No Reservations Required, page 8
part #8 of Sophie Greenway Series
“Go,” he said. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a cigar.
“You can’t light that in here.”
“I know, Officer. I just chew on it for moral support. Makes me feel purposeful and manly, like I’m Winston Churchill.”
Just think, thought Sophie as she walked away. Her mother was one of the most famous women writers of all time, and her father was the Prime Minister of England. She hated to think what that made her. Napoléon, no doubt.
Sophie joined her mother in her parents’ bedroom. She sat in a bright yellow chintz-covered armchair while her mother made the bed.
“I’m surprised your father mentioned my theory,” said her mother, fluffing a pillow before she spread the chenille bedspread over it. “Tell me the truth. Did he call it Pearl’s ‘crackpot’ theory? I know he did.”
“Well—”
“Don’t bother putting a pretty spin on it. He thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe Bob Fabian is dead.”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”
“See, you think I’m crazy, too.”
“No, I . . . well—”
“It’s okay.”
“But you were at the funeral.”
“So? I was at the wake, too. And if memory serves, there was no open casket. Who’s to say he was in there? Can you prove it? I can’t.”
“But Mother, he was shot in his home—by the same person who shot Kenneth Loy. He was taken to the emergency room, where he died. That’s all been verified by the police.”
Her mom opened the closet and began sorting through her father’s suit coats. “You’re correct up until the point where they say he died. None of the police reports said the bullet killed him. The reporters merely inferred that.”
“Of course it killed him.”
“Then why haven’t the police ever stated that?”
Sophie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mother had to be wrong.
“You want to look at the newspapers? I’ve saved all the clippings. I thought it was strange right from the start. That officer what’s his name—Lundquist— he hedged every time the questions turned to Fabian’s death. He just kept saying no comment, that it was all under investigation. If Fabian died from that supposed gunshot wound, why wouldn’t he just admit it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because Bob Fabian isn’t dead, that’s why.”
“Then where is he?”
“I’m still working on that part.” Her mom found a chewed-up cigar in one of her father’s vest pockets. She held it by the tip, as if it were made of plutonium, and dropped it into a small wastebasket next to the dresser. “Filthy thing.”
“I guess maybe I’d like to look at those clippings.”
“Sure,” said her mother. “You’ll see. I’m not wrong.”
Sophie followed her out to the living room.
“Here,” said Pearl, lifting a manila folder off the coffee table. “You look, read for yourself, see if your old mother isn’t smarter than the average bear.”
Sophie took the folder, smiling weakly.
“And then you come back and we’ll figure out where Bob Fabian is. Every good sleuth needs a side-kick. You can be my Dr. Watson.”
“Gee,” said Sophie.
“Yeah, it’s cool. We’ll show your father, Mr. Doubting Thomas, what’s what.”
Several hours later, Sophie was sitting at her own breakfast table reading through the clippings when Bram finally emerged from the bedroom. He looked sleepy, his chocolate-colored hair rumpled as he sat down at the table, tying his midnight blue silk robe snugly over his pajamas.
Ducking his head sheepishly, he said, “I’m sorry about last night. I acted like a jerk.”
Sophie had gone to bed around eleven. Bram didn’t get in until much later, so they hadn’t talked yet about Nathan’s call, or his unexpected appearance yesterday at the hotel.
“I’m not involved with Nathan Buckridge in any way,” said Sophie. “I don’t know how I can be more clear than that.”
Bram rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “I believe you. But why can’t he just fade away? Every time I start to think he’s gone from your life, he pops back up.”
“He’s getting married, honey. To Elaine Veelund.”
That snapped him to attention. “That’s why he called?”
“He wanted to tell me in person, but when I wasn’t around yesterday, he decided to phone. That’s all, Bram. I can’t make him disappear off the face of the earth, but I don’t love him. I care about him, but that’s it. I’ll admit, when he first came back into my life, after not seeing him for so many years, there were unresolved feelings. But I’ve worked through all that. You’re the only man I want in my life.”
Bram grinned. “Music to my ears.”
“So, can we be done with Nathan now? No more jealousy?”
Bram crossed his chest and held up his hand. “Promise.”
“Good. Now, you can help me figure this out.” She pushed the manila folder across to him. Next, she pushed the morning paper. “Just like your buddy Al Lundquist told you, there’s an article this morning that talks about that 911 tape.”
Bram glanced down at the Times Register, scanning the front page. “Boy, if that doesn’t narrow the suspects, I don’t know what would. Sounds to me like Bob’s murderer was either Andy or Phil Banks.” He opened the folder. “What’s all this?”
“It’s every article Mother could find about Ken Loy’s and Bob Fabian’s murders. Except, get this. She thinks Bob is still alive.”
Bram looked up, stared at her a moment, then burst into laughter. “You’ve gotta give Pearl credit. She’s not afraid to take the road less traveled. But this time, I think she’s stumbled off a cliff.”
“I thought so, too, but then I read all the clippings.”
“Sophie, get real. We saw him buried.”
“I used the same argument, but Mother contends that none of the official reports actually say that Bob died from that gunshot wound.”
