No Reservations Required (2 page)

3

The Rookery Club was at its peak of popularity in the late 1990s. That’s when Sophie and Bram had joined. Though the price of admission was steep, it seemed the right thing to do—not only because it was one of the most prestigious private clubs in the Twin Cities, boasting a membership that included some of the best-known chefs in the area, dozens of restaurateurs, and hundreds of homegrown foodies, but also because it was the
only
truly gourmet club in town. At the time they’d first joined, Sophie wrote an occasional restaurant review for the
Minneapolis Times
Register.
Her presence at the club seemed an important professional connection. Now that she was the full-time restaurant critic for the paper, her presence was a necessity.

The club was named after the building in which it was housed. The Rookery was an old brick mansion on Prince Street in one of the more colorful areas of Lowertown in downtown St. Paul. Built by James S. Peables in the late 1890s, the three-story brick building, a combination of Gothic architecture with hints of Richardson Romanesque, became the official home to the Rookery Club in 1968 after it was renovated by Taylor M. Wackenhut, a local entrepreneur and the club’s first president. After the renovation, Wackenhut donated the building to the club with the proviso that the club forever after bear the building’s name.

While no one was quite certain how the mansion came to be called the Rookery, there was no dearth of speculation. Some said it was because of the iron birds that capped sections of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the building. Others pointed to the pigeons that always nested on the south section of the roof. Still others pointed to the fact that the building had been an infamous bordello in the 1920s. All made a certain sense, although none was definitive.

Sophie had once looked up the word “rookery” in the dictionary. She was surprised to find it had so many meanings. A rook was a chess piece—an essential and highly powerful defender of the king—otherwise called a castle. A rook was also a kind of European crow, a gregarious bird that liked to congregate in groups. And finally, a rook was just another name for a swindler. Webster, in his usual helpful fashion, defined “rookery” as “a colony of rooks.” Thus, Sophie assumed that the Rookery in downtown St. Paul was either the gathering place for highly social birds, errant chess pieces, or crooks.

“Kind of a wide variety when you think about it,” said Sophie, gazing at her husband over the rim of a martini glass.

“You actually looked it up in the dictionary?”

“You saying I don’t own one?”

Bram grinned, grabbing a few peanuts and tossing them into his mouth.

They were sitting at the ornate bar on the Rookery Club’s first floor, directly across from the main dining room. Their dinner reservations had been for eight o’clock, but as soon as they arrived, they were told that the kitchen was running behind, and were offered a complimentary drink in the Wackenhut room—the bar—if they didn’t mind a short wait. That was half an hour ago, but Sophie didn’t care. She’d hardly seen her husband all week and tonight she had him all to herself. No ringing phones, no Margie—Bram’s daughter—barging in and demanding that they listen to her ramble on and on about herself for hours. They’d left their cell phones back at the Maxfield, so the night belonged to them.

Sophie and Bram owned the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul. Sophie’s parents had bought the hotel back in the early ’60s, when it was a run-down dump just waiting for the wrecking ball. Like Taylor Wackenhut, Henry and Pearl Tahtinen wanted to preserve a piece of St. Paul history. The Maxfield had been built toward the end of the 1920s and was a wonderful example of Art Deco architecture. Just the idea that a building like that would be razed to accommodate a new parking garage made her father seethe. After years of hard work and lean times, the Maxfield Plaza had risen from the trash heap of inner-city urban blight to take its rightful place as downtown St. Paul’s premier hotel.

Several years ago, Sophie’s parents retired and sold the hotel—for one dollar—to Sophie and Bram. They wanted to keep it in the family, and so did Sophie. Bram already had a full-time job as a radio talk-show host for WTWN, so the running of the hotel fell to Sophie. Several weeks after the hotel’s title was officially transferred, her parents wished her well and left for a two-year, round-the-world tour. They were home now, back in their apartment at the top of the hotel’s north tower. Sophie had assumed that when they returned, her father might still take some interest in the family business, but she wasn’t prepared for how constant his presence would be.

Before she and Bram had left tonight, Sophie stopped by her office to make a couple of notes for her meeting tomorrow with the food and beverage manager. She’d found her father sitting behind her desk, smoking one of his rank cigars, going through the September stats on her computer. So much for turning the reins of the hotel over to his daughter.

