by N. C. Lewis
Gwen peered into the cell phone screen and understood.
Someone was tracking her movements.
Someone had sent threats.
And Gwen Williams thought she knew who.
Chapter 2
"Good evening, ma'am," Eddie called after Gwen as she scurried by the security desk. "Gonna be a quiet one. You're the only member here tonight." His eyes drifted down to the local newspaper, and his hand reached into the open packet of potato chips.
The Star of Gwen rocked gently. There was something about the way the air smelled over water, Gwen thought as she stood on deck and took a deep breath. Not exactly lavender and fresh thyme, but not far off, either. For an instant, she glanced upward. Stars twinkled brightly in an inky-black sky. If she cared to look closely, she would have seen a cloud of Mexican free-tailed bats swirling and spiraling in great arcs, hunting and feeding on unsuspecting insects.
But Gwen didn't look.
She needed a drink.
The oak-paneled room of the yacht's cabin mirrored her executive office. Action-packed oil paintings of catamarans racing on the high seas hung on the wall. Specialty lights glowed a soft orange, flickering like candles. Gwen placed her handbag on the coffee table next to the door. It leaned at an angle against a bronze statue of a bird with bright blue feet.
A distant rumble of thunder caused her to pause. "Storms brewing," she murmured under her breath.
At the entertainment system she tuned in the local classical music station, poured a glass of red wine. In her favorite armchair by the mock fireplace, she breathed in the fruity aroma and took a sip, feeling the tension slip away. A plan formed in her mind to deal with the individual who had made the threats and was now tracking her movements. "Yes," Gwen said at last, goose bumps forming on her bare arms. "I'll put an end to them; for good this time."
Encouraged, she took another sip, slowly. Soon she'd be relaxing in the Hill Country, and on Monday she'd put the plan into action.
Footsteps echoed on the deck outside.
Gwen tensed.
The sound grew louder, stopping outside the cabin door.
Who would be on the dock this late at night?
What are they doing on my yacht?
Realizing it had to be the security guard, Gwen relaxed. At least the little man was walking the property rather than reading the newspaper and eating potato chips.
But what if it wasn't the security guard? What if it was…
There was a flash of lightening, a sharp clap of thunder, and rain began pounding hard against the boat. The lights dimmed momentarily as the electricity failed. Then they flickered back on.
The cabin door flew open.
Gwen stood up and stepped toward the coffee table and her handbag, but a shadowy figure blocked her path.
"What do you want?" Gwen demanded, her lips compressed into a thin, hard line.
"You have it all," the figure said in a low voice, standing at the side of the coffee table and fingering the bronze statue. "Got more than you can say grace over!"
"I earned it all. I deserve it," Gwen shot back as her heart pounded in her chest. If she kept talking and got the figure into the cabin—away from the coffee table—she could grab her handbag and her gun. Gwen flashed her dazzling smile. "Take a seat. I'll pour you a glass of wine, and we can talk about how I can help you."
The figure stepped away from the coffee table.
Gwen felt a surge of triumph.
I can do this.
An angry spasm shot across the figure's face. They reached behind, hand closed around the heavy bronze bird, raised it over their head and brought it crashing down with force.
Gwen's face froze in surprise as she crumpled lifeless to the floor.
Chapter 3
Four days earlier…
Had Amy King stayed at home that Monday during lunchtime, perhaps none of this would have happened. But there was good news to celebrate, a new bistro on Congress Avenue to try out, and her friend Danielle Sánchez for companionship.
Amy joined the line outside the Joyeux Mangeur Bistro, under the shade of a large, red-and-white awning. It was a blue-and-gold summer day in the capital city. Huge fans whirred chilled air at the lunchtime patrons. Savory scents drifted from the open restaurant door—a combination of fresh-baked bread, buttery garlic, and roasting meats.
Amy's stomach rumbled in anticipation. She pulled out her cell phone and peered at the screen.
Running a few minutes late—Danielle.
Amy let out a frustrated sigh. She was hungry, having had nothing since breakfast but a slice of toast and two cups of coffee. After typing a quick response, she stared out onto Congress Avenue. It was a swirl of activity with people darting this way and that along the sidewalk. Unusually, they also wandered around in the road, there being no traffic.