Bram sat back, shaking his head. “She’s got to be wrong.”
“She’s not. Look at the folder.”
“But I talked to Al myself. Yesterday. He said it was complicated, but he never said Fabian was alive. No, Sophie, your mother can’t be right. He was shot, taken to the emergency room, and he died.”
“Well, if he’s dead, then why all this hedging whenever the subject of the gunshot comes up? Read it for yourself.”
Sophie could see the wheels turning inside Bram’s mind. She was hoping he’d have some information to counter her mother’s claim. “What did Al say to you? Specifically.”
He thought another few seconds. “Come to think of it, he was a little evasive. Hell, he wasn’t just a little evasive, he was a whole lot evasive. But I never got the sense that Fabian was still among the living.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“No idea. Al did say it was the most convoluted case he’d ever worked on. I asked him why. I mean, it seems pretty straightforward. One gun, two dead bodies, one killer.”
“What did Al say when you said that?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘I wish.’ ”
Sophie sat for a few moments, staring into her coffee cup. “Well, if Bob is alive, all I can say is, somebody better tell Andy.”
Bram was about to get up, when there was a knock on the front door. “I’ll get it.”
A few seconds later, Sophie could hear Margie’s voice as she greeted her dad.
“Look who’s here,” said Bram, returning to the table. “Want some coffee, honey?”
Margie shook her head. She was all decked out today in leather. Black leather pants. Leather jacket. Not biker leather, but designer leather. She looked great. She had the same brown hair and green eyes as her father, but on Margie, the features were arranged to create a much different effect. Which was good. Not many young women were dying to look like an aging Cary Grant.
“What’s up?” asked Sophie. She could tell Margie was bursting to tell them something. Sophie dreaded the revelation. In Sophie’s opinion, Margie rarely brought good news.
“This is so totally cool,” she said, dropping down into a chair.
“What is?” said Bram, returning with a mug.
“I just got a call. It’s another wedding for Carrie and me to plan.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Bram, giving her a kiss. “Bravo.”
“And guess whose wedding.”
Sophie knew what was coming. She braced herself. There was only one thing that could put that kind of gleam in Margie’s eye—the chance to stick it to Sophie
“Who?” asked Bram.
“Nathan Buckridge. He wants me to handle all the details. And this will be another big one. Expensive. He wants the best of everything.”
Sophie studied Bram’s face. She could tell his emotions were at war. He was happy Nathan was getting married, but not pleased that he’d pulled Margie into it. Then again, it was a wonderful opportunity for his daughter, but if it meant that Nathan’s presence would touch their lives in any way, was it worth it? Sophie could see that the answer was no. But Bram wouldn’t let Margie see that. “That’s fabulous,” he said. “Wow. Really . . . amazing.”
“We’re meeting with him and Elaine later today at the hotel.”
“This hotel?” said Bram.
“It’s easier for Elaine,” said Margie. “She’s planning to be in town this afternoon, and didn’t want to drive all the way out to Stillwater.”
“Where are they going to be married?” asked Sophie.
“Not sure,” said Margie, tapping her fingernails on the table. She’d come to drop her bomb and now she’d dropped it. But she wasn’t satisfied. She’d been hoping for a bigger, more negative reaction.
Life was full of disappointments, thought Sophie. She was warmed to think she’d provided Margie with one.
“Look at the time,” said Bram, checking his watch. “I’ve got to be over to the Rookery by ten. There’s a board meeting this morning.”
Bram had served on the board of directors for the past year.
“I’ll walk you over,” said Margie. “That way, I can tell you more about Nathan’s ideas for his wedding. They’re totally spectacular.”
Surely Margie knew that even the mention of Nathan’s name made her father suffer. And why didn’t Bram put a stop to it? Didn’t he see how manipulative she was?
“Sure,” said Bram. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.”
Ten minutes, thought Sophie. What would she and Margie talk about for ten whole minutes?
15
Chris carried a breakfast tray into the bedroom and set it on the bed, then crawled back in, snuggling down next to Phil. He’d fallen asleep while she was in the kitchen making them scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, but as soon as she touched him, he woke and turned around to encircle her with his arms.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks,” said Chris, happier than she’d ever been in her life. And it was all Phil’s doing.
Yesterday had been a whirlwind. Right after the detective left, Phil had gone out, saying he had some business to take care of and would be back in a couple of hours. But he hadn’t returned until nearly four. Chris called her mother and talked to her for a while. Her mom never failed to remind Chris that she’d made a big mistake, moving into Phil’s house so fast. Chris told her it was her life, and that she trusted Phil. She loved him and he loved her. That’s what mattered. Chris could still hear her mother’s words. “But he’s old enough to be your father, honey. And he’s been married twice before. You’ll never get what you really want from a man like that.”
Chris lied, said that marriage wasn’t important to her. So what if Phil wasn’t interested in marriage anymore? Was that so odd? He’d been burned twice. He took the blame for both of his failed relationships, said his wives were good women, it just didn’t work out. But Chris knew the truth. Both his ex-wives were terrible people, selfish and slutty women who didn’t deserve a man like Phil. She knew because, every now and then, he’d let something slip about one of them. She tried to make her mother understand. Phil had been unlucky in love—until now.