“Dad’s driving me nuts,” said Sophie, holding up her glass and nodding to the bartender for another martini.

“I made a bet with you—remember?—that as soon as he got back, he’d make your life miserable. Is he smoking those nasty cigars in your office?”

“Do I smell like smoke?” Sophie sniffed her sleeve.

“You smell wonderful.” Bram moved over and kissed her cheek. “But spend a few more hours with those stogies and you might as well get a job as a prizefight promoter.”

“He says he’s got a list.”

“What kind of list?”

“He never really says. He just keeps threatening me that he’s got a list, and that we’re going to talk about it soon.”

Sophie’s father was in his seventies. Sophie herself was nearly fifty. She’d always looked young for her age. So young, in fact, that in her early forties, people still referred to her as “perky.” No woman in her forties wanted to be called perky. Perhaps it was her short stature—just over five feet—or her short, strawberry blond hair—untouched by bleach or dye. Bram often called her his “sexy Peter Pan.” The sexy part was okay, but Peter Pan, à la Mary Martin, wasn’t exactly Sophie’s dream image. Even the fact that they knew who Mary Martin
was
dated them in a big way. They were getting old, no doubt about it. But there was still life in dem bones, and Sophie intended to prove it to her husband later tonight.

“You know,” said Sophie, looking around at the crowd in the bar, “this place isn’t exactly crawling with young faces.”

“Your point?”

“That the Rookery Club is a little stodgy.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that, too. Not that I’d include either of us in that stinging generalization. I mean,
I’m
not stodgy.”

“Certainly not.” And he wasn’t. Bram was a handsome older man with an urbane wit that had garnered him a huge following for his afternoon radio show. He was broadcast in eight markets around the country now—soon to be nine when St. Louis came on board in January.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie saw the short, squat Sheldon Larr, the club’s maître d’, approach. Sheldon walked with a slight limp, and had a thin David Niven mustache. In Sophie’s book, he was a character.

“Your table is ready,” said Sheldon softly, with a small, dignified bow. He was wearing a tuxedo, just as Bram and virtually every other man in the bar was, only Sheldon’s had a broad red band across the chest, like the king in a period movie. Sheldon also affected a British accent. That, combined with his very real Southern drawl, made him occasionally hard to understand. It didn’t matter, though. His intent was always obvious: he was there to serve—in his hyper-class-conscious Southern mind—the upper crust of Twin Cities society. When he wasn’t working, he fussed around the club, making sure everything was spit and polish. Dinner at the Rookery Club was always a formal affair. Perhaps that was another reason the members tended to be older. What twentysomething wanted to rent a tuxedo just to go out to eat?

On the other hand, Sophie and Bram liked dressing up and there were few opportunities to do so in Minnesota, the land of the terminally casual.

Sliding off the bar stool with as much grace as she could muster, Sophie straightened the neckline of her dress. “Sheldon, will you have the bartender bring my martini to the table?”

“Will do, madam,” he said before turning and limping out of the room.

On the way through the front foyer, Sophie excused herself, telling Bram she’d join him in a moment.

The women’s room was down the hall. As Sophie passed the lounge, she noticed that Anika Gladstone, the assistant food and beverage manager at the Maxfield, was sitting on a wing chair near the fireplace, just staring into space. The rest of the lounge was empty, except for a couple who faced the other direction on the other end of the room. Sophie wouldn’t have interrupted the younger woman’s reverie except that, as she passed the archway, Anika looked up and their eyes met.

“Anika, hi,” said Sophie, pausing under the archway.

The young woman stood, fidgeting with her shoulder bag, her gold necklace, and finally her hoop earrings. She was in her midthirties, a pretty blonde with light blue eyes and a deep tan, but in her current attire—a thin jacket and jeans—she obviously hadn’t stopped by for dinner.

“Sophie,” said Anika, her gaze bouncing around the room. She wasn’t the kind of woman to be rude, especially to her boss, but she clearly didn’t want to have a conversation right now.

“I’m here with Bram,” said Sophie, hoping to put Anika’s mind at ease. “We’re just about to eat.”