"The annual Wizard of Oz Festival," Amy muttered, realizing that today was the grand parade. Thousands of fans of the books by L. Frank Baum and the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer movie would march along Congress Avenue, stopping at the capitol building, demanding the wizard come from behind the curtain and sing along to the many songs of that popular musical.
While Amy waited, she scrolled to the Austin Eats magazine website. She already knew by the smell, lunch would be delicious but wondered what the food critic had to say.
Much has been written about the delightful cuisine that comes from the old country, but not enough has been said about places to enjoy it in our great city. No longer! Cody Laurent, a former food truck owner turned French gastronome, has created a fascinating dining experience with Hollywood-size portions. Diners receive a discount if they dress like a celebrity.
Amy glanced up from her cell phone. There were witches and wizards. Star Wars characters standing in line with the crew from Star Trek. Batman with his sidekick Robin chatted amicably. The television detective Columbo waved a cigar at passersby, and the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz leaned against a supporting fence with an oversized tin hat on his head.
In black pumps, blue jeans, and a simple cream blouse, Amy felt underdressed. Not wishing to dwell on feelings of inadequacy, her eyes returned to the cell phone screen.
On my visit I observed a patron in the guise of John Wayne devouring a plate of deep-fried garlic snails. At his side, a passable Marilyn Monroe dipped a spoon into an elegantly presented bouillabaisse.
And yes, as one might expect, there were several Elvises bedecked in white glittering suits and platform shoes—probably visitors from out of town.
Overall, the Joyeux Mangeur Bistro is a quintessentially Austin experience and should be a great hit with local artists and tourists. Business professionals of the gray-suit variety may prefer to dine in less flamboyant surroundings.
Henry Escoffier—Senior Food Critic, Austin Eats Magazine.
P.S. Like what you have read? Then join me in my new KATV-News restaurant series called "What Y'all Just Missed" and learn all about great restaurants that are no longer with us.
Amy glanced up at the Tin Man. The sliver-painted face moved in jerky movements like a heron scanning a lake for fish. He seemed a little short for the role and rather shabbily dressed. On his oversized feet, he wore white sneakers, as if at any moment he might flee.
Then, Amy spotted them—six Elvis impersonators, two of whom were women. The group were a few spaces ahead and chattered loudly in strident New Jersey accents. The taller woman held on tightly to a purple, wheelie suitcase. Wrapped snugly around the heavily traveled bag was a large yellow bow.
"Amy girl! I'm here." Danielle hurried over to join her friend in the line. She was fifteen years younger than Amy and married to the lead guitarist of the Tarry Town Revival Band. "Got the day off."
A teacher's assistant at a local elementary school, Danielle wore a French beret of matching color to her lipstick—bright red, partially hiding her curly, jet-black hair. She wore a white blouse embroidered with tiny, golden sequins, black yoga pants, and golden, four-inch platform shoes.
"Wish I could get away with your sense of fashion," Amy commented without malice.
"Always had an eye for flash. I'm kinda like a magpie. If it glitters, it's mine." Danielle glanced around. "Do you think we'll get a seat?"
"Sure, it's probably a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from out here. Like the TARDIS in Doctor Who."
"Hope you are right, girl, else it will be Moonies Burger Bar." Her eyes settled on the group of Elvis impersonators. "Out-of-towners, saw a bunch with push scooters on Fifth Street."
The line shuffled forward.
Again, Amy's stomach rumbled.
"What's the big occasion?" asked Danielle.
"Do we need an occasion to have lunch?"
"There is always an occasion, so what is it?" Danielle was curious now; she wanted to know the news.
"Let's get a table by the window, and I'll tell you about it." As an afterthought, Amy added, "Things are looking up."
Chapter 4
They were almost at the front door of the restaurant. The simmering spicy aroma had Amy's stomach doing summersaults. It was all very promising.
"I'll order the special, whatever it is." Amy rubbed her hand theatrically over her stomach. "I could eat a horse."
"Sorry, madam, but you cannot enter here." The man sniffed, holding out his hand. He had a bushy, gray goatee and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. A label pinned to his chest pocket spelled out his identity—Mr. Roerden: Headwaiter.
