Elementary, My Dear Watkins

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Listen, man, I’m really sorry about how that all turned out. The whole thing sort of blindsided me, you know? I never saw that job offer coming.”

  “You followed your heart and not your wallet, mon ami. That’s to be admired, I suppose.”

  “How about you, Luc? You’d be great for Haute Couture. If you know the guy, why not pitch yourself for the same position he offered me?”

  “I did, after you left. Chester said he would consider it. I know what that means, ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Then Georgette called, looking for you, and I had to make a quick exit. Perhaps Chester will reconsider later.”

  “Is he familiar with your work? How do you know him, anyway?”

  Luc rode aggressively close to the bumper of the car in front of him, forcing it to pull into the slow lane before speeding past.

  “I do not know him well. We met the other night at the Gallerie du Monde. He was very taken by the picture you have on display there, and Georgette was bragging that you were one of her interns. She even started telling him about your movie poster and your other stock photo sales—just bragging, I am sure, not knowing he was listening very carefully, planning to steal you out from under her.”

  Danny flinched as they reached their exit and Luc raced to pass a car on the single-lane exit ramp. Danny had skipped the gallery event on purpose, fearing yet another boring, drawn-out cocktail party where everybody got drunk on the free booze and spent the whole evening name-dropping, one-upping, and pretending they were art experts.

  “This morning I got a call from Chester, asking me to arrange an introduction to you. I suggested dinner and that was that.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me the real reason for the dinner? I just thought you wanted company at the restaurant.”

  “Georgette was nearby at the time. As was Kalunga Bashiri. What would you have had me say? ‘Come to dinner with me tonight, Danny, where you are going to be wooed by the competition’?”

  Danny gripped the armrest as Luc floored the accelerator to make it through a light that had already been yellow for several long seconds. It was red when they reached the intersection, so he simply pressed down the horn and kept going.

  “It would be nice to make it to the station alive,” Danny gasped as they narrowly missed a car coming at them from the side.

  “Eh bein, we will make it, do not worry. I grew up in a racing family. My uncle drove in the Grand Prix.”

  “Wow. How’d he do?”

  Luc slammed on the brakes, clipping a rubber traffic cone before swerving to miss an open manhole.

  “He lived to tell about it,” he replied. “As will we.”

  “I had a feeling I might find you here,” Bradford said, stepping toward Jo. “If you’re going upstairs to talk to your dad, I’d like to come too. He’s been refusing my calls for the last few weeks, but if I’m with you, he’ll have to see me and listen to me. Between the three of us, maybe we can figure out what’s really going on.”

  Jo swallowed hard, searching Bradford’s face for signs of malice or anger or insanity. Instead, all she could see was an eager sort of desperation. Was he to be believed about anything?

  “He’s at a ribbon-cutting ceremony,” she said finally. “I’m going there.”

  “Fine. We can take my cab.”

  “It’s out in North Ulton. I’m going by train.”

  “I’ll come too. We can talk on the way.” Bradford stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. “I know you don’t really trust me right now Jo, but you need someone with you, to protect you.”

  “Hey, buddy,” the cabbie called. “Your fare?”

  “Just a second,” Bradford said, holding out one hand. “Jo, let me finish telling you what I have to say on the train ride out there. When we get to North Ulton, we can talk to your father together.”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Come on. You seem almost frightened of me. Believe me, Jo, I’m the one person right now you don’t need to be frightened of.”

  He gestured again toward the cab. Jo looked at the driver, who was watching their exchange warily, as though he was afraid Bradford might bolt without paying.

  “What could happen in a cab or on a train, Jo? Once we get there and talk to your father, I’ll say goodbye and promise to leave you alone forever if that’s what you want.”

  Jo squinted at him, feeling suspicious and skeptical but also frightened. What if Bradford really was telling the truth and she truly was in danger?

  “This all seems like a stupid joke, Bradford, but right now I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. If someone really wants me dead, then tell me who it is, and why.”

  “It’s complicated, Jo. I’ll try to explain as much as I know on the way.”

  “Then at least tell me who paid you to marry me. Who signed the checks or made the bank transfers or whatever? Was it my father?”

  Bradford hesitated.

  “Give me a name and I’ll go with you.”

  Bradford looked around and then back at her, lowering his voice even more.

  “I know what they did was wrong, Jo, but they do love you in their own weird way. I’m sure once they find out that your life is in danger, they’ll move heaven and earth to protect you. They’ve got the knowledge and the resources to figure out who’s behind this—and hopefully to stop it.”

  “Who is ‘they,’ Bradford? Are you talking about my parents? Tell me straight out. Did my father pay you to marry me?”

  “Yes, he did,” Bradford whispered sharply. “Along with your mother. They did a dumb thing, but right now I think they’re the only ones who can help.”

  Heart pounding, Jo didn’t even reply. She simply stood there and considered her options, and then she walked to the cab and climbed inside.

  “Grand Central Station,” Bradford told the driver, slipping in beside her.

  Jo stared straight ahead, silently burning all the way to the train station. Even if Bradford was nuts or was lying about most of this, something in Jo’s gut told her that her father still had some big explaining to do.

