Stunner (27 page)

People crowd around us as I apologize to Bobby and the owner. I pull out my wallet as Bobby, swearing at me, stands up and says, “Don’t I know you from somewhere—” His feet go out from under him because of the slippery jams and preserves covering the pavement. I couldn’t have accomplished the takedown better with my own two hands.

Bobby lands hard on his tailbone and lets out another string of obscenities. He tries unsuccessfully to get up and go after Juliana. But any view of her is blocked by the crowd around us, and I’m confident that she’s gotten away.

I once again spot the knife in his waistband and yell, “Knife! Knife!” Panic breaks out, and people scatter. I yell to the policeman, “Officer, help! He’s got a knife!”

The minute Bobby Taylor hears me yell for the police, he’s out of there. Gone. Nowhere to be seen. I hear a motorcycle start up and screech on by. I see Bobby Taylor speed out of the village in the opposite direction from the bookstore, where I hope Juliana is waiting for me.

After giving the upset jam seller what I consider to be a fair amount of money, I walk to the bookstore. Inside, I wave at Juliana to come with me to the young girl by the register, “Two cups, please,” and I pay her. Juliana and I fix ourselves tea at a self-serve counter.

We sit down. She’s pale; her hands still shake as she holds the cup. She’s hyperventilating slightly. “Calm down, Juliana. Take some deep breaths. Drink the tea,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better.” She says nothing and sips the hot Earl Grey.

Then I barely hear her say in a quiet voice, “Thank you, Ronnie, for helping me back there.”

“Juliana,” I begin, “why is this creep still in your life? After so many years?” I have a fantasy that she’ll ’fess up and tell me the entire story—the Teresa-years all the way up to now.

No such luck. She stares at her steaming mug. “Who is
Tía
Connie?” I ask. Nothing.

I pull out my phone and find a photograph of
Tía
Connie and place it right in front of Juliana, next to her mug. She looks at it and lashes out at me. “What is it with you, nosing around in other people’s lives? How often have you followed me? I could go to the police and file a harassment complaint against you—”

“Somehow,” I interrupt and take back my phone, “I don’t think you’ll do that, go to the police, that is.” I click onto a shot of Francesca at the small market in Scranton and hold the phone right up to her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me about Francesca.”

Juliana gets a hard, cold look on her face and swats the phone aside. Her face is now in my space, too close to me, her voice low and controlled. “Ronnie, do not insert yourself into something you know nothing about. Especially when it concerns the safety of a child.” She slams her fists onto the table and gets up. Is Juliana behaving like a lioness protecting her cub?

As she leaves, I call out, “If you’re in some kind of trouble, I could help you. I’m not your enemy, Juliana.”

“Hah!!” The door of the bookstore slams behind her.

My bags sit unpacked at the Malibu Palm Hotel in a room that opens directly on the beach. Walking onto the warm sand to recline in a chaise under a striped umbrella, I gaze at a quiet ocean with small waves spilling over the sand. If I’m going to investigate Juliana Wentworth’s life in California, then I’m going to make the most of it while I’m out here.

I put my ear buds in and turn on my iPod. There it comes—that distinctive Don Felder guitar open. Whenever I play this song, it’s just as magical as when I first heard it more than thirty-five years ago.

I know it’s trite, but I’ve always wanted to listen to the Eagles hit, “Hotel California,” on a beautiful West Coast beach. Looking up from the chaise, I stare at an unbelievably clear blue sky. I stretch from my fingertips down to my toes while taking in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly. Aaah. Feels good. I settle back and listen to the rest of the song…until one of the last verses makes me pause.

Hah! Am I not a prisoner of my own device (to loosely quote the song lyrics)? Pushing and pushing Frank, until he finally had enough and banned me from Meadow Farm and my family? Whoa, Ronnie, stop thinking like this. Not the time to go there.

I turn down the volume and study the cover of the book in my hands, the same one I saw on Juliana’s nightstand at Meadow Farm—
The Tender Bar
by J. R. Moehringer. The author writes about growing up at a neighborhood bar and his climb through the social classes. This is a big part of my prep before visiting Café Casablanca tonight to try to meet the man with the mysterious name of Dragomir. He gave Juliana her copy of this book and even inscribed it, pronouncing her as his
most gifted student.

