Stunner (21 page)

A buzz of lively conversation circles the table, but I sit quietly, distracted by my thoughts, and gaze at the spectacular rolling New Jersey vista beyond the eighteenth hole. I consider how fast things appear to be moving between my brother and his girlfriend and how I need to know more about Juliana Wentworth’s life leading up to her years in California. Maybe that’s the only way I’ll get to the bottom of whether or not she’s up to something bad, and therefore bad for Frank.

I discreetly study the two of them, hoping they won’t notice me catching the silent looks they give each other. It’s as if they have their own unspoken language. And when he or she thinks the other one isn’t looking, their adoring glances for each other aren’t even subtle.

Frank looks so happy that I would hate to do anything to spoil it. Still, better for him to know the truth now, before the two decide to marry. But what truth am I likely to find?

“
O’Sensei
is quoted as saying, ‘To injure an opponent is to injure yourself. To control aggression without inflicting injury is the Art of Peace
.’
“ Basically, Isabella Romano is reminding the class that when we practice Aikido, we don’t try to actually harm each other.

Anyway, a moment ago, two of the men in our class at the dojo became overly aggressive, too in-your-face with each other. What is it with the male ego? Will and another larger classmate had to separate them. This type of thing is a rare occurrence, and we’re all taken aback by the incident.

Isabella continues. “
O’Sensei
also said, `The purpose of training is to tighten up the slack, toughen the body, and polish the spirit.’” All of us sit in
seiza
, or the basic kneeling posture we use throughout class to show respect for the practice and our teachers. “Let’s finish with back stretches.”

I rise and quickly move to Lizzie, who’s smaller than most of our classmates, but tough. She can definitely hold her own on the mat with guys who tower over her. We stand spine to spine and hook arms. I lower my body and fold Lizzie over my back so she gets a terrific stretch. Then she does the reverse, folding me over hers, so that my spine feels as if it elongates by three inches.

Isabella
Sensei
claps to end our class, and we bow out, again sitting in
seiza
. As we thank all our partners on the mat, Will signals for us to meet outside.

Waiting between our cars, Will pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket when I approach. “Here.” He hands me the paper with a phone number written on it. “Give this guy a call. His name’s Jack Crosby, and he’s the retired NYPD detective who worked for ten years at John Palmer’s company in the city. These days he lives in Maplewood and does occasional freelance work, mostly around New Jersey.”

He catches me gawking, and laughs. “What?”

“It’s only been a couple of days, Will, since I asked you to check on this. How’d you find him so fast? I mean, did you miraculously get your hands on an old directory at Palmer’s company?” I know I’ve got a lot to learn, but some tricks of the trade leave me wondering.

“Got a guy who does some work for me here and there.” He opens his car door. “I’ve helped him out, and he owed me one.”

“What kind of work does he do for you, Will?” I wave the piece of paper, not sure I really want to know the answer.

“Oh, computers, tech, you know…” He throws a duffel bag into the back seat of his car. “…Database entry, human resources files…” He gives me a hard look, almost daring me to challenge him on this. “…And so on.”

“Will, are you breaking the—”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, Ronnie.” He gets in the car and starts the engine.

“But, Will—”

