Stunner (19 page)

Driving by Temple Square in the heart of downtown Salt Lake City, I stare up at a nineteenth-century, multi-spired structure, the largest of all the Mormon temples and the overall hub of this religion. Interesting that Palmer chose this Mormon city as his next business base, but Salt Lake does have a strong work force and an established technology sector. I continue through the bustling center of town with its many office towers and malls.

Once in the eastern foothills of the city, I pass the University of Utah and drive into a nearby tech park. This is where John Palmer has his offices for not only his original Utah start-up, but also a successful parallel investment business. A New York friend tried to arrange a hard-to-get appointment with Palmer under the pretext of my wanting to invest family money in one of his funds, but as it turns out, he has no time in his schedule to see me. Still, at least I know he’s here.

I park in a slot a short distance from the main building and open Will Benson’s file on John Palmer. I place a recent photograph of Palmer on the dashboard in order to identify him when he comes out. I’m willing to wait.

Clicking through the stations and stopping on Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” I discover Salt Lake has great classic rock radio. I unwrap a sandwich purchased at the airport, eat, and wait.

~~~~~

A car door slamming nearby startles me. Oh my god, I fell asleep during surveillance, every P.I. newbie’s nightmare. I glance quickly over at the door of the building leading to Palmer’s office and then at my phone. It’s almost five o’clock, and I have no way of knowing whether or not he’s still inside. Did he leave during my unplanned nap? Man, oh, man—I blew it.

I spend the next three hours bored to tears, not sure if this is a total waste of time. People leave for the day, and finally I give up and start my engine.

Then the door to the building swings open again, and this time a familiar-looking man strolls out to a well-lit walkway. Familiar from the photograph, which I grab to compare. I’m certain it’s Palmer. He may be successful, but he’s still a nerd. In his case, a nice-looking, well-dressed nerd.

When he gets into his top-of-the-line Mercedes SUV, I decide he also looks like a prosperous nerd. He drives out of the tech park, and I follow him at some distance.

With two cars between us, I watch him scoot through a yellow light while I have to stop for the red. I worry I’ll lose him as he gets further and further away. Doesn’t this light ever change?

Finally it does, and the guy ahead of me takes his own sweet time to move. I see Palmer make a right turn two blocks up. Is he heading for the residential area high above the university? Darting past the slowpoke, I cut in front to make that same right turn.

I catch up, still keeping space between us, as he drives higher and higher into the foothills. I begin to think we’ll run out of streets—there aren’t many houses up this high—when he stops at a driveway. I see him enter a code on a keypad. A gate opens, and he drives on through. I watch the gate quickly slam shut while I glide by. Now what do I do?

I drive higher into the foothills, pull up to a cul-de-sac with no homes, then stop and turn off my lights. I’m able to look down over the road that ascends from Palmer’s gate and winds up a hill to a lit-up, architecturally bold glass-and-concrete house that floats almost like a space station in the evening sky. The views up there must be amazing.

Not sure what to do next, I look out at the Salt Lake Valley, a grid-pattern illuminated by a vast swath of twinkling lights stretching south. I consider my choices. Option one, I can call it a day and drive down to my hotel, though I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.

Option two, I can take my small flashlight, get out of the car and try to surreptitiously hike up to Palmer’s house and check things out. I flip on the flashlight and look down at my shoes—sneakers when I fly and good for walking, so OK, the footwear is appropriate.

I turn off the light and envision myself carefully hiking through the scrub brush in the dark, trying not to step in holes and fall, probably twisting an ankle. I can just hear Isabella
Sensei
and Will nixing this idea.

Say I get up there, what do I exactly hope to accomplish as Ms. Peeping Tom? Tiptoe around the house and spy on John Palmer? I wonder if he has guard dogs… Or walk up to one of those walls of windows, knock, and expect him to invite me in when I propose discussing his former runaway bride over a cocktail? More likely, he’d hit the panic button, and the police would cart me off before I could get away.

Option three, sit here and do nothing.

So I decide on option three.

Twenty minutes later, John Palmer creates option number four. His headlights wind down the road from his house, stop momentarily as the gate opens up, and continue descending the foothills. I start my engine, and not wanting to attract attention from those living below, don’t flick on the headlights until my car is further down the road where there are more houses. Once again, I tail his car.

