Final Masquerade (20 page)

"That would be very nice. Thanks for asking, but I can't."

"They have the worlds’ best roast beef sandwiches.” He put an enticement in his tone.

"Thanks, but there's something very important I have to do."

"That right?” His eyebrows made an upside down V. “It's right next door to a book store,” he lured again.

"I don't think so."

"Pablo's serves the best roast beef sandwiches."

"Roast beef at a place called Pablo's?"

"Yeah, but he calls them burritos."

"So, what's the name of the book store—Appliances R Us?"

"Something like that."

They shared a laugh.

"That's my cab,” Paige said. “Thanks for everything."

"Enjoy the city."

Before climbing into the waiting cab, Paige glanced around for red sweat-shirted women, albinos, yellow tractor-trailers, and wine aficionados, wondering where all of them were, if not stationed outside this airport in what must be the windiest city in the world.

A woman of considerable bulk wrestled herself from behind the wheel and opened the trunk. Seeing Paige's meager luggage, she slammed the trunk and threw open the rear passenger door. “Where y’ headed?"

Paige balanced her bags on the seat beside her. “Can you just drop me downtown?"

"No place in particular?"

"Downtown."

The cab shot off with a lurch, wrenching Paige's head backwards, an acute reminder of her injured ribs. Not that the ribs hurt much any more, but memories of that morning were still very vivid. She wondered if Chris had seen—and recognized—her face on television. No need to think about that. He was gone from her life for good.

She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand and busied herself looking at the Lakeland Avenue scenery. Paige's knowledge of Minneapolis was restricted to reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore Show at three in the morning when she couldn't sleep for wondering where Stefano was.

Stefano's job wasn't one that Paige could ask about, like a normal housewife.
'Hi, honey, how was your day?'

'Oh, the usual, I sent Carlo out to break the legs of a bar owner whose protection money was late. And I chaired a meeting to expand operations in Miami.’ Then he'd give a cackling laugh. ‘There's another don moving in on our territory.'

'That's nice, dear.'

Skyscrapers, paltry compared to New York City, lined the boulevard, their canopied entranceways jutted across the sidewalks like commas in a sentence, allowing pedestrians to pass with only a slight deviation in their path. The cab merged up the ramp onto I-394.

"How far do we have to go?"

"Few minutes. Where you from?"

"Tallahassee recently, Boston originally."

"I've been to Tallahassee. Haven't been to Boston. What's it like?"

Paige leaned forward, trying to see the top of the State Theater Building as she answered the cabby's question, “About the same as here, only older. They've kept the outside of the original buildings intact and redone the interiors. The city is actually quite modern these days, very chic, if you know what I mean."

The driver nodded, her close-cut curls unmoving. “What kinda business you do?"

"I'm a book dealer,” Paige blurted out, not knowing where the words came from.

"I don't read much."

She never would have guessed. The cab headed slowly along South 8th Street, caught in traffic.

"What's good to do around here?” Paige asked.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What you like to do, how much you got to do it with. There are amusement parks, zoos..."

"I don't have any kids,” Paige said.

"I guess there's museums and theaters but don't ask me where they are. The Mall of America ain't far from here. That's got ‘bout everything a person could want.” She wound the wheel to the right and slowed in front of a multi-story flat fronted building with a canvas arch over the doorway. “That'll be $18.15."

Paige riffled a few bills and passed them to the driver, who remained behind the wheel.

"Thanks. For the ride and the information."

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A gentleman sporting a Lincolnesque beard stood behind the hotel counter. He nodded as Paige approached. She noted that he wore no wedding ring and gave him her most winning smile.

"Good day. I'd like a room please.” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and giggled. “Of course I want a room. Why else would I be standing here?"

The concierge, whose nametag proclaimed him as Quentin, merely smiled.

"Quentin, what an unusual name. I love the sound of it. Do you have a quiet room? I'll be staying at least a week and I don't want to disturb anyone while I'm practicing my lines."

He put a thumb and forefinger to his chin and ran them down to the point of his beard. “You're an actress?"