Her mother always countered with the same old warning: if a man has been that unlucky in love, there has to be a reason, and it can’t always be the other person’s fault.
But Chris knew that’s exactly what it was. Phil was simply too good for his first two wives. They took advantage of him, took him for granted. They used him and then kicked him out, hoping to get big fat settlements. But Phil had outsmarted them. That’s why they were so mad, even now, after many years of being apart. He said that sometimes his two ex-wives scared him. They both had a violent streak. How could they be so blind? thought Chris. Phil was handsome, smart, funny, charming beyond belief, and he was incredibly sensitive. He cried sometimes after they made love. He said he was so grateful he’d found her. He’d almost given up hope of ever finding any lasting happiness in life.
When he finally returned home yesterday afternoon, he sat Chris on the couch. Again, he told her he loved her and that he couldn’t imagine a life without her. And to prove it to her, he handed her a huge diamond engagement ring. And then he asked her to marry him.
Chris wanted to shout for joy, to call her mother and tell her she was wrong wrong wrong. Her mind went into overdrive, imagining the wedding they would have, all the guests they would invite.
But Phil said no. They needed to be married right away. Now that he’d realized how pigheaded he’d been, he wanted to rectify the situation. He needed her to be his wife, no prenups, no lawyers, just the two of them and a judge—a friend of his. He told her to go upstairs, put on her prettiest dress, and get ready to become Mrs. Phil Banks.
Chris was disappointed. She tried hard to hide it, to act like this was what she wanted, too. She’d always dreamed of a wedding at the St. Paul Cathedral, with her brother there to give her away, maybe her uncle Vincent as one of the groomsmen. She imagined her husband-to-be in a handsome morning coat, lifting her veil after they’d said their “I dos” and kissing her with such passion that it made all the women in the church wish they were her. The sanctuary would be filled with flowers, and then afterward, they’d have a big wedding dinner, gorgeous catered food that she and her mother would agonize over for months. Maybe there would even be a rock band, or better yet, a country-western one, something fun for entertainment and dancing. And finally, the wedding night. It would all be so incredible.
In the end, they were married in the living room of Judge Warren Wilson’s home. He was a high school buddy of Phil’s and lived in Edina. It was a nice enough house, but not exactly a cathedral. His wife had played several classical pieces on the piano, and Phil slipped a simple gold band on her left hand before he kissed her. She’d been right about the passion in his kiss. But instead of a fancy hotel, they went home and made love. Phil had covered their bed with red rose petals. He was trying to please her. He simply wasn’t the kind of man who liked everything planned out. She would just have to get used to it. On the way home, he’d bought a bottle of French champagne to celebrate with, and while they were drinking it, they’d ordered a pizza. All in all, her wedding had been crazy and silly, even a little tacky at times, but also meaningful and loving, something she’d remember until her dying day.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Banks,” said Phil, pulling the breakfast tray closer to him. “What should we do today?” He picked up a slice of toast, gave her the first bite, then finished it. “I know I didn’t say anything about a honeymoon. That’s because I’m not sure when I can get away. Actually, I should probably go in to work this morning and look at my schedule. Then we can talk about it. Hey, we could rent a yacht and sail the Caribbean. Have you ever been on a yacht?”
She shook her head.
“Think you’d like it?”
“Sure!”
“Or,” he said, kissing the side of her neck, “we could fly to Paris for a few days, then head south and spend some time on the Riviera.”
Her eyes were filled with stars. She never thought she’d ever have enough money to do anything like that.
“Well, we’ll talk about it later, okay?”
She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Banks.”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her softly. “I adore you, Mrs. Banks. Get used to it. You’re going to hear that a lot from now on.”
The moment Phil left, Chris was on the phone to her mother. But her mother wasn’t home. This wasn’t the kind of news you left on an answering machine, so she decided to call back later. Or maybe she’d stop by her mom’s apartment, tell her in person. And if she did that, she could show off her new rings.
Chris was still sitting with the phone in her hand when it rang. Thinking it might be Phil, she answered it without checking the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Phil Banks, please.” It was a male voice. One she didn’t recognize.
“He’s not here. But I’m his wife. Can I take a message?”
“His wife, huh? What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“So tell me, Christine—it is Christine, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I prefer Chris.”
“What’s Phil’s cell phone number?”
She didn’t like the man’s tone. Phil had told her more than once never to give strangers information about him. “He’s out. That’s all I can say.”
“Out where? Is he at work? I tried over there a few minutes ago and he wasn’t in.”
“Who’s calling?”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re his wife and you don’t know when he’ll be back?”
Now she was getting angry. “Look, if you’d like to leave a message—”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get all hot and bothered. Just tell your husband Del called. Oh, and while you’re at it, tell him I know what he’s got stored on Old Mill Road. That should get his attention. If he doesn’t want other people to find out, he better be home the next time I call.”