"What is it?" Amy asked, peering into the entranceway, nose twitching at the delicious aromas. "Are you full already?"
"No, madam." Again he sniffed. It appeared to be a habit. "The restaurant is busy today on account of the Oz parade, but we are not yet at capacity."
"Then what is it?"
The man's eye's drifted along Amy's body. Finally, he stared at her black pumps and sniffed hard.
"This is a themed restaurant, madam." He waved his arms in a grand sweeping gesture pointing at the line of customers and beyond to Congress Avenue. The parade was in full swing. A crowd of marching Dorothy Gales waved at the gathered onlookers. They were all ages, ethnicities and sexes, replete in pinafores of various shades of blue, white socks, and red sparkly shoes. Many carried little wicker baskets in which stuffed versions of Toto, the famous dog, looked out.
"It seems you are wearing the garb of an…ordinary citizen," continued the headwaiter with a disapproving sniff. "The owner demands patrons—"
"The lady's with me," Danielle interrupted.
"Nevertheless, we expect our customers to make an effort. I've had to turn away three suited businessfolk already."
"This is a special occasion," Danielle pleaded, flashing a dazzling smile. "We are here to celebrate good news."
"Good news," the headwaiter repeated, his voice wavering and mesmerized by Danielle's smile. He scratched his goatee then let out a hearty guffaw. "Natalie Wood, isn't it? And a rather pleasing rendition of one of Hollywood's great actresses, might I add. It's the red lipstick and beret that gave it away."
Danielle stared back with a blank expression. Then she understood. "An amazing actress! Beautiful with it." She glanced sideways at Amy. "Intelligent, sophisticated, if somewhat underpaid for her obvious talents."
"Really?" commented the headwaiter, intrigue washing over his face. "What would you say was Natalie's best movie?"
"Oh, honey," Danielle replied, as if playing for time. "There were so many! It is difficult to choose."
"Agreed." There was genuine friendliness in his smile. "But you can't disagree Natalie was superb in the movie Penelope."
"Yes, an outstanding performance." Danielle turned to Amy, eyes pleading for help. It was clear she didn’t have any idea who Natalie Wood was. "What do you think, Amy?"
As a child Amy had daydreamed about being Natalie Wood, watched her on the cinema screen, and also, much later, on the small screen. She even remembered the movie Penelope. Now she dug deep to pull out the facts she'd memorized in fifth grade.
"In Penelope, Natalie played alongside Peter Falk, better known as the television detective Columbo. She was nominated three times for Oscars by age twenty-five." Amy breathed off an easy giggle at the memory and felt ancient.
The headwaiter glanced sideways at Amy as if trying to decide. "Film buff, eh?" He lowered his voice and sniffed. "Okay, if anyone asks, you're Lois Lane. I hope you enjoy your—"
The screams that drowned out his final words lasted a full ten seconds.
Instinctively, Amy's hands flew to her ears, trying with futility to shut out the agonized cries as she turned toward its source. Her brain failed to compute the image taken in by her eyes.
Elvis, as depicted by the taller woman, whose mouth was open wide and hollering at the top of her voice.
The man dressed as Columbo was running at full stride, followed close behind by Batman and Robin, then another four Elvises.
In front, by perhaps twenty yards, the Tin Man—short and fat—dragging behind him a purple suitcase with a yellow bow, his legs moving up and down like pistons in a supercharged engine.
Chapter 5
Amy stood at the entrance to the bistro watching the unusual chase evolve. Her first emotion was a dim kind of puzzlement; something was not quite right. It was only as Columbo closed in on the Tin Man that the full impact hit, and her heart thumped hard.
"What's going on, here?" The headwaiter's ragged voice mirrored Amy's confusion.
There was a pause of a full three seconds before the tall woman Elvis spun around and shook her head, face ghastly pale. "That Tin Man…stole my suitcase. Snatched the darn thing and darted away before I knew what happened."
"Don't worry, Marge, the guys will catch the thieving dawg," the shorter woman Elvis said in a soothing tone. "And teach 'em a good lesson too."