  By the time they reached the train station, Danny was ready to jump out and kiss the ground. Instead, he simply climbed from the car, grabbed his bag, and ran with Luc from the parking lot to the station. Rémi was waiting for them at the door, a plastic bag in one hand and a fistful of papers in other, pacing wildly, a look of immense relief covering his face when he saw them.

  “Rémi!” Danny said, his heart plummeting. “What are you doing here? I thought Sabine was in labor!”

  Rémi gestured for both men to follow him, and he spoke as they dashed down the long hallways of the expansive train station.

  “She is, but we are not supposed to go to the hospital until the pains are five minutes apart. Right now, they are between ten and fifteen and she is at her mother’s. I just wanted to make sure everything is taken care of here. Quickly, quickly. Mr. Bashiri is waiting for us at track six.”

  They dashed through a series of long halls and down a wide stairway, finally emerging into the open, cavernous part of the station where they would board. As they approached track six, they saw that the train was already there, a shiny and sleek high speed TGV that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Danny saw that the other passengers had already gotten on, save for one very short, very dark-skinned man dressed in his usual garb of a multi-pocketed khaki jacket and slacks, a neat cotton hat upon his head and a small, tidy camera bag hanging from his shoulder. On the ground nearby was a well-worn black leather suitcase.

  “You said they would make it and they did,” Mr. Bashiri told Rémi calmly with a soft, African lilt. Then, with a nod to Danny and Luc, he stepped aboard the train.

  “Go with him,” Rémi instructed Danny, thrusting the plastic bag he’d been carrying into Danny’s hands. “I’ll give the paperwork and final instructions to Luc. Grab Bashiri’s suitcase, would you?”

  Immediately, Rémi redirected his attention t
o Luc, switching to their native French language and speaking so quickly that Danny only caught a little bit of it, something about baggage and customs and tickets. Danny picked up the black bag and stepped aboard, looking up the narrow hallway of the train just in time to see Mr. Bashiri step from the hallway into a room. Danny quickly sprinted up the hall and joined him, knocking first and then stepping inside to see a small-but-impressive first-class sleeper compartment.

  On the far wall was a large window, flanked on each side by gray velvet seats that faced each other. Above each seat, set into the walls, were folded-up berths. To the right of the door was the private bathroom, which included a toilet, a shower head, and a small, stainless steel sink adorned with several crisp white towels and a freshly-wrapped soap. To the left was a small closet.

  Trying not to look flustered or breathe heavily from all of the running, Danny put his bags on the floor beside the door and then set Mr. Bashiri’s suitcase inside the closet.

  “Would you like for me to hang up any of your things?” Danny asked, gesturing toward the suitcase.

  Mr. Bashiri, a man of few words, simply held out the strap of his camera case. Danny carefully took it from him and put it in the closet as well. Mr. Bashiri settled in the forward-facing seat next to the window, and when Danny asked if he could get him anything, the man asked for a cold bottle of water.

  “Of course,” Danny said, suddenly wondering how he thought he was going to pull all of this off.

  Liaison? What a joke! Except for a few weekend jaunts to more rural parts of France, Danny had never been on a European train in his life. He didn’t know where to get water. Did they have a club car? A water cooler? Some sort of cabin steward?

  Danny hesitated, glancing at Mr. Bashiri, who smiled bemusedly and then gestured toward the plastic bag on the floor, the one Rémi had handed Danny at the last minute. Danny reached for it, picked it up, and looked inside to see two wrapped sandwiches and three bottles of water, foggy with condensation. Smiling, Danny handed one to Mr. Bashiri.

  “Here you go,” Danny said, closing the bag and setting it neatly on the floor next to him. “There’s more in there if you need it. Will there be anything else?”

  Mr. Bashiri took a long sip of the water, wiped his mouth with a crisply folded cloth handkerchief, and then replied, “Not right now, thank you.”

  The train slowly began to move. Leaving his bag on the floor, Danny excused himself to look for Luc. Fortunately, the confident Frenchman was just coming up the hallway, a wide grin on his face.

  “Whew! We did it,” Luc said enthusiastically.

  Reading the numbers on the doors, he stopped at the one just prior to Mr. Bashiri’s, said “Voici,” opened it, and tossed his luggage inside.

  Then he brushed past Danny and stepped next door into Mr. Bashiri’s compartment, stepping over Danny’s suitcase and taking the other window seat, across from Mr. Bashiri. Danny was a bit startled at Luc’s aggressiveness, but he had come to learn that it was par for the course with him.

  “Eh bien, monsieur,” Luc said, flipping through the papers in his hand. “I will just take a moment to tell you all you need to know. First of all, Danny and I are in the sleeper right next door. If you need anything, you can just knock on the wall. Comme ça.” To demonstrate, he tapped lightly on the wall beside the seat. “It’s too late for any meals tonight, but Rémi provided you with some sandwiches. Breakfast will show up between six and six thirty, and we’ll reach Zurich at seven twenty-four. We have asked the préposé to turn down your bed in about an hour.”

  The train began to pick up speed, and Danny realized that he ought to put his own stuff away. As Luc continued to tell Mr. Bashiri about the arrangements in Zurich, Danny moved his duffel bag into the other room, taking out his camera first and then setting the bag safely on the floor of the closet. He still couldn’t believe he’d been given this opportunity.

