The Piper

TWENTY




The North Shore Brasserie was in an upscale shopping strip off South Northshore Drive. The sign beneath the green awning promised Belgian/French cuisine, and announced a Sunday Brunch, from ten until two. McTavish guided Olivia through the double doors.

The floors were dark hardwood, polished to a shine. A chalk board of features was propped on an easel in front of the bar, which was on the right, quietly elegant, with high wood tables, a granite top, two big screen TVs, and a head spinning assortment of interesting bottles and Belgian beer on tap. A hostess led them to the dining room on the left, settling them at a table/booth combination, comfortably tucked in the far corner of the room.

In Europe, a brasserie meant a working man’s price, but Olivia knew it would be just the opposite in the USA. She and Hugh had eaten at countless restaurants like this, but the last two years of financial pressure made Olivia dread opening the menu, even though McTavish was paying and seemed comfortable in his wallet.

McTavish reached across the table, touching her hand. ‘You okay?’ There was a range of dress in the restaurant, jeans to Ralph Lauren, and McTavish looked good in the starched white shirt and black sweater.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Uh oh. I’m fine. A southern girl’s code for anything from I really am happy to f*ck you, bud.’

Olivia smiled.

‘I like your perfume,’ McTavish said.

‘Thank you.’

‘And your dress.’

Olivia nodded. The dress was an oldie but a favorite. The classic black sheath.

‘Do you still turn your nose up at white wine – shall I go ahead and order a red? Or they have some good Belgian beer, if you’d rather.’

‘Red wine sounds good.’

He frowned over the wine list. ‘South African Shiraz or Spanish Rioja?’

‘Shiraz.’

‘Thank God. I love a woman who actually has opinions.’

‘Then you ought to love me a lot.’

‘I do,’ he said, smiling.

‘Stop,’ she told him. Without a smile. ‘Remember this is not a date.’

‘The duck is good,’ McTavish said, always good at disengaging from a fight.

Olivia read the description. Duck Confit Salado, crispy with lavender honey glaze, mixed greens, roasted baby beets, toasted hazelnuts. Danish blu cheese, raspberry vinaigrette. ‘Is that what you’re having?’

‘Hard to decide. I think I’ll go for the Guinness Braised Lamb. You?’

‘The pork.’ Two words that did not do justice to Pork Tenderloin, Flemish style with hard cider and apple soufflé, glazed haricots verts, sauce charcutière.

‘Want to start with the frog legs?’ McTavish asked, eyes full of smile.

‘Hell, no.’

‘Soup?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Brie? With warm fruit compote, toasted walnuts, and macerated strawberries?’

‘I have no idea what a macerated strawberry is, but it sounds violent.’

‘Let’s order it and find out.’

The waiter was a foodie and he liked to talk, but he was as amusing as he was competent, and Olivia began to relax over Brie and wine.

‘This is a wonderful place,’ Olivia said. She felt good here. She liked the black and white photographs of Knoxville, the window into the kitchen, the striped upholstery on the chairs. Even French/Belgian restaurants were friendly in Tennessee.

‘If I order you something chocolate for dessert, can we finally put our eleven year standoff to rest?’

‘So that’s your ulterior motive. How disappointing.’

He put a hand on her knee under the table. ‘Let’s say I have two ulterior motives tonight.’

‘Multitasking? Unusual for a man.’

‘I’m a high achiever.’ He leaned close, across the table. ‘How about an official apology?’

‘Just let it go, McTavish.’

‘No, now, let’s settle it once and for all.’ He put a hand over his heart. ‘I’m sorry, Olivia. Sorry I let Annabelle McClintock come between us when you very correctly pointed out I was turning into an egotistical pig.’

Olivia shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, you were the quarterback. The whole city was worshipping at your feet.’

‘Everybody but you. It was like being a mythical god, until I blew out my knee. And then the only one who stood beside me who didn’t give a damn whether or not I played football was you.’

‘I’m a gem. And still, you let Annabelle get between us a second time, even after she had dumped you on your ass. Once I can forgive, but never twice. Particularly because she wants whatever I have, and she always has. She gets it too.’

‘Give me a break, Livie, she did tell me she thought she was pregnant. I thought there was a child involved.’

‘And if I recall, I did tell you it was probably a lie.’

‘You were right. I admit it. But when I tried to sort it out with you, you drop kicked my butt to the curb.’

