  “Thalia, this is crazy. Why don’t you call the police? Or just tell Garrett. He’ll—”

  “No!” she snapped. “Let me handle this.”

  “OK, then at least take your brother with you.”

  “Leave Luc out of this. I’d rather not involve him. He and I had an argument this morning.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Thalia said, looking peevish. “He wants me to agree to sell a piece of property we own together. But it would be foolish to sell. It will only go up in value if we hold on to it. He knows I’m right, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.”

  Runs in the family, I thought.

  “Look,” she said, “if you’re so worried, you should come with me tomorrow.”

  “No. No way!” I responded angrily. “It’s a stupid, dangerous idea, and I’m not going to be part of it. You’re on your own. I’m going home.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A handful of the stores along the ten-block stretch that constituted San Anselmo’s downtown were having end-of-summer sales, and the street was bustling with people hunting for bargains and enjoying the splendid weather. The tiny shop was crowded with customers, not just browsing, but buying. I was glad we had Susan in today. “Excuse me, is this Quimper?” a middle-aged woman asked, pointing to a pair of figurines in the glass case.

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they?” I said. I took the brightly painted man and woman from the case and turned them over. “They’re from the 1940s. Of course, Quimper pottery is still being made today in Brittany, but I just love these vintage pieces.”

  The woman handled the colorful figures carefully, turning them over, then setting them on the counter side by side. I allowed her to take her time while I turned to help another customer. When I turned my attention back to the woman, she had her credit card in hand. “I’ll take them,” she said enthusiastically. “You ladies always have the most beautiful items. And it smells so good in here.” By the time she walked out the door, she had bought not just the figurines but also two fig-scented French candles at forty-eight dollars a pop.

  When I slipped into the back room for more tissue paper, Thalia followed me. “I went to look at the spot last night,” she said with the air of one revealing a secret.

  “What spot?”

  “The bench where I’m supposed to leave the money tonight. I was in the city to meet Garrett for dinner, so I drove through the park and took a look.”

  “And?” I didn’t see the point for this reconnaissance ahead of time. How hard was it to find a bench in the park when the blackmailer had given such explicit instructions?

  “Here’s what I think,” Thalia said. “You should go with me tonight. When I get on the bus and leave, you stay and watch Marcel pick up the package.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said, struggling to pull down a large roll of tissue from the top shelf.

  “I was going to do it myself,” Thalia went on, ignoring my refusal. “But unfortunately, Marcel is not as stupid as I thought. He chose a pretty good spot for the drop-off. The bench is on a bit of a rise. If he hides in the bushes near there, he’ll have a clear view of the bus stop across the road. He’ll be able to tell if I don’t get on the bus.”

  “Do you mean you were considering not getting on the bus? You were going to go back and confront him?”

  “Of course,” Thalia said with a laugh. “Now listen. The bus stop is right in front of a bar. It’s called Scotty’s . . . no, Smitty’s. You’ll wait in there. I’ll drop off the bag, cross the street, and wait for the bus. As soon as the bus pulls away—with me on it—you dash into the park and catch him red-handed.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Rae, it’s so simple.”

  “I suppose you want me to wear a fake mustache?”

  Thalia gave an exasperated sigh. “I just want you to get a good look at him. You don’t need to say a word to him. I’ll confront him later. You could even snap a picture of him—”

  I cut her off. “No. And besides, what makes you so sure he’s going to pick up the money right then? What if he doesn’t come for it for another two hours?”

  “No, he can’t do that. He needs to be certain I’m on the bus. If he delays, he risks having me come back to watch for him. Besides,” she added, “he wouldn’t leave a bag of money just sitting out in public.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Peter would kill me. Although . . .” I wavered, remembering that Peter would be attending some sort of architectural awards dinner in San Francisco. He wouldn’t have to know if I accompanied Thalia to the park.

  As I debated, Susan poked her head in and said, “I hate to interrupt, but it’s pretty busy out here.”

  “Sorry!” I said. “Be right there.” By the time Thalia brought it up again, I had made up my mind. No way was I skulking around after a blackmailer in Golden Gate Park. I tried one more time to talk her out of going, but she wouldn’t budge.

  Later that evening, as I stirred the simmering carrot soup, I brooded about Thalia’s plan. Perhaps her idea wasn’t so bad, I reassured myself. If Marcel was the sort of person inclined to hide behind an anonymous note, maybe a direct confrontation was the best response. I tasted the soup, frowned, and snipped a few more fresh thyme leaves into the pot. The doorbell rang.

  Once I had decided to skip the park rendezvous, I’d invited Sonia for dinner. That way I couldn’t let Thalia harangue me into changing my mind. “It smells fabulous,” Sonia gushed, handing me a bottle of wine. Her coat was damp. “Sorry I’m late. My photo shoot ran long. Plus, it’s raining in the city and traffic was a nightmare,” she said. The sky was darkening as storm clouds gathered, and I suspected we might get some rain here too. I gave Sonia the job of opening the wine and left the room to hang up her damp coat.

