Stunner (4 page)

Car time is also good thinking time, and now that Frank is home, I have a lot to consider. Having seen firsthand how over the moon my brother is for Juliana Wentworth, I feel uneasy. I guess Laura’s concern is contagious.

Driving into the nearby village this morning, I reassess my several meager clues. Hang-up phone calls from Scranton. A white box with a dead pigeon on a bed of withered flowers covered in rotten eggs, also from Scranton. Laura’s photo showing a scrap of paper with the names
Teresa & Frankie
hanging from the dead pigeon’s beak. Numerous Scranton phone numbers on Juliana’s cell. Her pad with the initials
BT
scratched out. Finally, Juliana’s
you’ll-ruin-everything
cell call.

Before I hire an investigator to look into this, as Laura suggested, I’ve decided to see what I can find out on my own. After all, how hard can playing detective and snooping around a little be?

If Frank knew I was thinking along these lines, he would accuse me of overreacting, of being a way-too-interfering sister. And he would tell me to get a life. OK, maybe I do have too much time on my hands, freeing me to go on what is probably a wild goose chase.

What about a real job? Had one. For a long time. A year ago I was downsized from my corporate position and fancy title (both of which I loved) at a national cable network in Jersey City. The idea to leave wasn’t mine, but theirs, due to the bad economy. And because I don’t have money issues, I’ve been in no rush to find a new full-time occupation. But I do think it’s time for a fresh chapter in my life.

What about a husband? Had one of those, too. Was married for almost thirty years until the lawyers finalized our divorce six months ago. The split didn’t bring out the best in either of us.

As for kids—they grew up too fast. I have to admit the empty nest has been the hardest adjustment of all. Yep, the empty nest was the one that threw me for a loop, especially when it became emptier than I’d expected.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my life just fine, even if at times I wonder if I’ve hit my sell-by date…you know, the moment at which dreams and life’s exciting moments are mostly behind you. Still, I have plenty of worthwhile and pleasurable ways to fill my time until I figure out what comes next. And one of my enjoyments is road trips with my four-legged buddy, Warrior.

I make a split-second decision that will cause a slight delay, pulling over at the village café to buy coffees for the household at Meadow Farm. I’ve decided to drop by for a friendly visit and start the process of getting to know Juliana a little better. Then I’ll head off to Lambertville to look at antiques.

I turn onto the dirt road into Meadow Farm and drive along slowly. Since I have the top down, I don’t want to kick up too much dust; but I also take my time because of the pleasant feeling of familiarity when I come down this road. I no longer live here, yet I still feel very rooted to this place.

Even though Meadow Farm became Frank and Joanie’s house close to thirty years ago, Joanie always had an open-door, drop-in-anytime policy toward the extended family. This remained the center of our multiple generations as our children grew up. How fortunate we were to have Joanie, who was such an inclusive and lovely in-law. All of us miss her terribly. I can’t even imagine Frank’s heartbreak and sadness since her death.

As my convertible creeps along so that I can get a good look at a cluster of lambs in their pasture, I notice a black Porsche coming my way. It’s my brother with Juliana as his passenger. I stop and wave. Then I hold up the cardboard carrier with the coffee cups.

He pulls over and leans out the window. “Hey, Sis! Breakfast at the Country Store?” Warrior woofs, and all of us laugh.

I hop out. “Mornin’ Frank, Juliana! Sounds great.” I hand them their coffees. “I’ll follow you. Back roads or highway?”

“Highway,” Frank answers. “It’s quicker. Have to be at the lawyer’s right after.” He looks at Juliana with a twinkle in his eye. I look back and forth at the two of them, wondering why Frank is in a rush to get to his lawyer’s office and why Juliana is going with him.

