L
unch promised to restore a welcome sense of normalcy to my life, which had been disrupted over the past two days by the arrival of Todd Draper and the departure of Gillian Reece. In the case of Todd, this disruption was not altogether unpleasant, quite the contrary, at least in regard to the effect he'd had on my fantasies. In the case of Gillian, her death might have been accidental, but it was nonetheless disturbing, and I still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that the timing of her fatal fall had coincided too neatly with too many other people's interests.
So when I learned that morning that Neil would be joining me as usual for lunch at First Avenue Grill (he had missed the day before) and that Todd would not be joining us (he needed to keep an eye on the curtain installation at the Reece house), I was grateful for the return to a familiar and pleasing routineâeven if it would last only an hour. I could ogle Todd later, and I could postpone my search for answers, if answers were to be had, in the perplexing circumstances of Gillian's death. For the moment, I just wanted everything back the way it had been prior to Tuesday.
Walking along First Avenue from the
Register
to Neil's office, I felt a rush of anticipation, as if I hadn't seen him in years and we were about to reunite. In a sense, I realized, my flirtation with Todd's proposed ménage
had created an unintended distance in my relationship with Neil, and I doubted if Neil was even aware of it. Our lunch date presented a promising chance to assess whether damage had been done, and if so, an immediate opportunity to fix it.
When I walked through the front door of Neil's office, he was busy on the phone at his desk, sounding hassled. I stepped behind him, gave his shoulders a hug, and kissed the top of his head. He patted my hand as he talked, twisting his head to kiss my fingers when the other party began gabbing back at him.
Waiting for him to finish, I strolled about the office, studying some perspective drawings of various projects he had on display, then sat at the conference table, watching passersby on the street.
“Sorry,” he said, hanging up the phone. “I was at the Reece house longer than I'd planned. Just got inâneed to catch up on a few calls.” He picked up the phone again.
“No problem, no rush. How's everything going with the curtains?”
He grinned. “I'd like to tell you they're drop-dead gorgeous, which they are, but that description might seem insensitive, under the circumstances.” He dialed.
“And, uh ⦠how's Todd doing?”
“Fine.” Then he spoke to the person he'd called, a supplier who was behind on something. Neil's tone was not quite rudeânever, not Neilâbut he did sound stressed. I wished I hadn't mentioned Todd, which was clearly the source of his distraction. Still, I now understood that his instant dismissal of Todd's proposition the night before had been a cover for his confused reaction to it. He had been as tempted as I had been to consider intimacy with Todd, and he was now struggling, as I was, to sort out two conflicting emotionsâguilt, for feeling attracted to Todd, and disappointment, for turning him down. We really did need to talk this out.
“Let's get going,” he said, hanging up the phone and standing. “We're running late, and I'm starved. How about you?” He switched off his desk lamp and grabbed a jacket.
Sensing this was not the best time for a heart-to-heart, I stood, answering, “You know meâalways ready for lunch.”
Meeting him at the door, I patted his back as we stepped outside. He locked up; then we walked the block or so to the Grill.
“Nancy's got a good crowd today,” I noted as we passed one of the restaurant's front windows.
Since we were later than usual, we were the last of the lunch customers to be seated. The prim, well-dressed owner, Nancy Sanderson, had saved my prime table for us, seating us in a corner between the fireplace and the windows, where we could see the whole dining room, which was packed. Berta, our usual waitress, didn't need to askâshe brought iced tea for me and iced coffee for Neilâthen recited a few specials, from which we chose without opening our menus.
I had brought a newspaper from the office, that morning's
Chicago Journal,
and shared a few sections of it with Neil during the lull as we waited for our lunch to arrive. Although we were both reading, he seemed conspicuously quiet, lost in his thoughts. I was itching to broach with him our predicament with Todd, but I was deterred both by the public setting of the restaurant and by my own unsure feelings. Why rush, I reasoned, to open a discussion that offered little likelihood of being resolved then and there?
Immersed in these thoughts, I reacted with a start to the sound of Neil's voice when he asked me something. “What's that?” I said, setting down the paper and slipping off my glasses.
“The coroner,” he repeated. “How did your meeting go this morning?”
“Ah!” I responded with an eager smile, grateful for a topic other than Todd Draper. “Doug and I met with him as planned. The long and the short of it is, Vernon thinks Gillian's death was an accident.”
“Hngh.” Neil set his section of the paper on the table; a splashy decorating feature covered the front page. “I'm sort of surprised. Gillian had trouble brewing on so many frontsânot that I think any of those people would stoop to kill her.”
I nodded. “That's exactly the dilemma I've been tussling with. Given all the enmity associated with Gillian, coupled with the timing of her death, I'd say the circumstances are highly suspicious. Still, we
know
all these people, some better than others, and none of them strike me as the type who would resort to murder.”
“So where does that leave the investigation?”
“I guess it's dead-ended. Vernon is still waiting for the results of some routine testing, but he doesn't expect them to reveal anything. Barring the arrival of stunning new evidence, the death will be ruled accidental. At this point, in effect, there is no investigation.”
“Well, I suppose that's good news.” With a sigh, Neil added, “One less thing to worry about.” If his other worry was Todd Draper, he quickly dismissed it, as his spirits seemed to lighten when he saw Berta approaching. “Make way,” he said, clearing our papers from the table. “Here's lunch.”
As always, it was excellent. Nancy, who not only owned the Grill but also provided its culinary vision, never failed to amaze me. Working out of a storefront in a small town, she had contributed greatly to our contentment there, raising our perception of Dumont's quality of life. The turkey-and-corn fritters she served us that day, perfectly attuned to the chillier weather and the season of harvest, would have done anyone proud, even some snooty “name chef” in a trendy metropolis. Nancy kept hinting at retirement, but I hoped the day would never come.
