A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗
- Author: Lynda McDaniel
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“Are you sure? I mean what if she wrote it in her lap? It was found out in the woods, so it’s not like writing at a desk.”
“No, there are certain qualities that wouldn’t be affected by that.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Hey, that’s my line. Can you stay a bit longer? I’ll make some fresh tea. Always good to settle the nerves.”
I looked at my watch. I had somewhere to be in a little over an hour, and I hadn’t checked into my hotel. But I was enjoying Nigel’s company too much to leave. I nodded.
“Well now,” he said, his face serious and concerned. “This rather disrupts your whole getaway from life as you knew it, doesn’t it?”
“Now look who’s being as direct as ever. But you’re right. I don’t want to get involved. I’ve had enough of this kind of investigative work. I like my store and its simpler, daily routines.”
“I know you don’t want to get involved, but I know you will. Assuming your Wyatt Earp doesn’t solve the case. You do have a sheriff down there in them thar hills, don’t you? Turn it over to him.”
Thinking of Brower, I must have made a face.
“That bad, eh?” he said, patting my hand before standing and heading into the kitchen to refresh our teapot. We drank more tea and visited for a while longer. His daughter lived in the Maryland suburbs, and he and his ex-wife were on better terms so that visits with the kids and grandkids were more enjoyable. He’d become more of a family man than a paperhanger—a term for forgers he despised. “It’s an art form,” he once admonished.
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As I headed back to my hotel, I thought about what Nigel had shared, and I hoped Brower would listen. Of course, I couldn’t mention Nigel by name—he’d made that clear as we’d said goodbye. And dammit, I couldn’t show Brower the two notes side by side because he’d know Lonnie had slipped me that copy. But I’d think of something later. I needed to change and get over to Georgetown. Ah, hailing taxicabs. One of the finer activities of city life.
Sitting in the cab, I realized how exciting it felt to be back in D.C. Possibility thrummed throughout the city and woke up something within me that, though I hadn’t realized it before, had gone dormant. And the comfort of sitting with an old friend, who knew my tastes and shared them, was exhilarating. As I was leaving Nigel’s, a sorrow swept over me when he asked, “Do you think you’ll be coming home again, Della?”
“This isn’t my home now, Nigel. I miss its better features, but I’m not a part of it any longer. Besides, other than you, I really don’t have any friends here anymore.”
“Well, what about the museums, the theaters, the restaurants?” he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the National Mall. “Don’t you miss them?”
Instead of answering, I gave him a big hug. Nigel closed the door behind me as I headed down the steps, then quickly reopened it.
“It really was good seeing you again!” He flashed a smile that took a decade off his face. “You will keep me abreast, won’t you? I’d love a report from time to time.” Then I heard him mumble something that sounded like, “I miss you.”
I turned back to agree, but he’d already closed the door. As I hurried to find a cab, I wondered just what I’d have to report next time.
Sure was quiet with Della gone. Except for them young’uns of Billie’s. They was noisy and made a mess of the yard with their toys all over the place. I even caught one of them sitting in my chair. I’d been told I didn’t have a poker face, which made sense since I’d never played the game and didn’t think I ever could. I’d seen men play it, though, on reruns like “Gunsmoke” and “Big Country.” Anyways, I gave that kid a look, and he jumped out of that seat like it were on fire.
Della called Billie yesterday to tell her she was coming home on Friday. Then she asked Billie to get me on the phone. Billie stretched the cord so I could stand outside and talk. I didn’t know if she was being nice, on account of Mama, or she didn’t want me in the store for her own reasons. But she just stood close by, until I had to give her a look, too. She headed back to the register.
When Della told me she had some news to share, I felt my knees turn kinda rubbery. I hoped she weren’t going back to her ex-husband, but that kind of thing happened all the time, even round here. I was just thinking he seemed kind of stuck up and not worth it when I heard her say the news was about the girl, Lucy. That really confused me, ‘cause how in the world did she find anything out about that up in D.C.? I started wondering if she’d gone to the FBI or something. Before she hung up, she said she counted me as someone she could confide in.
I was already at La Taberna when Alex arrived. I could see him cornered near the front door, the ever-ebullient host, Anastasia, laying a big Euro kiss on him. She was dressed in a designer black sheath, perhaps even more low cut than the last time I’d seen her. Josu, the maître d’, oozing with professional courtesy, escorted Alex into the dining room. I’d gotten good at lip-reading during my reporter days, and I could just make out their conversation.