This isn’t the kind of hip watering hole I expect to find in Salt Lake City, but that shows how much I don’t know about this town. The bar is situated in a nineteenth-century bank building that is now a
très chic
hotel. I walk into the dimly lit area surrounding the old bank vault where people sit in intimate scattered groupings of plush chairs.

Reading a newspaper, John Palmer perches on a stool at the bar, and I spot an empty stool right next to him. Man, am I lucky tonight or what?

With my big leather tote bag banging into his shoulder, I slide onto the available seat. “Yikes. Sorry, didn’t mean to hit you,” I apologize.

“No problem.” He picks up his beer, takes a drink, and returns to his paper.

I open the huge tote, rummage around, take out a
Wall Street Journal
and put it on the countertop in front of me.

The bartender comes over, and I gesture toward Palmer’s beer. “I’ll have one of those, but make it a lite.”

“Menu?”

“Sure,” I answer, and he hands me one. I peruse it and then sneak a sideways glance to see that Palmer’s still reading his paper. I dive into my
Journal
and mark up a tech financial article. We’re both quiet and very focused on our newspapers.

Finally, Palmer folds his paper and puts it aside. I ask him, “Are you finished with that?”

“Sure.” He pushes it over.

“Thank you.” I take the paper. “I’m prepping for a meeting that probably isn’t going to happen, but
The Financial Times
will help me get prepared even more, just in case.”

He looks at me curiously. “Getting ready for a job interview?”

“Oh, nooo,” I laugh. “My sell-by date in the job market was probably a few years ago.” Palmer laughs, too. Finally.

I go on. “A friend of mine back East has been trying to set up a meeting for me with a big tech investor out here. He opens up his venture funds every now and then to new investors. So far, she hasn’t been able to get the appointment, but I decided to go for it and fly in anyway.”

“So you’re an investor?” Palmer asks, as the bartender serves him a penne pasta dish. “Thanks.”

“That smells good,” I say to the bartender. “I’ll have one of those, too.” Palmer isn’t sure if he should start eating his pasta, and hesitates. “You better dig in while it’s hot,” I urge and see a look of appreciation—then he goes ahead.

I open
The Financial Times
. “Anyway, I guess this big-shot investor is totally booked up, but my friend keeps trying.”

Palmer puts down his fork and reaches for a piece of bread. “What do you figure your odds are of getting the meeting—”

“Slim to none!” I burst out laughing, and he does, too.

“So, who’s the big-shot investor?” Palmer takes a swig of his beer.

“Some guy named Palmer. Guess he’s pretty reclusive—” I stick out my hand, smiling innocently. “By the way, I’m Ronnie Lake.”

We shake hands. He doesn’t say anything, but has an amused look on his face.

“Hmmm. A mystery man?” I ask.

“It’s good to meet you, Ronnie. I’m…” He pauses. “John…” Another pause. “Palmer.” His eyes twinkle.

“Nooooo…” I cover my face with my hands and feign horror at my faux pas. “Open mouth, insert foot…” Still, I’m feeling rather smug about my
faux faux pas
. Do I not have a future as a con artist?

“It’s OK. Don’t worry about it.” He takes a bite of penne pasta and signals the bartender for another beer.

“You got it, John,” the bartender says.

“So, you come here often.” I gesture toward the bartender. “They seem to know you.” Palmer nods yes. “But you live in Salt Lake,” I say. “You could eat at home.”

“Cook is off tonight—” He stops himself. “That sounds pretty spoiled, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, my daughter says the same thing to me when I complain the cook is off.” We both laugh.

“I like the company and the place. Friendly, but not nosy,” he says. “People leave me alone.” He quickly corrects himself. “I don’t mean someone like you who doesn’t know who I am when—well, you get my drift.”

“That’s a relief.” I root around in my huge, clumsy bag and casually take out a diary, then a phone, and finally my recently purchased copy of the same book about chess that I saw on Juliana’s nightstand in her bedroom at Meadow Farm. The same book that
JP
, or probably this John Palmer, had given her many years ago during the dot-com era. I do this rooting-around thing as if I can’t find what I’m looking for in the depths of my bag.