“Call him, Ronnie,” Will says as he pulls away. “See what you can find out.” He drives off.

~~~~~

When I contact Jack Crosby, I use a phone purchased an hour earlier and give him the name Reba Long instead of my real name, just in case he’s in touch with his old boss, John Palmer. I offer him my usual song and dance, how I’m trying to find someone, someone who’s connected to our family. I tell him her name is Terry Jones, and that I believe she used to work at Palmer’s company. Crosby says he’ll check his old files.

We meet in front of his office in Maplewood. Rather than sit inside, we decide to stroll along the charming village streets toward Maplewood Park and do a walk and talk.

Crosby still has a lot of pep left in him. “I started working for Palmer’s company twenty-plus years ago. I wasn’t even sixty when I left the NYPD, but a back injury made it tough to stay active on the job.”

That means the silver-haired former detective must now be in his late seventies, but he moves as if he’s twenty years younger, even with his bad back.

“I took an early retirement,” he continues, “and the opportunity at CyTech came along. Worked there for ten years and accumulated some company stock. When Palmer sold the firm, I cashed in and retired out here to be close to my daughter and my grandchildren.”

We enter the lovely park and walk along its paths through lush foliage. “Maplewood has such a quaint village center, and this park is beautiful,” I comment.

Jack Crosby interrupts my chatter. “Now, Ms. Long, you didn’t drive over for a nice walk in the park. What would you like to know about Terry Jones?”

“Ah, where to start, Mr. Cros—may I call you Jack?” He nods yes to me, and I smile at him. “And please, call me Reba.”

“Boy, I’d never have pegged you for a Reba,” he says.

“Nickname. I’m really Rebecca, but I never liked it.” He looks at me curiously, and I change the topic fast. “We’ve been out of touch for quite a long time. I’m reaching out to family members for a reunion though, and finding Terry has been nearly impossible. So now I’m casting a wider net.”

We walk across a small bridge over a stream.

“I know Terry worked at Club Nucleus about fifteen years ago, and she was a good friend of John Palmer’s—”

Crosby nods. “I remember seeing her a few times around the office with Palmer. She was a sweet kid.” His eyes stare off into the distance.

“Look, I know she was personally involved with Mr. Palmer and played a lot of chess with him around that time. I’d like get in touch with her, but the trail goes cold after her Club Nucleus days,” I say. “I heard she went off to school somewhere, and I’m hoping you have information that could point me in the right direction.”

Crosby, I mean, Jack smiles. “Terry wasn’t much younger than Palmer. But she had something mysterious in her background, some dark secret that haunted her and that she tried to keep from John.”

“Did you discover what it was?” I ask, hopeful.

“No, and whatever it was, I think it popped up in her life again when she was with Palmer. I think that’s what caused her to run away. The boss waited too long hoping she’d come back on her own before he asked me to find her. At that point, I tried, but with no success. If he’d asked me immediately, you know, when she first took off, I’d have had a better shot. But then it was simply too late. The trail was cold.”

We sit on a bench under a gigantic sugar maple tree. “Did you find out anything? Where she went to school? How she earned a living? Anything, that could help me find her now?”

Jack pulls some papers out of his jacket pocket and unfolds what looks like a computer printout of a report. “I archived some of my old files from CyTech, including this one. The request was such an interesting one from the boss, especially since she wasn’t an employee of the company.” He thumbs through the several pages and hands them to me. “Here, for you.”

I look down at the papers and see the name of the community college where she received an associate’s degree. I’m thrilled. “What more can you tell me about the time she spent at school? What did she study? How were her grades?”

“A lot of questions to track her down for a reunion…” He studies me.

“Just friendly curiosity, Jack.” I smile sweetly. “Whatever you can tell me would be great.”

Maybe he doesn’t care what my reasons are. “Well, she worked nights and took classes during the day,” he says, “knocking off general ed courses to get her degree. I talked to a couple of the profs from that time who remembered her, and they said this girl had a thirst for knowledge and self-improvement like nobody else. Her grades were pretty good, too.” He coughs and takes a package of mints from his pocket.

“What kinds of courses?” I ask.

“Intro to business, history, literature, writing,” Jack answers. “She even joined a chess club. Chess was what started her friendship with Mr. Palmer. He liked her curiosity, and he told me she picked up the game really fast.”

“So Terry Jones kept up with her chess…” I ponder this.

“That’s right.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how she had time between a full load of classes, homework, and her job almost every night of the week.”

“Where’d she work?” I ask. “What did she do?”