Ah, yes, Dragomir, the famous maître d’ of Café Casablanca, where the
elite meet
, as I learned in my research while flying to the Coast. Not just Hollywood elite, but old-guard L.A., encompassing the pinnacle of the city’s social, political, artistic, and financial worlds.

Café Casablanca is where Juliana worked for three years while she finished a bachelor’s degree and then began a graduate program in art history. The café provided a different sort of education, where she was able to polish her people skills under the tutelage of Dragomir and also take the final step in her evolution from Teresa/Terry/Julie with one more name-change, to Juliana. Finally, the restaurant also provided the perfect opportunity for Juliana to meet her future husband, successful investor Carleton Todd Wentworth, an original backer and regular at the café.

~~~~~

The valet hands me a ticket as I step out of my rental car. Before walking through the massive, arched, double doors of the imposing Café Casablanca, I take in the Spanish tile roof; decorative wrought-iron; arched windows; and stucco walls of its Mediterranean façade. I know from my in-flight homework that Wallace Neff, architect to a number of Hollywood stars during the first half of the twentieth century, originally designed this restored Beverly Hills mansion.

Entering, I stare at the vaulted ceiling, which is fifty-feet high and truly grand. A distinguished gentleman in a dark suit interrupts my scrutiny of this classic California architecture and greets me. “Mrs. Lake, we are so happy you have come to Café Casablanca.” His brilliant smile is almost blinding. How does he know exactly who I am? But then he must have a great many skills that aren’t easily deciphered.

He shakes my hand and executes a quick bow with his head. “I am Dragomir, and Ms. Dugan is at her table,” the maître d’ continues in heavily accented English. Is the inflection Bulgarian or is it some Hollywood-fantasy Slavic intonation?

“Thank you, Dragomir. I’ve looked forward to my visit. You and the Café are legendary.” We walk past the bar and into the dining room, its décor reflecting an exclusive ambiance, like that of an Old Hollywood private club.

As I discreetly glance at the tables along the way filled with photogenic patrons, I’m relieved my hair got a good blow-dry at the hotel salon and that I guessed right in choosing an outfit for this place. My sleek white pants break at silver sandals, and a slinky, long-sleeved, scoop-necked top with shimmery silver and white stripes finishes off my low-keyed dinner look with a touch of sexiness. At least in terms of my appearance, I feel like a Café Casablanca regular.

I follow Dragomir toward a table at the other end of the dining room where I can see Drea Dugan looking over a menu. She’s a girlfriend with whom I shared an office at the beginning of our careers in the TV business. Twenty-plus years ago, Drea moved to Los Angeles and became hugely successful in distribution. Since then, she’s made boatloads of money and remains a confirmed workaholic.

Drea spots me and stands up at her corner booth with a view of the entire dining room. “Hi, baby!” She beams and embraces me in an earth-mother hug. It’s as if no time at all has passed, and we pick up from where we left off during the last occasion we saw each other, several years before.

We play catch-up over a splendid supper. First, I enjoy a grilled artichoke, and second—I decide to go Hollywood—a black truffle omelet with caviar. While I savor every heavenly bite, I tell Drea the entire story of my investigation into Juliana and how I’m trying to fill in the last few pieces of her life that will take me up to her marrying Carleton Wentworth.

“Ronnie, I remember her,” Drea says. “Long, dark hair. Seriously beautiful, kind of like Angelina Jolie. She was Drago’s star—he adored her. And then she went off and married that investor guy. There was quite a buzz when it happened.”

“How so?” I ask.

“That she really had stepped up in the world. You know, from restaurant hostess to a big life in Bel Air. After they married, they were here for a while and then moved to San Francisco fulltime, and I didn’t hear much about her anymore from Drago.”

“Drea, it’s that inscription in the book from Dragomir that makes me certain he could tell me a lot.” I sip my wine. “How do I get him to talk to me, when he’s known to be the epitome of discretion, and we’ve just met for the first time?”

“First, I already told him what a great lady you are and how far back we go. So in his eyes, you’re no longer a stranger.” Drea’s dark eyes twinkle with mischief. “Sweetie, this is the plan. We’re going to close down the restaurant, which will be easy, since we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“The highlight of being here is seeing you,” I say, adding, “definitely not my amateur detective work.” We clink glasses.

Drea continues. “Next, we’ll time it perfectly as we walk out and stop by the bar, as if we’ve just decided spur of the moment to finish our night with a Sambuca.” She swings back her hair and breaks into a deep, throaty laugh.

“Sounds great,” I say. “Then what?”

“I’ll invite Drago to have a drink with us,” Drea says. “He and I always finish the evening with a nightcap if everyone has left. You leave the rest to me, sweetie.”

“Drea, look over toward the right, fourth table down. That guy keeps staring at you. Do you know him?” I ask. “He looks familiar. Maybe New York?”

“Oh my god,” she says under her breath. “Do you remember back when we were at MTV?” I nod. “He was at HBO, and on a flight to L.A., I definitely had sex with him…”