I take one more glance at Juliana, who only has eyes for my brother. There it is again. Her Mona Lisa smile, just for Frank.

~~~~~

Fewer than ten minutes later, we’re on the highway. I give Frank lots of space, at least ten car lengths. It’s late morning, and the traffic is light. Next to me, Warrior sits up straight in the passenger seat, harnessed in by his seat belt, staring out the window at the scenery.

The highways give the impression of vastness out here, because this area is mostly rural. I gaze at the farmland as we drive by, and suddenly a metallic blue van that took the on-ramp where we did moments ago races by in the left-hand lane. I catch a flash of a dark-haired guy behind the wheel. My speedometer reads sixty-five miles per hour, so he must be doing at least eighty.

The second he clears my car, he pulls hard to the right and veers into my lane with no blinker to warn me. His action is so swift, two of his wheels leave the pavement. Whoa! Is he going to tip over? I brake hard and let out a few choice words. He flips me the bird out his window. Who is this yo-yo? Warrior, now focused on the van, lets out a low growl.

Then the driver puts his pedal to the metal and the van speeds up, quickly closing the space behind my brother’s Porsche. Everything seems to shift into slow motion as I watch this guy slam into the back of Frank’s car and hear the loud crashing noise. Warrior barks.

I clench my steering wheel and tap the brake to stay a safe distance behind, horrified as I watch my brother’s car fishtail from the impact. Frank struggles to regain control of the Porsche and slow down, which he does successfully. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. Frank’s OK.

But blue-van doesn’t go away. Instead, he does the same thing again, smashing this time into the left back corner of Frank’s car, and Warrior barks even more. My brother’s Porsche goes into a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation. Fortunately, no other vehicles are near him, or the spin would be disastrous.

I can see Frank’s face through the windshield, fiercely concentrating as he swings around and fights yet again to regain control. I also glimpse a terrified Juliana frantically turning in every direction to see if someone is still coming at them. Deeply shocked by the entire incident, I watch Frank pull out of the spin and then drive on.

This second smash can mean only one thing. Blue-van is crashing into my brother on purpose and not because the driver is drunk or high on drugs. His actions must be pure road rage. But I also wonder if this is the same van Laura thought was following her to my house the other day.

I note that the Porsche’s rear is now scratched and dented and includes a broken left tail light. I call 911 and ask for help, trying to explain what’s happening and where we are.

Why is the guy still on Frank’s tail? Why won’t he drive away from them? I watch the van pull up alongside the Porsche and quickly swerve to the right, this time crashing into the side of the car and producing a violent crunching sound. I scream into the phone as Frank’s car skids to the side, sliding over the shoulder of the highway and down an embankment where I lose sight of it. The van finally speeds off. Warrior barks loudly and nonstop.

“They’ve crashed.” I pull over and yell to the 911 operator, “Come now!” I’m breathless. “Warrior, stay.” My barking dog obeys my command, even though he wants to go with me.

Leaving the car engine running, the phone still connected, and a noisy Warrior strapped in, I jump out, slam the door closed, and spot the car upright fifteen feet down in a gully. Thank god, it doesn’t look as if it rolled, even though my brother’s beautiful black Porsche is now a mass of scrapes and dents. I then feel intense relief as Frank unfolds his long-limbed frame from the driver’s side and steps out of the car.

I scramble down the incline into the large ditch and get to the vehicle just as Frank runs around the front of the car to help Juliana out. They’re both shaky and grasp each other in a desperate embrace.

“Frank, Juliana, are you OK? Any injuries?” I ask, my voice trembling. “I called 911, and the police should be here any second.” They say nothing, and Frank squeezes Juliana’s shoulders. She looks rigid, tense, her jaw clenched.

I walk away to give them some privacy. I wonder how far the van has gotten. He might not be going very fast right now. I look up at my dog, who watches my every move and begins to settle down. “I could maybe try to catch up with him, get a license, phone it in,” I shout to Frank.

“Are you nuts? He’s dangerous,” my brother calls out to me. “Let the police handle it. Ronnie, stay with us. You’re a witness, and the officer will want to talk to you.”

I come back to where the two of them are standing. “I couldn’t see the driver when he passed me, before he slammed into you. I do know he had dark hair.” My voice cracks. “Oh my god, I’ve never actually witnessed road rage.” Juliana’s eyes flick toward me for a brief moment and then away, but I don’t miss her total fear.

Frank looks up at the embankment. “It’s a miracle, Jules, that the Porsche didn’t flip, considering the angle of our slide.” He still has his arm protectively around Juliana, and she shudders and stares directly at the ground. He glances at me. “Ronnie, it’s an even bigger miracle that Jules and I walked away with no injuries.”

“Did either of you get a look at the driver?” I ask. “Did you recognize who he might—”

“Frank, Ronnie, please excuse me,” Juliana interrupts. She turns to my brother. “You’re right. We’re so lucky, my dear…” She kisses him on the cheek. “…but my nerves are shot.” She rushes up the bank and walks around near the highway’s shoulder. Frank and I watch. Warrior does, too, and then looks back at me.

“Jules is understandably pretty shook up. We’re both shook up.” Frank uses his fingers to massage the bridge of his nose.

“Did you see the driver of the van?” I ask again, my hands still shaking. The realization that they could have been killed is sinking in. I’ve already lost one brother more or less. I couldn’t bear losing the other. “Did you see anything, Frank?”

“No. I was totally focused on maintaining control of the car.” Frank shakes his head. “It all happened so fast, Ronnie. We don’t know who it was.”

Maybe you don
‘
t, Frank, I muse to myself, but I wonder if Juliana has any ideas. I hug my brother.

“Come to think of it,” my brother adds, “I did see something, a flash of white with a blue banner on the top on the license plate. You know, Sis, it could have been a Pennsylvania plate. I’ll let the officer know when he gets here.”

I look up the embankment and see Juliana staring at us. Her brow is furrowed, and she looks away.

