Wednesday
On the way home from Zach’s, my Camry chirped. Now that I have the latest Bluetooth technology, my cell rings through the radio and I can answer it hands-free. It even tells me who’s calling. I was expecting a call from Susan, but my car said caller ID had been withheld.
I pressed “Answer.”
A woman’s voice said, “Hello. Is this Ellie Foreman?”
I knew that voice. “This is she.”
“This is Charlotte Hollander.”
It’s a good thing the call was hands-free. Had I been holding the phone, I would have dropped it on the floor of the car. “Uh—really? What can I do for you?”
She cleared her throat. “I was wondering whether we could meet—for a drink.”
“You? And me? Together?”
“I live in Lake Forest, and I know you’re up that way as well.”
Of course she lived in Lake Forest. It’s the most affluent village on the North Shore.
“Why don’t we meet at the Happ Inn, say, at five? It’s right on my way home.”
“I—guess that would be okay. But why—”
She cut me off with a crisp good-bye. “I’ll see you there.”
I pressed “End Call,” my stomach knotting in shock. What did she want? To hammer the final nail in my coffin?
The Happ Inn is the latest incarnation of a space in Northfield that’s gone through so many rebirths over the past twenty years that even Buddha would approve. Now owned by the chef of an upscale restaurant in Highwood, it’s a trendy bistro, with enough menu variety to please six-year-olds as well as sixtyish gourmands. Previous versions of the place had been decorated by each owner, but this rendering suited the affluent suburb in which it sat: polished oak booths and tables, private rooms for parties, and pieces of wall art that made puns using the word “Happ.” There was even a flat-screen TV, just to remind everyone it was a “HAPPening” place.
I put on a pair of slacks with a silk shirt and applied my makeup carefully. I walked in an appropriate five minutes late and looked for Hollander. She wasn’t at the bar, but the hostess came up to me and asked if I was waiting for Ms. Hollander.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I’ll take you to her.” She led the way across the dining room to a private room, which was small and cozy, with brocaded sofas, chairs, and a polished wood coffee table, more like a living room than a restaurant. Hollander was the room’s only occupant, and she sat on a sofa, sipping what I thought was a scotch and soda and talking on her cell. She swiveled toward me and motioned me over to the sofa. I sat in the chair next to her. She finished up her conversation with a “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.” Then she smiled.
This had to be the first time I’d ever seen her smile, and it altered her entire face. Her brow smoothed out, and she suddenly looked softer, even appealing.
“Thank you for coming, Ellie. Especially on such short notice. What are you drinking?”
I debated whether to order scotch too, then thought, To hell with it. I’m a wine drinker. “Chardonnay. With ice on the side.”
“And I’ll take another as well,” Hollander said.
The hostess, who’d been hovering, said she’d be back.
“I know you’re wondering why I wanted to meet.”
“You might say that.” I eyed her. She was wearing a soft beige suit that looked like a St. John. It was more feminine and delicate than I’d expected.
“I want to explain.” She paused dramatically and finished her scotch. “And apologize for my behavior on Monday.”
I inclined my head. Was this the same woman who’d humiliated me in front of Delcroft’s top execs? What was I supposed to say? I had no idea, so I said nothing. The hostess brought my wine and another scotch for her.
She didn’t seem bothered by my lack of a response. “So first, the explanation.” She leaned toward me. “What I’m going to say is top secret. And highly confidential. I know David did a background check on you, so I’m relying on your discretion.”
“Of course.” I slipped an ice cube into my wineglass and took a sip. She pretended not to notice.
“I know you set up a meeting with Gregory Parks yesterday. I also know it never happened. And I know why.”
I stiffened. “If you knew, why didn’t you—”
“We’ll get to that.” She picked up her glass and swirled the contents. The ice cubes tinkled.
“I’m sure your motives were legitimate.” She gave a dismissive wave. “And probably had something to do with me. But”—she set the glass down firmly on the table—“you’ve managed to end up in the middle of something rather nasty.”
I took another sip of wine.
She went on. “I’m sure you noticed the Asian cast to our late friend, Mr. Parks.”
I nodded, thinking of Keanu Reeves.
“Gregory Parks was a spy for the Chinese government.”