Anika’s smile was strained. “Oh. That’s nice.”

Not exactly her usual snappy patter. “Is something wrong?” asked Sophie.

“Wrong? What could be wrong?”

Several million things, thought Sophie, though she didn’t say it out loud. “Is Andy with you?” Andy was Anika’s husband. He also happened to be one of the senior editors at the
Times Register
—and the half brother of the owner and publisher, Bob Fabian. Bob was an old friend of Sophie’s. He’d hired Andy after his last job had gone bust, and then leaned on Sophie to give Anika a job. The couple had moved from Marquette, Michigan, to St. Paul so that Andy could take the job at the paper, but Anika hadn’t been able to find anything in her field. Since Sophie had just lost her assistant food and beverage manager, she was glad to do Bob a favor. She’d just hoped that Anika would work out. Thankfully, she had. Sophie could honestly say that, over the past year and a half, they’d become good friends.

“No, he’s not,” said Anika. “You haven’t seen him here tonight by any chance, have you?”

Sophie shook her head.

“I stopped by hoping to find him, but”—she shrugged—“no such luck.”

“If I run into him—”

“Don’t bother,” said Anika, not even trying to hide the disgust in her voice. “He’s got his cell phone with him, but he’s not answering. So what else is new, right?” She tried another smile, but her lips trembled. She looked on the verge of tears. Sitting back down, she said, “You know, Soph, I need to make a phone call. I’m sorry—”

“No, that’s fine,” said Sophie. “I’ll, ah . . . see you tomorrow?”

“Right,” said Anika.

On her way to the women’s room, Sophie couldn’t get the look on Anika’s face off her mind. She’d never heard her speak unfalteringly about her husband. That bit about the cell phone was a definite slam. Sophie had always thought of Andy and Anika Gladstone as the perfect couple. Attractive. Intelligent. Devoted. She’d heard some recent gossip at the paper that hinted at a growing tension between Bob and Andy. Sophie didn’t know what it was about, but maybe whatever it was had leaked over into Anika and Andy’s marriage. She hoped that wasn’t the case. Marriages were delicate organisms, easily damaged. If anybody knew
how
delicate, it was Sophie.

4

The call came in to the dispatcher at ten to nine.

“There’s been a murder,” said a hushed male voice. “Or an attempted murder. You’ve got to get paramedics to him right away. It’s possible he’s still alive.”

“Are you all right?” asked the 911 dispatcher.

“Me? No,
no.
This isn’t about me.”

“You’re not hurt?”

“
Listen
to me.”

She read the name on the screen in front of her, scrutinized the address, then started to assess the situation. “What’s your location?”

“Not
here
,” the man whispered. “The shooting happened on Shepard Road—near that new condo construction site. That’s all I can tell you. You’ve got to hurry!”

“What’s your name?”

“Fabian. Robert Fabian.”

“And you live at 9418 East River Road? Robert and Valerie Fabian?”

“Yes, but you’re not listening to me. You’ve got to get some help to this guy right away! It’s a matter of life and death.”

“An EMT is on the way, Mr. Fabian. Can you tell me how the shooting occurred?”

“What?”

“Do you know who did the shooting?”

“Well, ah . . . see . . . this isn’t easy.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“It was . . . he’s, like . . . see . . . like my brother—”

In the background, the dispatcher could hear another voice—an angry, demanding, male voice—but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. “Mr. Fabian? Are you still there?”

“Just calm down, okay?” said Fabian. There was a fumbling noise.

The dispatcher ordered two squad cars—lights and sirens—to the address.

The next time Robert Fabian spoke, his voice was muffled: “Put it down, okay? Come on. Don’t get crazy on me.”

The dispatcher continued to try to get him back on the line. “Mr. Fabian? Are you all right? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“I wasn’t doing that,” Fabian cried. “I swear . . . Just let me explain!”

The dispatcher could hear him talking, but she couldn’t make out his words. She assumed he’d moved farther away from the phone. “Mr. Fabian?” she kept calling. “Are you all right?”

A gunshot rang out.

“Mr. Fabian? Are you still there?” She waited. Five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. But all she heard on the other end of the line now was silence.