"I don't want anyone hurt, just my bag back," the tall woman replied, head turned back to watch the chase.
Batman and Robin had caught up with Columbo, as had the four Elvises. They formed a semicircle, closing in fast on the fleeing Tin Man. A line of slow-moving parade vehicles obscured the view, and the pursued and pursuers disappeared out of sight.
"Take a sip o' worter, Marge," the shorter woman said, handing over a plastic bottle. "You'll get that suitcase back. No way that chubby Tin Man can outrun our Jersey guys. Just you wait and see."
They didn’t have long to wait.
Less than two minutes later, Colombo, Batman, Robin, and the four male Elvis impersonators were back at the entrance of the restaurant. "He got away!" the man dressed as Colombo muttered bitterly, sweat running down his forehead and dripping in large blobs off the end of his nose.
"What happened?" Marge asked, her voice wavering at the unwelcome news.
At that precise moment, music from the parade boomed out across Congress Avenue. For several minutes, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" reverberated off the windows and rattled the doors. Eventually, as the tune drew to a close, he explained what had happened.
"Damn Oz fans; they are all over the place. The Tin Man disappeared in the crowd!"
"How?" The remark came from the female Elvis. "You were right on his heels!"
"The rat slipped into the procession, disappeared like a ghost. We couldn't move for Tin Men; there must have been thousands of 'em. Isn't that right?"
Batman, Robin, and the four Elvises grunted in agreement.
The picture was a little clearer to Amy now. Marge had been the unfortunate victim of a random street crime. A common occurrence in a big city, except the perpetrator was dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz and then stole a brightly colored suitcase. The whole situation was bizarre. Her mind honed in on the suitcase. What was inside? She wanted to ask questions, to dig a little deeper. Instead, she kept quiet and waited.
The Elvises huddled in a small circle around Marge. In hushed whispers, they discussed the situation. At long last, one man stepped forward. "You'd better call the polic
e," he said to the headwaiter. "We must report a crime."
The headwaiter's first reaction was to sniff hard and shake his head. "Police swarming all over the restaurant, and at our busiest time of the day!" He gulped visibly at the implication of his own words. "That won't be good for"—he hesitated, face crimsoned, but felt compelled to continue—"tips. It won't be good for publicity, either, and it won't go down well with the boss, Cody Laurent." Again he paused, pink tongue darting from his mouth, licking his thin lips. "Listen… I'll get you a table by the window, send a busboy for a replacement suitcase while you enjoy a meal on the house."
Everyone looked at Marge.
The tall woman ran a hand through her dark hair, stepped toward the headwaiter, eyes bloodshot but alert. "That is a fine offer. Yes! We'll take you up on the complimentary meal and replacement of my suitcase. It was old, tattered and due for retirement." There was a moment of silence as if she was considering how to phrase her next sentence. "We'd like a table by the window."
"Of course. Of course." The headwaiter, all smiles, bowed slightly.
But Marge had more to say. "We came down from Jersey for the Austin antiques convention. Do that every year. Buy one or two objects for my collection. The suitcase contained a sculpture."
"Sculpture?" repeated the headwaiter in a tight voice, smile gone. "What type of sculpture?"
"A bronze blue-footed booby, by the artist Auguste Rodin."
Amy let out a gasp. She'd studied the unusual marine bird as part of a nature project in sixth grade. She remembered it lived in the Eastern Pacific Ocean and was recognizable by its distinctive bright blue feet. But it was the name Auguste Rodin that had caused her to gasp. His work had been the subject of an eighth-grade art project. The sculpture had to be worth a fortune.
"Auguste Rodin?" the headwaiter sniffed with a quizzical expression. "The name rings a bell."
Amy made a sound but stopped. Then, because she had attracted everyone's attention, continued. "I think Marge is talking about François Auguste René Rodin, the French sculptor considered a genius for his vividly realistic art."
"Ah, yes! I remember now; saw the movie. Rodin—an Arthouse classic directed by Jacques Doillon." The headwaiter, momentarily lost in his love of film, added, "It was a love story, really—Rodin falls for the lovely Camille Claudel." Then it hit. His eyes widened. "That sculpture must be valuable!"