"Yes,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Confidentially, we're here shooting a movie. We're not supposed to talk about it. All a big secret, for one reason or another."

"What kind of movie?"

"You mean you don't recognize me?” She assumed a pouting expression then giggled again.

He placed a clammy hand atop hers. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that I don't watch many movies. Seems like I'm always here. You know what I mean?” He smiled a smile that was reflected in his eyes. “So, are you allowed to talk about what kind of movies you make, or is that a secret too?"

"Of course not, silly. I've done six movies. Two romances and four horror."

"Horror movies? You?"

"You don't think I'm suited to horror movies?"

"Not at all."

"Well, that's why they pick me. They want someone the audience will believe as the downtrodden, the victim. You know what I mean, don't you?"

Paige turned as a man reached past her for his key. He didn't look familiar, thank goodness.

"I assume you want a single suite?” Quentin asked.

"Well, the studio is paying for it, naturally, but I wouldn't think to take advantage of their generosity, so one of your medium-ish suites would be fine. Like I said though, something where I won't be disturbing anyone if I practice a little scream once in a while."

"Oh, I don't know if we have anything
that
private."

Paige giggled again. “Silly, I was just kidding. I won't practice screaming, just lines. You know like this.” She flung the back of a hand to her forehead and sighed, “Fiddle dee dee, Rhett, you can't be serious ‘bout leavin’ me. The debutante ball is next week, and I can't possibly attend it by myself."

Quentin, rapt, started to lean his elbows on the counter, then thought better of it. He typed something into his computer. “I think I have just the room for you. How long did you say you'd be with me—us?"

"Oh, at least a week, probably closer to two or three.” Paige signed in as Angela Lawson, occupation actress, residence, New York City. “What's your last name, Quentin?"

"Roberts."

"Could you direct me toward the elevator?"

He pointed left.

"Well, Quentin Roberts, I certainly hope I see more of you during my stay in your lovely hotel."

"Ditto,” he said to her retreating back.

As the elevator sped to the fourth floor, Paige hoped she'd garnered a groupie in the clammy handed concierge. She needed someone she could depend on to relay important information. Information about people asking too many questions, people who might have recognized her face from television.

She tossed her fake glasses on the dresser and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands through the now ash-blonde hair wondering how the hell Stefano's men kept finding her. Changing herself as often as she did, sometimes she herself didn't recognize the stranger peering back from the glass.

Paige dropped onto the bed, head in her hands. What if she sent back his precious coin? Maybe he'd give up and go away.

No, it was too late for that now. For Stefano it would be a matter of pride. She heaved a sigh to rival the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Maybe she should have entered one of those witness relocation programs.

Paige laid back on the bed, arm across her eyes, shielding them from the harsh overhead light, too worn out to bother getting up to shut it off.

It was in this position she fell asleep.

She woke to the bright yellow light of the moon fixed right outside her window. It seemed almost close enough to reach out and touch. Traffic on LaSalle, below, was thready. The view of the city was fabulous. Glass skyscrapers in every size reflected the moon in a kaleidoscope similar to that of the mirrored room at the circus. Flashing neon signs and lighted billboards proclaimed the names of restaurants, stores, and theaters, all at her disposal.

"I think I'm going to like it here."

While she went to the bathroom and unpacked her few belongings, she turned on the television, hoping that news of the search for car thief, Elizabeth Yates, hadn't leaked all the way to Minneapolis. By now they should have found Burt's car at K.C. International and, with any luck, called off the search for the domestic abuser.

Paige wondered if Quentin was still on duty, and whether she should don a new disguise in order to venture out on the town. She sighed. The subterfuges she'd used in the beginning had been a necessity, something to aid in her escape. Now, the masquerades weighed heavily inside her.

She smiled, thinking she just might use her real name, Paige Carmichael, the next time she registered somewhere. That would be the last thing they'd expect.

She arranged her books, all two of them, on a small shelf over the sofa, and organized her quilting supplies on the small oblong table, then stood back and looked over her meager belongings, so different from Santa Barbara where every convenience was at hand, or asked for. A sudden thought made Paige shudder. She gathered up the quilt and the books and repacked them in their bags.

