“I’m certainly glad you came to visit,” she said. “Oh, by the way, a man came by here looking for you a few days ago. I sent him to Priscilla. Did she tell you?”
Priscilla and—I supposed—Jason were already asleep when I got home.
In the morning, they were eating pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream in the kitchen.
“Where did you go last night?” Priscilla asked. “I was worried about you.”
“Did someone come by here looking for me a couple of days ago?”
“Oh yes,” Pris said. “I forgot. Someone did come by. I wasn’t here, but he left a note. Now, where did I put it?”
Priscilla, in a silk peignoir that made her look a little bit like Auntie Mame in the musical, wafted out of the kitchen.
I looked at Jason. He looked back at me. We didn’t say anything to each other. He took a huge bite of his pancakes and stared at me as he chewed. I couldn’t tell whether his look was one of mischief or disdain and whether it was directed at me or Priscilla. And I didn’t want to know.
Priscilla came back with a thick cream envelope and handed it to me.
“It’s from a man. I can tell from the writing.”
I took a knife and slit the envelope open. Inside was a note from Guy Callow. He was staying at the Four Seasons and he wanted to see me.
“Well,” Priscilla said.
“Well, what?”
“Who’s it from?”
“Guy Callow.”
“Miranda’s Guy Callow?” Pris asked.
“The very same.”
“What on earth does he want?”
“Strange as it may seem, he wants to see me.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” I turned to walk away. Priscilla came after me. She grabbed onto the cloth of my shirt with her right hand and I shook her off. “Please don’t grab at me, Priscilla.”
She pulled her hand away and looked at it as if she wasn’t sure how it had sprung up on the end of her wrist.
“I’m sorry, but I have to know what this is all about,” she said.
“No you don’t.”
I disappeared into the guest room and closed the door. I called the Four Seasons and asked for Guy, but he had just checked out.
Chapter 25
“I don’t know if you remember me,” I said when Hope Bliss answered the phone.
“Of course I do, Jane. Why wouldn’t I remember you?” You could hardly tell a person that you thought yourself unmemorable, so I shrugged, a useless gesture since I was on the phone.
“I saw your name in the yellow pages and I’m looking for an investigator to help me find someone.”
I explained my quest for Jack Reilly and she said it seemed like a simple enough problem for a professional investigator. I told her what I had done to find him so far, and she said that no matter how far off the grid someone seemed to be, they were still somewhere, you could always find them, and these days with computers it usually didn’t take too long.
Before we hung up she asked if I’d like to get together, and it occurred to me only then that this was the second reason for my call. I wanted to see Hope, to reconnect with someone from my past.
We met at Durgin Park in Faneuil Hall Marketplace. It wasn’t far from Hope’s office in the North End. We didn’t choose the restaurant only for the convenient location, but because, for us, it was nostalgic. When we were in school, our class was taken there on a field trip every year. I remembered watching bins of garbage being pulled past the window on pulleys. It was one of those places where rude waitresses in hair-nets were a form of entertainment. I never found impropriety or impolite behavior particularly entertaining, but then I’ve grown up to be as straight as an architect’s ruler, and sometimes just as exciting. Hope told me that she went to Durgin Park at least once a week. She thought the place was hilarious.
I recognized Hope Bliss immediately. If anything, she was fatter than the last time I’d seen her. She probably weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, but she was one of those women who, despite, or maybe because of, their weight, dressed meticulously. She walked with a light tread, as if she didn’t know she could tip the scale on a longshoreman. She broke into a smile when she saw me and I tried to remember why we had fallen out of touch. She rushed toward me and gave me an enveloping hug.
We were seated upstairs and placed our orders with a recalcitrant waitress. She made it clear that she was doing us a favor by deigning to wait on us. Hope thought it was boisterously entertaining. I, on the other hand, like waitstaff to be somewhat deferential.
“It makes the whole dining experience more tranquil,” I said.
“Tranquillity is overrated,” Hope said. I didn’t think so. For years I’d been seeking tranquillity like an obsessive lover, tracking it, stalking it, forcing it to live with me long after our relationship was over.
Hope had been a private investigator for ten years. She had been a lawyer first, in a small suburban firm, and she found herself doing the investigative work not only for herself but for the other lawyers as well. She liked moving behind the scenes and hated going to court because she didn’t like the way people looked at her. Weight on a woman was no advantage in a courtroom, she explained.
“A fat P.I. can get away with a lot,” she said. “Especially a woman. People generally think fat people are benign.”
The food came and Hope dug into her Yankee pot roast. I had a clam chowder that was so thick I was in danger of instant cardiac arrest.
Hope’s mother was now living with Hope.
“My dad divorced her, not that I blame him. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave her well provided for. By the time they divorced, she had brought him so low he was barely making any money. She made her own bed, as they say. Unfortunately, I have to lie in it with her. The irony is that as soon as he got free of her harping he met a nice woman, married her, and together they started an online dating service for dog breeders, and with all the merchandise tie-ins and advertising they’re doing very well.”
“Who’s getting fixed up, the dogs or the people?”
“The people, for now, but we’ll see. So my mother lives with me and I take care of her financially. My father helps a little. And guess what she has to do for me? One thing. She is not allowed to say or do anything about my weight. One word and she’s out the door. It’s like divine retribution. Do you remember what she was like?”
“I do,” I said. When we were young, her mother never missed an opportunity to harp about Hope’s weight. Hope’s choice of afternoon snack was severely monitored. And even with all the nagging and all the policing, Hope kept getting fatter.
Hope chewed on a large piece of meat.
“Eating slowly is very important,” she said between chews. “I have all kinds of health problems because of my weight, but I don’t let that stop me. I’m a ballroom dancer, a gourmet chef, and I’m taking Hebrew in a continuing education course. I’m also studying Kabbalah.”
How would she have time to look for Jack Reilly?
“I know all about you,” Hope said. “I Googled you.”
“You what?”
“I looked you up on the Internet. Do you know that you are mentioned on no less than one hundred and thirty-two sites?”