  Danny moved back to the doorway of Bashiri’s room and stood there for another moment, observing his conversing travel companions. According to what Rémi had told him back at the office, though most successful photographers worked alone, Mr. Bashiri no longer did. With his advancing age and a bad back, he couldn’t handle the weight of his equipment, and he didn’t like the logistics of preparing an itinerary or driving in unfamiliar locations once he got there. Being semiretired, Mr. Bashiri could pick and choose his work more carefully these days, and one of his stipulations was that whatever magazine hired him for a job must provide what he called a “liaison”—but was actually just someone to do the footwork, the gruntwork, and the navigating.

  Of course, Mr. Bashiri’s loss was Danny’s gain, as he had never expected to work so closely with such an icon in his field. Pushing down an anxious surge of nervousness and excitement, Danny said a prayer of thanks for the opportunity, asking God to help him do a good job and to be with them all on their journey.

  Bradford held Jo’s arm as they made their way through the train station.

  “Start talking,” Jo said softly, still feeling doubtful but also strangely nervous. “Tell me everything that has happened and everything you know.”

  He put an arm around her, pulled her close, and placed his cheek against her hair as they walked, so that his lips were near her ear. She didn’t like his proximity—or familiarity—but right now she didn’t see that she had much choice in the matter.

  “It all started with a Jaguar,” he said softly. “A little more than a year ago, your dad invited me to the company house out in the Hamptons for a weekend. I was thrilled to go and glad to have a quiet time of relaxing and getting to know each other better. Your mom came too. She made a fabulous rack of lamb and spent most of the dinner talking about you, about how great you are.”

  Jo didn’t comment, but inside her stomach was clenching. Her mother always made rack of lamb when she wanted to impress someone—or butter them up to do something she wanted.

  “The next morning, your dad invited me out to the garage. In it was a brand-new Jaguar XJ8, indigo blue exterior with a champagne interior. I was in love.”

  Jo felt bile rising in her stomach, remembering all the times she had ridden in that car with Bradford. Was she really ready to hear this?

  “I thought it was his new car, but then he said, ‘I bought this for you, Bradford, and there’s a lot more where that came from. I’ve got a proposition for you, and if you’re interested, you’ll never want for anything again.’”

  Jo’s heart was pounding, and she felt sure that everyone who passed them by could see her emotions flashing clearly across her face. She was scared, angry, frustrated, and most of all anxious to hear what else he had to say. So far, knowing her parents as she did, everything Bradford was saying rang strangely true. Her father had pulled the same thing on her once with a red Porsche when she was fresh out of college and he was trying to get her to forget all about being a household hints expert and come to work for him at Bosworth Industries instead. Jo had been secretly flattered by his gesture, but the world of big business held no appeal for her at all. She had turned down the Porsche and the big salary, saying she was quite happy living with her grandparents in Mulberry Glen, thank you, and learning everything she needed to know to take over the “Tips from Tulip” newspaper column from her grandmother. Jo had never regretted that decision, especially when one after the other of her sweet grandparents died and she was left to carry on the legacy alone.

  “Oh, man, I forgot it was rush hour,” Bradford said. “It’s so crowded here.”

  The station grew even more crowded as they neared the boarding area. Jo realized he would have to finish talking once they were on the train and couldn’t be overheard quite so easily. She allowed Bradford to keep his arm around her anyway, partly because she didn’t want to lose him in the shuffle, partly because she needed the support for all this walking in her cast, and partly because she was starting to feel downright scared. Next to her, she could feel that Bradford’s body was tense and on alert, his e
yes darting constantly around the corridor. Jo found herself doing the same, though she wasn’t sure what she expected to see. Finally, she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  “Bradford, what are we watching for? Who is it that you think wants me ‘eliminated’? Is it someone I know? Someone in the company? Someone in my family?”

  “Jo, all I know is that your life is in danger,” he whispered in return, “and that it has to do with something big that’s going on at Bosworth Industries. Otherwise, I’m as clueless as you are.”

  Jo swallowed hard. If by some wild chance Bradford really was telling her the truth, then her life could be in serious jeopardy right now.

  “But why?” Jo demanded. “I have nothing at all to do with Bosworth Industries. I don’t work there, and I don’t have any dealings with them. I own a couple of measly shares of stock, certainly not enough to be killed over. I don’t participate in any of the votes. When the stockholder’s report comes in the mail, I usually toss it in the trash. I’m telling you, before today I hadn’t even set foot in the Bosworth building in several years.”

  “Look, all I know is that something’s cooking at Bosworth, and for some reason you present a problem. I’ve tried everything I can to get more information, but once I started sniffing around with some of my old contacts and former fellow employees, it’s like they closed ranks. Nobody’s talking.”

  They separated to take the narrow escalator and head downward. Jo stepped on after Bradford so that she could lean forward and whisper in his ear.

  “Who told you all of this?” she asked, halfway between skepticism and terror. Could he really be telling the truth? Or was he just working some strange sort of ploy, the motives of which she had yet to learn?