~~~~~

I stew. I stew while I give the police officer my report. I stew while I wait for the ambulance crew to check out Frank and Juliana to make sure they’re OK. I stew while I drive them to Meadow Farm. In the car, everybody is quiet. I drop them off, go home, and stew some more.

I call Isabella Romano, not only my
sensei
, or teacher, but also my friend, and give her the rundown on what happened this morning. “I need to look into this…figure out who this road-rage creep is,” I say.

“That’s for the police to investigate,” Isabella cautions.

“I wonder if they’ll find out who the guy is,” I grumble. “Maybe having the police handle it isn’t enough. Aren’t the cops all overworked? I want to do something myself to help.”

“Give the police a chance,” she advises. “If after a while, you still feel that way, you can always hire someone privately.”

“Funny, that’s what my niece suggested.” But honestly, I think if you want something done, you do it yourself. Am I wrong?

“You know Will Benson in the noon class?” Isabella asks.

“You mean the tall, gorgeous, new guy, who started a couple of months ago?” I ask. “He’s pretty good.” His Aikido does impress me. “What is he? Thirty-five? Maybe forty?”

“Forty, I’m pretty sure. He came out from the New York dojo,” she says. “Are you aware he’s a private investigator?”

“I heard that. Yeah. So?” Hire someone? Really?

“Hold it. Don’t yeah, so, me, Ronnie. I know you,” Isabella says. “You like to be in charge, and you’re probably thinking you can do this yourself, but you have zero experience as an investigator.” Her tone is stern. “You could mess it up and get in the way of the police. Plus, the road-rage guy sounds lethal, out of control.” She pauses and adds, “What you could do is hire Will to look into things.”

“Food for thought, Isabella,” I say. “At the very least, if I hired him, I’d have an excuse to stare at him more. He’s certainly a Triple-A hunk!” We laugh and sign off.

Fewer than twenty-four hours later, I’m still processing that my brother was almost killed because of road rage. My heart pounds at the thought of how close I came to losing Frank. I get into my car and take three long, deep breaths. It helps.

Random? Hardly. Too many coincidences have cropped up in the last several days since the mystifying Juliana arrived at Meadow Farm. I mull over the scene with Juliana and Frank immediately after the accident. Whether her nerves were really shot, who knows? Juliana is so guarded that I can’t get a read on her.

My nervous fingers have a difficult time punching one of the hang-up-call addresses into the GPS, and I have to try several times before it comes up correctly. OK. Calm down.

Looking at Warrior, who’s already harnessed in safely, I reach over and rub his sweet, velvety head. I then study a notebook with my list of clues. I add
beat-up blue metallic van with PA plates?
as
#7
, right after
#1 Scranton/Moosic hang-up calls #2 dead bird in box from Scranton; #3 Teresa & Frankie,
the names on the scrap of paper in the bird’s beak;
#4
Scranton numbers on Juliana’s cell
; #5
the initials
BT
scratched out on her phone pad; and
#6
Juliana’s
you’ll-ruin-everything call
. OK. Time to go.

Warrior and I take off for Pennsylvania to see if we can learn anything more about the beautiful Juliana Wentworth via these phone numbers. I turn on the music. Oh, did I also mention that besides road trips with Warrior, I love classic rock, mostly from the 1970s and ’80s. I turn up the volume on Blondie as my dog and I drive west, channeling some Deborah Harry attitude while I sing along with “Heart of Glass” at the top of my lungs.