Savoring our meal, finishing our fritters, and conversing of nothing momentousâthe food, the weather, the purely mundaneâwe managed to set aside the vexing issues that had recently intruded on our lives, simply enjoying each other's company. At one point, Neil took my hand and quietly mentioned that he loved me. “Ditto, kiddo,” I told him.
Because of our late start, the crowd in the dining room had thinned some. When Berta picked up our plates and moved from the table, it seemed as if most of the other patrons had been swept out the door.
“Hey,” said Neil, “isn't that Glee?”
Sure enough, there was my features editor, Glee Savage, sitting with another woman at a table across the room. Even with her back to us, there was no mistaking the big floppy-brimmed hat of shocking scarlet silkâwho
else
in Dumont would make such a statement? I asked Neil, “Can you see who's with her?”
He leaned for a better view. “I think ⦠yeah, that's Tamra Thaine.”
“Oh?” I leaned as well, confirming with my own eyes that Glee was lunching with Esmond Reece's yoga teacher, who wore an all-white outfit of pleated slacks and bulky sweaterâpin a big orange mum on her chest, and she'd have looked like an escapee from some middle-aged pep squad.
“Nothing against either woman,” said Neil, “but they seem an unlikely pair. I wonder how they even know each other.”
“Simple. I introduced themâwell, indirectly. The
Register
is doing a story on Tamra's hoodoo institute, and I assigned it to Glee.”
Neil smirked. “Try to keep an open mind, Mark.”
“Sorry. It should make an interesting feature, if Glee can sort it all out. I wish her luck; Tamra's lingo was way beyond me.”
Other patrons got up and left, affording Neil and me a better view of Glee and Tamra's table. I could now see that their lunch had ended. Dessert dishes had been cleared, and the two women were lingering over coffee. In fact, their cups were empty, as evidenced when Glee lifted hers for another sip, but finding none, set it down again. Deep in conversation, they seemed oblivious to their surroundings.
“It seems they've hit it off,” noted Neil. “They're yakking like schoolgirls.”
Berta returned to our table with coffee and offered dessert, which we declined. When she left, we sat back with our coffee, spoke of this and that, and kept an eye on Glee and Tamra.
Their conversation seemed mostly whisperedâand intense. They leaned close to each other, speaking and nodding. Glee had a steno pad on the table, but she wasn't writing notes, and in fact, the pad's cover was closed.
Voicing my own thoughts, Neil said, “It doesn't
look
like an interview.”
“I admit, it seems odd for a business lunch. And Glee's not the gossipy type.”
With a grin, Neil reminded me, “She's a reporter.”
“Touche. But you know what I mean. She's as professional as they come. Maybe Glee is just trying to ⦠to draw Tamra out. Maybe she's trying to dig for some background because she feels Tamra is holding back. This so-called institute struck me as nutty from the get-go. Maybe Glee drew the same conclusion and is sniffing around for an expose.”
“Maybe,” said Neil, sounding unconvinced.
His skepticism was warranted. While my theory sounded reasonable, it didn't quite account for what I saw. In their whispered conversation, Glee didn't appear to be needling Tamra for information that Tamra, in turn, was trying to withhold. Rather, the two women seemed mutually engaged, and I couldn't help characterizing their shared attitude as furtive, scheming, andâjust possiblyâguilty.
“I hate to interrupt all this delicious intrigue,” said Neil, setting his cup on the table, “but I need to get back to the office.”
I glanced at my watch. “So do I.” Standing, I hailed Berta, who stood at the ready with our check.
She brought it to the table and waited while I signed; the amount would be added to an account I ran there. Neil stood, slipping his jacket on while thanking Berta and wishing her well. Berta returned these courtesies, then bustled off to another table.
As she moved away, I realized that Glee and Tamra had just risen from their chairs with a flourish of napkins, a popping of breath mints, and a snapping of purses. They had not yet noticed us, but would soon encounter us as we all made our way to the door.
“Glee!” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.” Though I had been eyeing her every move for some minutes, it seemed far more gracious to let her believe I had spotted her just that moment.
“Mark! Neil!” She beelined toward us with Tamra in tow, meeting us near the hostess stand at the door. “I didn't see you when we came in.”
“My fault,” said Neil. “I made Mark lateâcatching up on some phone calls.”
“Ugh.” She leaned close to Neil. “Don't you sometimes feel like pulling the cord out of the wall?”
“In fact, I doâsometimes.”
I asked, “Is that Tamra?” The woman was not only slow catching up
with Glee, but she seemed to hide behind her, as if wanting to disappear into the crowd. But there was no crowd left in the room, and her white outfit was conspicuous anywayâLabor Day was nearly two months past.
She mumbled, “Hello, Mr. Manning,” but remained at several steps' distance.
“You know my partner, Neil, of course.” I gestured to him.
She nodded, but did not step forward to greet him or shake hands. She said nothing, as if embarrassed and tongue-tied.
Hoping Glee would offer some explanation for their meeting, I asked obliquely, “Nice lunch?”
“As always.” Chipper as ever, Glee turned to Nancy at the hostess stand, telling her, “The fritters were marvelous.”
Nancy gave a deferential bob of her head. “Thank you, Miss Savage.”
I made no move to go, telegraphing to Glee, I'm waiting â¦
She got the message. “Thanks for the lead on that story, Mark. It ought to be a good one. I asked Tamra to lunch in order to get some background on her new, uh ⦠yoga parlor.” Glee's awkward phraseology indicated that she had not even scratched the surface with Tamra regarding the intended scope of the institute.