“She worked as a shot girl at Benny’s Bar in Soho.” Jack sees the surprise on my face. “Ah, ha, Mrs. Long. I mean Reba.” He notices my confusion, which is more about momentarily forgetting my new alias, and he smiles. “I see you don’t frequent the New York bar scene.”

I’m still somewhat baffled. “You’ve got that right. Is it legal? Being a shot girl, I mean?” I don’t know what it is, but it sounds dicey. Hold it. Am I showing my age? But this guy’s in his seventies. Why is it that I’m quite a bit younger than he is, and I don’t know anything about shot girls?

He laughs as if he knows what I’m thinking. “I wouldn’t know about them either, but my work takes me to all sorts of places.”

“What do they do? These shot girls, I mean.” I raise my eyebrows. “God, it sounds like a real comedown for poor Terry. You know, going from member services at Club Nucleus to working as a shot girl—”

“Actually,” he interrupts. “It’s not. Nowadays you’ll find a lot of press about these shot girls. Most of them are college educated. A lot of them even have advanced degrees. Many shot girls also hold day jobs.”

“The money must be great.”

“Absolutely,” Jack says. “They can take home three- to six-hundred dollars a night.”

Wow. “You’re kidding.” I figure he must be joking, or maybe the girls do more than waitress. “They honestly get paid that much just for serving drinks?” I ask.

“Trust me,” he says. “These girls aren’t hookers. They walk through the bar carrying trays of novelty drinks, like Jell-O shots. Sometimes they get a cut of what they sell, and the tips are usually pretty good. Of course, good looks, a great figure, and terrific personality are the reason these girls get hired in the first place.”

I shake my head in continuing amazement. “Well, in that case, Terry must have been the perfect candidate.” I stop. “Wait a minute. They had shot girls fifteen years ago?”

He’s still kind of grinning at my naiveté. “Benny’s Bar was one of the first, and the girls there made their money from the tips and didn’t get a cut of what they sold. I’m not sure they even called them shot girls when the concept first hit.” Jack flips to the second page of the report. “One thing that was interesting is that Terry changed her name.”

I mentally utter a second WOW. “She what?”

“Well, she still used the name Terry Jones at school, on her transcript,” Jack says. “But at work she went by Julie Jones.”

Now I take a deep breath at this flash of sudden illumination. “Julie Jones.” So Teresa Gonzalez morphed into Terry Jones, who became Julie Jones. I wonder where down the road she made the final switch from Julie Jones to Juliana Jones before she married and became Juliana Wentworth. “It sounds as if she was putting distance between her Club Nucleus days and being a shot girl.”

“That I don’t know.” He gets up from the bench. “Well, we should go now. I don’t mean to rush you, but I have a phone appointment at the office in fifteen minutes.”

On the way back, I ask, “Do you know of anybody I should call to follow up?”

Jack smiles again. “At the bottom of that report are some phone numbers for you. One of them is the owner of the bar where she worked,” he says. “When he and I talked, Terry, a.k.a Julie, had already split. Nobody knew anything about where she’d gone. Then Palmer pulled me off this to work on something else. Maybe she got in touch with Palmer later on. Who knows? Why not give Palmer himself a call?” Already done that, I think to myself, in person, in Salt Lake City.

We return to the center of town near his office. I thank Jack Crosby for his time and say goodbye. As I walk toward my car, I switch back to my regular cell phone, dial and leave a message for my pal. “Will, how would you like to go with me this evening to a bar in New York?” I pause. “Not a date, not that you thought so, anyway. Work related. Bye.”

Standing on a side street in Soho, Will Benson and I take in the black-lacquered front of the building and read the gold raised words above the large front window—Benny’s Bar & Grill. We look inside, and I gaze at a world long gone for me, thank god—the New York singles bar scene. It’s early evening, only six p.m., but people, some as young as my daughters, are starting to fill up the place.

We walk in and sit at a small table in the corner where we can view the entire room. I ask for a chardonnay and Will an imported beer, and we also order a light supper.

Even though Will may be forty, he could easily pass for a decade younger, so he fits right in. I look around and am painfully aware that I’m probably the oldest person in Benny’s Bar. If anyone notices Will and me, like the waiter, for example, well, he probably thinks I’m a cougar out with my…what? My cub?

I look at the name tag and ask our waiter, Tom, if we can buy the owner a drink should he have a moment. Since it’s early, I’m hoping Benny Sullivan won’t be too swamped yet, managing what promises to turn into a raucous watering hole as the evening progresses. The waiter leaves and speaks with a man at the bar, who looks at us and then back down at his paperwork.

“That’s got to be Benny,” Will says, stating the obvious.

“Is he blowing us off, or do you think he’ll come over?” I ask.