‘No second chances, dude.’ She gave him a cool smile. ‘Honestly, McTavish, I’m just messing with you. I don’t think about it anymore. I married Hugh, I have a daughter, and I’ve lived in about a million places. This is all old stuff.’

‘Then what is it, Livie? I know you’ve got something on your mind.’

But she waved him off and he let it go, the way men always did, reluctant to delve into troubled waters without a push. It was Olivia’s dithering over the chocolate pot de crème that made McTavish take her hand across the table and frown.

‘I knew it. Turn down chocolate? It’s that autopsy report I gave you on your brother, isn’t it? Is that what’s worrying you? I told my mother about it – she says hello by the way, and wants me to bring you and Teddy by for dinner sometime. She ripped me a new one, and told me I should have spared you.’

‘I asked you for it.’

‘Yeah. And my thinking has always been that what you imagine is worse than what you know. It wasn’t a pretty way to go, I grant you, but it’s over now. Chris is at peace.’

‘I’m glad you gave me the report. I really did want to know the details.’

McTavish leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re sure? You’re not just handing me the old southern bullshit just to make me feel better?’

It occurred to Olivia that sometimes McTavish sounded exactly like Hugh. ‘I know Chris is at peace because he told me he was.’

McTavish cocked his head to one side, with the air of a homicide cop who was used to listening and letting out the rope for people who were ready to talk. ‘Don’t stop there. Because since Chris is dead, I was just wondering . . .’

‘Seriously. He did. But something else came up that bothers me. I wasn’t going to tell anybody about this, just Amelia knows—’

‘Your buddy in LA?’

‘The PA, yeah, that’s right. But if I do tell you about it, you have to keep it between us,’ Olivia said, in a low whisper, looking over one shoulder.

McTavish grinned.

‘Never mind.’ Olivia folded her arms. ‘When you grin like that it makes me feel stupid for bringing it up.’

McTavish was out of his chair, scooting close to her on the cushioned bench on her side of the table. ‘Sorry. Guys are a*sholes, you know that – it’s why you need girlfriends. So just tell me what’s on your mind, and spare me the agony of asking you what’s wrong another eighty-seven times. I know that’s the southern way, but it’s godawful agony.’

Olivia rubbed her chin. McTavish was pragmatic and skeptical. Let him tell her she had nothing to worry about. It was exactly what she wanted to hear.

So she told him everything. The detailed version of the phone call from Chris. Her suspicions about TORN & IN LOVE. The worry about the Mister Man. As soon as Olivia touched on Emily’s disappearance, McTavish bent close and took her hand. He had always understood about Emily. The waiter filled their wine glasses and left them alone.

McTavish was frowning when Olivia finished what she had to say. He was quiet, which was not like him.

‘So am I nuts?’ Olivia asked. She tried for a light tone, but that only made her sound nervous. Olivia twisted the heavy cotton napkin in her fingers. She watched McTavish. He looked like a man who wanted to light a cigarette, except she knew he didn’t smoke. ‘McTavish?’

‘Give me a minute to think.’ He turned to get the waiter’s attention, ordered coffee with cognac for both of them, not asking if she wanted any or not. Olivia tried not to think about the bill.

Finally, McTavish put a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, I don’t think it sounds crazy. Just the opposite. It creeps me out, if you want to know the truth.’

‘Not exactly reassuring.’ Olivia gave a little laugh, but her stomach was tight and cold. There was still time here for a save if McTavish said the right things. He could reassure her and she would sleep better at night.

‘I heard about something along this line a couple of years ago. A friend of mine was involved – a cop, down in Nashville. I can tell you the story, if you want to hear.’

‘Does the story have a happy ending?’ Olivia asked.

‘No.’

The waiter came with coffee – it had depth without bitterness and an almost butter soft taste. Olivia, stalling, asked the waiter about it, smiling vacuously while he explained that each cup was made individually, with a press. McTavish said nothing. He seemed a long way away.

‘So tell me about this cop friend,’ Olivia finally said, cradling the coffee cup in her hands.

McTavish laced his hands over his stomach. ‘So the guy who told me, Ramsey, I’ve known him five, maybe six years. We met at a training thing out of Memphis, stayed in touch over some murders for hire that spilled across the state. He’s got his feet on the ground, methodical, smart. Doesn’t take any crap, but isn’t going to beat you over the head with his ego, either. No drama with this guy, nothing to prove. Just matter of fact, by the book, normal. Wife, kids, dog, loves the job, but it doesn’t eat him alive. Kind of a poster boy for the balanced cop. OK?’

