Definitely not a reporter, or else he would have mentioned it when I brought up the magazine. Eleanor-Rigby Donovan, journalist. I must have come on strong. I can’t imagine why I felt the need to impress him in the first place. Unless . . . forget it. Was he in town to visit his mother? He did mention her. But that still doesn’t tell me what he does for a living. Why bother trying to unravel the mystery? Well . . . what if we crossed paths again in the lobby, and I just nailed him with the right guess? He’d be speechless! Okay. Interesting thought. But why bother trying to leave him speechless? Well . . . what if it was because I wanted to?
No harm in that, after all.
The Johns Hopkins public relations guy gave me loads of info for the article and let me take some pictures of the campus. The lighting was so striking that I decided to head into town to take some more. Best to move ahead with the assignment, since it was the entire justification for the trip.
I had butterflies in my stomach as I returned to the hotel. I realized I didn’t know how I would recognize my contact at Sailor’s Hideaway later that night. This, of course, assumed the rendezvous was real, and not just part of a sprawling scavenger hunt or enormous hoax that I’d willingly bought into.
Did the poison-pen really drag me all the way here just so I could see that photo of my mother, proving the validity of his allegations? If that were the case, why set such a specific time to meet? Why go so far as to set up a rendezvous—just so a single photo would be right in front of my face? Wouldn’t sending a copy have been easier? Although I did have to admit, discovering it the way I did had definitely intensified the dramatic effect.
I was getting sick and tired of rehashing the same questions again, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in my head that kept reminding me just how frightened I was. I decided to make my way to Sailor’s Hideaway a bit earlier than necessary, hoping to get a lead on whoever would step through that door to meet me.
I walked in and asked for a table for two.
“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked. I always found it amusing when they asked that question in a half-empty restaurant.
“No . . . not that I know of,” I replied warily.
“Name?”
“Eleanor-Rigby.”
“Well, what do you know? Looks like we do have you in here.” Her words made my blood run cold. “Right this way, please.”
The hostess led me to the very same table beneath the photo. As we approached, I decided to improvise. I asked for a different table, pointing to one with a clear view of the door. For once, I would be one step ahead, thwarting the plans of the puppeteer who had pulled all the strings for quite some time. Now, all I had to do was wait for my poison-pen to walk in and sit down at the table originally assigned to me and then, well . . . from that point, I had no idea. I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
I got settled at the table and ordered a Pimm’s. After all, you can take the girl out of England . . . A couple walked in at approximately 6:55, most likely on their first date, judging by their awkward body language. At 6:57, two young women entered and chose a spot at the bar, neither seeming much like a conspirator. When 7:00 rolled around, there was still no one who fit the bill. Then, at 7:10, the door flew open and good old “George Harrison” from the hotel lobby burst in and rushed up to the hostess. Even though he was completely out of breath and disheveled, he looked a bit more presentable than earlier. I watched as he tucked his shirt into his trousers, straightened out his jacket, and ran his hand through his unkempt hair. He still hadn’t noticed me.
For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found his presence reassuring. I chalked it up to the feeling you get when you see a familiar face in a cold and unfamiliar setting. I kept my eyes glued to George Harrison, wishing I had a newspaper to hide behind to help me spy on him. I could just hear Maggie telling me again that I watch too much TV. Then, to my great surprise, another waitress led George Harrison right to the table reserved under my name! I watched breathlessly as he took his seat, while the voice in my head urged me to think things through before taking any action.
As far as I could see, there were two explanations. The most likely: George Harrison was the poison-pen himself, in the flesh. It fit perfectly. He was staying at the same hotel, and was now eating at the same restaurant. His performance in the lobby had been flawless, having totally convinced me that he didn’t recognize me in the slightest. Somehow, the idea hadn’t occurred to me during my guessing game in the cab. Yet, I heard the little voice in my head pushing another explanation: he simply wanted to have dinner at the closest decent spot, and the waitress led him to that table because it was free again. When the real poison-pen showed up, the hostess would surely lead him straight to me. I couldn’t say for certain which of the two possibilities frightened me more.
I watched him quietly for a full ten minutes, during which he checked his watch incessantly, sighing every time he did. He never once glanced at the menu. It was clear: he was waiting for someone. And that someone was me!
Suddenly, he rose and approached my table.
“Well, look who’s spying now. You’ve been staring at me since I walked in. And I didn’t even need a mirror to tell me that.”
“Uh-huh” was all I got out, just a faint grumble.