The thought of another possible escape sent her into a fit of tears and self-pity. She pounded her fists into her pillows with as much force as she'd pummeled Burt when he attempted to kidnap her.

Later, her anger and sadness spent into the feather pillows, Paige stepped outside wearing her same paisley jacket and beret. Quentin hadn't been at his post as she passed so the question of disguises became moot.

The taste of winter was in the air in early November. Wood smoke, pine boughs, and a hint of cinnamon blew across her path on alternating breezes, the sound of an occasional siren and the ever present smell of automobile exhaust the only things to disturb the aura. She walked, head down, hand flashing to her head when the worst gusts of wind threatened to steal her hat.

New clothes and a large suitcase—just in case—were on her shopping agenda. She wrapped her jacket tighter around her as she hurried to the end of South 8th Street and turned right onto the bustling Hennepin Avenue searching for a public telephone.

One hand holding the blustering yellow pages, she ran the other index finger up, then down the listings—five pages of them—and tore them all out of the book, all the while cursing the elimination of closed-in phone booths. She folded the pages and slipped them inside her purse.

She sat on her bed, legs folded underneath her with a pencil in her right hand and a handful of Fritos in the left. Paige had never had to hire a lawyer for anything. Her parents always had a family lawyer on retainer, and Stefano's organization had several attorneys in their employ. She wondered the best way to go about finding the right one. Her problem wasn't unique in its basis, but she would have considerable explaining to do at some point.

She pointed a finger at a large box yellow page ad, read it, then wrinkled her nose. Occasionally, she'd make a note on the paper in her lap, then go back to the ads. Finally, Paige lifted the phone and dialed for an outside line.

"Hello, I'd like to make an appointment to see Attorney Leahy, please,” she said.

A raspy male voice replied in a combination of Midwestern and the slightest twinge of Harvard accents, “May I have your name please?"

"Lawson, that's L-A-W-S-O-N, first name Angela."

A moment's hesitation from the person on the other end. A vision of the voice's owner flashed before her, tall, anorexically thin with a long narrow face and severely protruding cheek bones, no chin, a black pencil-thin mustache, and receding hair line, all atop an ill-fitting off-the-rack polyester suit. Oh yes, and wing-tip shoes.

"Ms. Lawson. I don't find your name on our client list."

"I've just arrived in your beautiful city and find myself in need of some legal advice. Actually, if truth be known, I am interviewing attorneys. You see I need just the right sort of representation for my, er, problem."

"Well, the initial consultation is free. I have an opening tomorrow at 3:30. Would that be suitable?"

"Yes."

While the man gave directions to the office, Paige held a wad of half-chewed Fritos in her cheek.

The building was decorated in Industrial Chic, all grays, plate glass and sharp corners. The billboard/menu in the lobby listed the conglomeration of attorneys and firms as if it were a menu. Beside each entree was a description of the meals they served—criminal, divorce, tax, and a multitude of personal injury advocates.

The waiting room was not as she'd pictured. Even though diplomas littered the walls and chairs were placed conveniently beside tables laden with out-of-date magazines, the overall effect was effeminate and chintzy. Probably decorated by the guy she talked to on the telephone.

The side door opened. A lawyerly looking man entered carrying an armload of manila folders. His compact body exactly fitted his pinstriped suit and polished wing tips. He dropped the folders on the already overloaded desk, then turned his attention to her.

"Good afternoon. Ms. Lawson, I presume?"

She recognized the raspy accented voice from yesterday's telephone conversation. This leather-faced individual was not the lawyer after all.

"In the flesh.” She returned his toothy smile. The telephone jarred the uneasy silence. “I am Thad. If you'd care to wait a moment, Attorney Leahy will be with you directly,” he rasped as he lifted the receiver. The call was short, merely requiring an equally short note to be made on a pad that Thad dug from underneath the pile to his left, then returned the pad to the top of the stack.