‘Sure. In other words, he’s not a nut.’

‘Right. So he inherits this case – cop buddy of his out of Houston asks him to keep an eye on a vic, a woman – I’m going to call her Mary, okay? Not her real name. So this Mary was twenty-eight, worked in IT for an oil company in Houston, had a kickass job, nice life, and one big problem. Mary had a stalker who wasn’t going to let go. Guy was seriously dangerous, and she had trouble, off and on, for, I don’t know, maybe three, four years. She filed the reports, got the restraining orders, worked with Houston PD, did the drill. But this guy’s a nightmare and he just doesn’t quit.

‘Long story short, he steps up the pace, escalates, and Houston PD actually catches him in her apartment with a rape kit and a pretty sharp cleaving knife, if I’ve got the details right. But she has a gun, legal, registered, Daddy taught her to shoot. She wounds the guy, police pick him up. Goes to trial, son of a bitch gets put away. Should have been the end of it.’

‘But it wasn’t,’ Olivia said, wondering what something like this could possibly have to do with phone calls from the dead.

‘Guy started calling her from jail.’

‘From jail? How did he do that? Don’t they monitor those calls?’

‘Honey, these days every con has a cell phone tucked under the mattress. They’re contraband, but so is most everything else that goes on in jail. So he’s calling her from a mobile, keeps tracking her down, until she decides to change her name, get the hell out of Texas, and make a fresh start. That’s where Ramsey came in.

‘She lands a job in Nashville, buys a loft in a converted warehouse downtown, starts to breathe again, you know? So she’s fine for a few months, thinks she’s home free. She’s up and down in the building elevator several times a day, and the elevator has this emergency phone built into the wall and one night, she’s coming home late from work, and the elevator’s emergency phone rings. Mary picks up the phone, thinking what the hell, and it’s him. She knows his voice by now, and anyway, he always says the same thing – hello there, little darlin’.

‘Naturally, she freaks. Makes a police report which lands on Ramsey’s desk. He doesn’t really believe her, thinks all the years of being stalked kind of put her around the bend. He checks in with Houston PD, but the detective who worked her case said no way, she’s solid, so Ramsey checks, and sure enough the call is documented and shows up as coming in on the same cell number that the stalker used before. So Ramsey gets in touch with the prison warden, but come to find out, the stalker is dead. Some feud with another con, they worked together in the laundry room, I don’t know the details, but he was beaten to death, found him with his head stuck in a dryer. And he’d been dead for something like three months.’

‘And no one else had the phone?’

‘Buried somewhere in a warehouse of police evidence. Houston couldn’t track it down.’

‘So what happened? Did he keep calling her?’

McTavish downed the last of his coffee. ‘A couple of months after Ramsey told Mary this guy was dead, she either jumps or falls out of the bedroom window in her loft. He thinks it was a suicide. Happened in January, it was cold out, no good reason to have the window open.’

‘Did he check the phone records on the elevator phone?’

McTavish nodded. ‘Best he could tell, three more calls came in from the old cell number. Of course, as Ramsey says, it couldn’t have really been the stalker, because the guy was dead. And this girl, let’s face it, being stalked like that can do your head in.’

‘So how does he explain it, the phone calls she got?’

‘He doesn’t. Can’t make sense of it, which is why he told me about it one night at a bar when we were drinking sixteen year old Scotch.’

‘Uplifting story,’ Olivia said, raising a glass.

‘My thinking is this, Livie – so hear me out. Mary would have been better off just going on with her life and not picking up that elevator phone. She didn’t have to pick it up, right? Now you, you got this call from your brother. He gives you a vague warning you can’t make any sense of, and you’re turning yourself inside out trying to figure out what to do. My advice is don’t mess with this supernatural stuff. I’m not saying it didn’t happen exactly like you say. I’m just saying it makes good sense to leave it be.’

‘Hey,’ Olivia said. ‘I’ll leave it alone, if it leaves me alone.’

‘There you go. Tell your buddy in LA to stop stirring things up. Feel good about your brother reaching out, if you really think it was him, if it gives you peace of heart. But stop researching this stuff and looking over your shoulder. Live your life in the here and now.’