  When I came back to the dining room, she said, “You got a call on your cell.” I rooted through my purse and dug the phone out. A missed call from Thalia. No message, of course. I called back, got her voice mail, and promptly hung up. I was too annoyed to leave a message. Even though I’d stuck to my guns and refused to go with her, she was managing to ruin my evening.

  Sonia and I were laughing about her latest online dating fiasco when my cell phone rang again. “Oh good, you answered,” said Thalia cheerfully. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m here. I parked my car a few blocks down from Smitty’s at the next bus stop so I can retrieve it. I’m walking into the park now to leave the package.”

  “Fine. Call me when you’re done.” I really didn’t want a blow-by-blow account. I hung up and turned my attention back to Sonia, who was ladling out the soup. As we started to eat, a gust of wind whipped up the sheer curtains. I got up and closed the dinin
g room window, then pulled the velvet drapes closed over the sheers. The trees outside were bending in the stiff breeze, but the fire blazing in the fireplace kept the house cozy. Yes, it definitely felt like rain.

  I was in the kitchen carving the chicken when my cell phone rang yet again. I hurried back to the dining room, glancing at my watch: 6:50. With any luck, Thalia would have left the package and gotten the hell out of there.

  “I’m in Smitty’s,” Thalia said, sounding excited.

  “What’s going on? Did you leave the package?” I rolled my eyes at Sonia as I spoke.

  “Yep, it’s there.”

  “Did you already get on the bus?”

  “I told you, I’m in Smitty’s.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been waiting for the damn bus for twenty minutes, and now of course two showed up at once,” Thalia said. “There’s a swarm of people out there, and one bus is double-parked next to the other. Plus it’s raining, and traffic is a mess. So I decided to take my chances and slip into Smitty’s. There’s no way anyone across the street in the park could see me.” She sounded pleased at her own cleverness. “When the buses pull away and I’m not there, he’ll think the coast is clear and go for the money.”

  “Thalia, don’t you dare go back into that park!”

  “Relax. I’ll call you the instant I’m . . .” Her voice trailed off. “That son of a bitch,” she said softly, almost to herself.

  “Thalia? Are you still there?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “What is it? Did you see him? Did you see Marcel?” Still no response. “Thalia, what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s nothing,” Thalia said.

  “Tell me!” I insisted. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s not Marcel. I swear to you, it has nothing at all to do with this. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Thalia—” I began, but she cut me off.

  “The buses just pulled out,” she said hurriedly. “I have to go.” She hung up. I wanted to choke her. I filled my wine glass to the brim.

  “Everything OK?” Sonia asked. She had finished the carving and was setting the platter of chicken on the table, along with the salad.

  “Yes, it’s just Thalia being a pain in the ass.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.” As we ate, I was tempted to spill the whole story, but Thalia had made me promise not to mention the blackmail notes. I had told Peter, but it went without saying that spouses told each other everything. That didn’t count.

  Just before eight, Sonia said, “Sorry to eat and run, but I have to get up at five thirty for a job in Half Moon Bay.”

  “No dessert? I baked a pie with my neighbor’s peaches.”

  “Cut me a piece to go. I’ll eat it tomorrow.”

  By the time we’d cleared the table and packed up the pie, it was pouring out. “Be careful driving up the hill,” I said as we hugged goodbye at the door. I was glad to see Sonia appeared completely sober. Unlike me.

  I loaded the dishwasher, wondering how Peter’s speech was going. He had practiced it in front of me, and I thought it was quite entertaining. Peter loved being in front of a crowd, so I wasn’t worried. As I put away the leftover pie, my eyes landed on a favorite photo, held with a magnet on the door of the fridge. It was a shot I’d taken six years ago. Thalia, Peter, and Garrett gazed at me, windswept and smiling, a cloudless blue sky stretching behind them. Thalia’s hand was on the tiller of the sailboat. Peter stood between her and Garrett, one arm around each of them.

  I remembered how cold it had been in Sausalito that morning, how Thalia, an accomplished sailor, had given Peter impromptu lessons and had grudgingly admired his quick progress. How Jasper had barked at the seagulls. How the fog had lifted at noon, and the day turned glorious. How we drank too much beer and laughed uproariously. Later, after dinner and more beer, after Thalia and Garrett had left, Peter kissed me in the parking lot and said, “I think it’s time for you to move in.”

  Now, as I studied Thalia’s smiling face, I wondered what made a person stop being in love. I suspected it was a series of small disappointments that accumulated like drops in a jar, until the jar overflowed. Even a big jar had its limits.

  Why hadn’t Thalia called me back yet? How difficult was it to pick up the phone? I took the pie back out of the fridge and cut myself a hefty slice before dialing her number. After four rings, I got her voice mail. “Thalia, call me the minute you get this,” I said. Now my annoyance was morphing into worry as I finished my slice of pie. I was scrubbing the roasting pan when the phone in the kitchen rang. It was Peter. “Hi, honey,” he said. “I’m just calling to let you know—”

  “When will you be home?” I interrupted.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, picking up on the concern in my voice.