Out the corner of my eye, I see the chess book has the intended effect. John Palmer has stopped eating and drinking. He is transfixed by the book.

I look at him and then down at the book, and in a casual tone, ask, “Oh, you play?”

“Yes, I do,” he says. “You, too?”

“I’m trying. Again.” I pick up the book. “My big brother wanted to teach me when we were kids. My husband also tried but finally gave up.” I’ve made a split-second decision to leave out the
ex
that precedes
husband
in my case. I figure a woman talking about her husband is less likely to be perceived as a cougar-on-the-make. “John, I’ve heard this one is pretty good.” I flip through the first pages of the book and then hand it to him.

“It’s excellent.” He stares at the cover, smiles and opens to the title page. “The last time I saw this book, I gave it to someone as a gift.”

“You have a kid sister you were trying to teach?” I prod.

“No—”

“Oh, your wife,” I interrupt.

“Not married, but at the time I thought I was—getting married, I mean.” He furrows his brow. “Long time ago—guess it’s been about fifteen years, give or take.”

“What happened?” I blurt out, and then quickly cover my mouth. “Sorry. I’m just so fascinated by people’s stories. My big brother would call it being nosy.”

“I’d probably agree with your brother.” He shakes his head, and I’m positive I’ve blown it again. You know, prodded too much. But then he surprises me and chortles. “Did you ever see that movie
Runaway Bride
?” he asks, and I nod yes. “Well, there you have it. I thought I was getting married to the woman I gave this book to, but it turned out she was a runaway bride.”

When the bartender serves me my pasta, I take a sip of my beer and pick up my fork. “John.”

“Yes, Ronnie?”

“It’s been, say, fifteen years since she left you, and I would hope your heart has mended in the meantime.” He nods. Then I add with a gleam in my eye, “You also seem like a very nice man, Mr. Palmer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lake.” He laughs.

“John, I promise I’m a wonderful listener, and this sounds like a most interesting story.” I fold up the newspaper and tuck it in my bag. “I’m going to forget about prepping for this investment meeting with you that’s never going to happen anyway.” His eyes convey surprise, and I go on. “Much rather hear all about your runaway bride.”

Palmer tries to change the subject, pauses, and then shrugs. He starts out slowly, a little clumsily and hesitantly at first, but then he hits his stride. As I eat my pasta, John tells me the story of Terry/Teresa without using any names. He refers to himself as a geeky kid fifteen years earlier, but I can see by the way he now warmly recounts the past that he outgrew geeky long ago.

He describes with amazement and fondness the dot-com era and his own humble beginnings as a techie who hit it big. He also describes the club, again without naming it, where he met this curious, dark-haired girl who wanted to learn how to play chess. He remembers how their easy rapport grew into a strong connection and that she brought him out of his shell.

“What I really enjoyed was how she wanted to learn about everything. She was like me—her interest in everything was enormous.” Palmer pauses, and I see a flicker of sadness cross his face. “We were both too young.” He flips through the book again. “Anyway, I gave her this book to use as a reference when she learned to play.”

“John, what happened next?” I drink my beer.

“Does there have to be any
next
?” he responds. “She’s a lovely memory.”

“Hello. You can’t expect me to jump from chess student to runaway bride in this intriguing story.” I realize I’m being a little too pushy, so I beam a huge smile at him.

“OK, OK. Let’s see,” Palmer says. “Education was a big deal for her. She told me early on that she’d dropped out of school, and then she got her GED while she was working in Florida. I know she felt self-conscious about not having a college degree, even though no one around the club knew or cared.”

The bartender clears our plates and offers dessert menus, which we both refuse.

“May I have a skinny decaf cappuccino?” I ask. The bartender nods yes. I look at Palmer to see if he’d like one, too.

He jumps in. “Don, we’ll each have one of those, please.” The bartender leaves to get our coffees.

“Well, that’s admirable, that this young woman wanted a college education,” I say. “Wonder if she ever got her degree?”

“I’m sure she did, because I helped her.”

“You did what?” I ask, astounded.