~~~~~

It’s three hours, one dinner, and two Sambucas later, and Drea, Dragomir, and I are sitting at the bar ordering a third round as the staff resets the tables for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. It turns out that because she dines at the Café Casablanca three to four times a week, Drea and the maître d’ have become big buddies. It’s almost as if Dragomir is Drea’s older brother, and the affection is mutual.

Her phone rings, and she checks the incoming text. Then she hops up and gives me yet another warm hug. “Doll, I need to go. You stay here and finish your drink with Drago.” Drea turns to him. “Take care of my friend, Drago, and please put everything on my tab!”

I start to protest, but she stops me. “Shhh. Not another word. Ronnie, it’s so great to see you!” She hugs me again and departs with a final, “Love ya!”

I lift my glass. “A toast to Drea Dugan, the best friend a girl could have!”

Dragomir clinks my glass. “To great lady.” Is it my imagination, or is his mysterious accent sounding a little less pronounced that when I first arrived? “My dear Mrs. Lake, would you like something else from menu? This is time of evening when I eat light supper.”

“No, thank you,” I answer, “but you go ahead.” He signals the bartender. I continue, “Dragomir, we may have another friend in common.” He looks at me with curiosity. “She’s a close friend of my brother’s and happens to be back East right now. I believe she worked for you.”

“Yes?” A look sweeps over his face as if he already knows.

“Juliana Wentworth,” I say. “She and my brother Frank Rutherfurd are very close. I dare say she may even become part of our family before long.”

His eyes reflect happiness at this announcement. “Dear Juliana. I was very sad when Carleton died two years ago. She was so, so brokenhearted. This news about your brother is wonderful. I’m happy for my sweet Juliana.”

I wish I could say I’m as happy as he seems to be. “My brother has also been widowed and grief stricken.” I play with, instead of drink, my third glass of Sambuca, as I mostly did with the first two shots. I need to keep my head clear, not to mention that I’ll also be driving back to the hotel. “I met her when Frank recently brought her home to meet us in New Jersey. He lights up around her. Dragomir, he’s like a new man.”

My new friend smiles. “Yes, yes. That sounds like my wonderful Juliana.”

The bartender brings Drago an omelet and an order of toast with coffee. Displaying impeccable Continental table manners, he picks up the knife with his right hand, the fork with his left and begins to eat. “She worked here before she married Carleton. As you know, Juliana is so spectacularly beautiful, and she has such a special way with people, that of course I put her out front in restaurant.”

I smile as if in total agreement with him, and really, I don’t disagree. “She definitely has the gift of making you feel you’re the only person in the room,” I say. “She must have been wonderful with your patrons.”

“I haven’t hired anyone since who brought same magic to Café Casablanca.” Drago switches from Sambuca to his cup of coffee, and he drinks. “I thought she marry one of A-list Hollywood types who are regulars. Several pursued her.” He looks at me to see the effect of his words.

I simply smile. “Most young women would have had their heads turned with all that attention.” I keep the tone of my voice kind, not gossipy.

“Not Juliana,” Drago declares. “She had eye on education. Getting degree.” He lays his fork and knife across the top of his plate to indicate he’s finished eating.

“Look what I have!” I feign spontaneity as I dig inside my bag. “Juliana had this book, and it looked so interesting, that I also picked up a copy.” I pull out
The Tender Bar
and flip through the pages. “Frankly, I can’t put it down.”

Dragomir laughs—a hearty laugh. “You want to know more about your maybe-sister-in-law?” I nod enthusiastically. “I pick you up at ten in morning at your hotel, and I give you tour of Juliana’s life when she worked for me.”