  “Yes, I’m fine. But I’m worried about Thalia. I think some-thing’s happened to her.” The words tumbled out. “She was supposed to call me and she never did. She was meeting Marcel at six thirty, and it’s already after eight. Do you think I should call the police?”

  “The police?” Peter said incredulously. “Of course not. You know how Thalia is. She probably got busy with something else. Maybe she’s with her French boyfriend. Look, I have to go back inside. What I wanted to tell you was that my speech was a hit. Thanks for asking,” he said dryly.

  I felt a pang of guilt. “Oh, Peter, I’m sorry. I want to hear all about it when you get home.” We talked for a few more minutes, then I heard my cell phone ringing back in the dining room. I gave Peter a kiss through the phone and hung up. I was too late to get the call, but relief flooded through me as I saw on the display that it was Thalia. Finally. Once again, no voice mail. But at least she’d called.

  I immediately called back and left a message insisting that she phone me when she got home, no matter how late. “I don’t care if you wake me,” I said. “I want to know what happened.” Peter was right, I told myself. She was probably with Etienne. After all, he was leaving in just a few days. He and his entourage were staying at a small hotel in San Francisco’s Presidio Heights district, just a short drive from the Golden Gate Bridge. Thalia had booked it for them because, she claimed, they’d enjoy being in a charming neighborhood, away from the bustle of down-town. It was more like Paris, she’d said. Renata could stroll to the shops and cafés. “Well, aren’t you the accommodating little tour guide,” I had commented, suspecting that Thalia had chosen the hotel for her own convenience rather than Renata’s.

  Yes, I thought, letting out a sigh of annoyance. Thalia must be with Etienne, probably laughing over cocktails at this very moment. I downed the last of the wine in my glass and finished cleaning up.

  When Peter finally got home at about eleven, I hugged him with enthusiasm, not caring that he was soggy. “The drive home took forever. It’s absolutely pouring,” he said, “and I forgot my raincoat at the dinner. I’ll have to get it tomorrow.”

  I released my grip. “So the speech was good?”

  “Superb. They laughed in all the right places. I’m dying for a drink.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

  “I’ll have you know I got a standing ovation,” he said. “I think that calls for a gin and tonic at the very least.”

  I smiled. “I’ll fix it for you.”

  “Thanks, love. I’m going to run upstairs and take a shower.”

  I was feeling relaxed now, what with the three glasses of wine and Peter being home. I was still mildly annoyed at Thalia, but that didn’t seem so important right now. I stirred Peter’s drink and squeezed a slice of lime into the glass. When he came downstairs in his bathrobe, I wondered whether he had underwear on beneath it. As I handed him the gin and tonic, I slipped my other hand inside the robe to find out.

  CHAPTER 4

  At 2:45 a.m., I woke from a fitful sleep and reached for my phone. Still no message from Thalia. Going back to sleep was out of the question. Peter was softly snoring as I went downstairs to mak
e a cup of tea. Pacing around the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil, I decided it was time to call the police.

  Despite my insistence on the phone that something was terribly wrong, the dispatcher sounded unalarmed. She politely took down all the information and promised that patrol cars would keep an eye out for anything unusual in that area of the park. “If your friend doesn’t turn up by tomorrow evening, come in and we’ll file a missing person’s report,” the woman told me.

  “Thank you,” I said as I hung up, although what I wanted to do was scream at this unhelpful woman. Tomorrow evening? Was I supposed to do nothing until then? I paced some more until finally, leaving my tea untouched, I slipped a coat over my pj’s, whistled for the dog, and headed to the car. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a fresh scent and sparklingly clear skies. Jasper jumped into the back seat and off we went.

  First I drove to Ross and cruised by Thalia’s house, hoping to spot her vintage Mercedes. The driveway was empty and the garage doors were closed, so I couldn’t tell if her car was in there. All the lights in the house were off.

  Now wide-awake and on a mission, I decided to drive into the city. If the police refused to search the area, I’d do it. With a deserted freeway—and my disregard for the posted speed limit—it took only twenty-five minutes to get to Golden Gate Park.

  As I hurried along the fog-shrouded path, pulling my thin raincoat tighter to ward off the chill, it occurred to me that traipsing through the deserted park at four in the morning probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Not only was it freezing—ah, summer in San Francisco—but the eerie silence was making me jittery. Concern about Thalia already had my stomach in a knot—and guilt, of course. A big helping of guilt. I never should have let her go alone to meet a blackmailer.

  A sudden rustling in the bushes startled me. I spun around, casting the wan beam of my flashlight into the shrubbery. Just a raccoon, scurrying away. Jasper hadn’t even noticed. He was so delighted at this middle-of-the-night foray that he was trotting along the path, towing me at the other end of his leash.