“Good evening, Josu. I see our table is ready—and waiting.”
“Yes, madam arrived a little time ago. It was very good to see her again, if I may speak so directly.” I saw a raised eyebrow, and loved him for it. The implication was as strong as his Spanish accent that Alex had brought women whom Josu didn’t like. “But she doesn’t seem to be herself,” he added.
“She’s been dealing with some serious stuff.”
“When was she not, sir?” Josu said, sotto voce.
Alex nodded, as Josu pulled back his chair.
“I’m glad you shed your country look,” Alex said to me, studying my own black dress and beaded necklace. “I don’t suppose you find much use for that in hillbilly holler.”
I wasn’t about to let him bait me, not tonight. I rose and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, way more chaste than Anastasia’s. “Good to see you, Alex, and to be back here. The closest we have in Laurel Falls is a Mexican cantina.”
I didn’t want that comment to sound like a put down of the honest effort of those restaurateurs. I’d always appreciated any kind of cuisine—as long as it was prepared and served with integrity. I quickly added, “Actually it’s quite good. A couple of migrant workers opened it so they could enjoy their own food, for a change. But this,” I waved my arm at the luxurious Moorish décor, “I needed a treat like this. Thank you, especially today.”
“Bad news?”
Before I could answer, the sommelier arrived with a bottle of Dellaques De Riscal Rioja 1979. He spoke cordially to Alex, opened the wine, and poured some in his glass.
“Wonderful, Emilio. Excellent choice.”
“Madam chose it.”
I shrugged. “I took the liberty. It’s a wine we used to like.”
“Good memory. That had to be more than a year ago,” Alex said to cover his forgetfulness.
“I remember things for a long time.”
The sommelier scurried away, knowing when to skip the chitchat and move on. We clinked glasses and sipped the velvety wine. “Yes, bad news, or make that sad news. But I’m better now,” I said, though I felt my chin quiver. I cleared my throat and added, “Nigel confirmed the forgery, and I don’t know what to do.”
Alex looked startled. “That means she was murdered?”
“I told you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I thought you were ...”
“I know what you thought,” I interrupted. “Now tell me something I don’t know. What can I do with this information?”
“Talk to that sheriff. He’ll have to do something now. Turn it over, get it out of your hands. You can let it go now.”
“I don’t know. I wish if this had to happen it had been on Forest Service land. Gregg O’Donnell would be a lot easier to approach than Brower. I’m not sure he’ll even believe me. He’s a lazy son of a bitch who won’t want to open up what he considers an easy closed case.”
We sat in silence, leafing through the thick menu, elegantly bound in dark Spanish leather. We both looked up at the same time, silently acknowledging the vast distance that had grown between us. I felt pummeled by the events of the past weeks, today’s report from Nigel, the months of separation. But I didn’t want to ruin our special meal. God, how long had it been since I’d dined with white linen and fine wine?
“Let’s forget that for now. I can’t do anything tonight, and I’ll know what to do by the time I get home again.”
Our waiter, Felipe, dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo, arrived just as the tension broke. The waiters were all trained in Europe, and I was sure they learned how to read their customers’ moods and body language.
I nodded at Alex, letting him know he could order for me. He spoke fluent Spanish, which always got us the best service and usually something special—an amuse bouche or extra dessert. Josu spoke excellent English, but many of the waiters weren’t as comfortable with the language.
We started with a ragout of exotic mushrooms and prosciutto di Parma with melon. My entrée was the lamb steak with roasted garlic cream, accompanied by butter beans and dandelion greens, Alex’s the grilled New England rockfish with salsa verde. As had been our habit, halfway through our main course, we switched plates. Alex taught me that trick—much classier than dripping samples across the white linen to the other’s plate.
Over dinner, we talked about safe things, mostly politics. What else in that town? Fortunately, we mostly agreed on the topic, unlike a lot of couples I’d known there. And the evening worked its magic. By the time I polished off the last bit of our shared flan and my glass of port, I felt as though nothing untoward would happen again in my life. But eventually, reality won out.
“Do you think you could help me, somehow?” I asked. Alex had investigated—and embarrassed—more than a few politicians and business leaders inside the Beltway. And since he was working freelance, I figured he could make time to help me, if he wanted to.
“And I thought you were going to comment on
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