A Shred of Truth (20 page)

“I was there Friday night.” She stepped closer, flipping her hair from eyelashes caked with mascara. “At your brother’s party in the park, remember?”

“It was kinda dark out there.”

“Johnny Ray Black. Omigosh, did he sound great or what?”

“He did.”

“I had him sign a T-shirt and my copy of his CD. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Could be worth something down the road, you never know.”
The lime green smile. “One of the advantages of catering on Music Row is that you get to rub shoulders with all the bigwigs and up-and-comers. Pretty cool.”

“So you were one of the servers? Don’t you have to be twenty-one?”

“Celebrated last month.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

She winked. “Shh, don’t tell anyone that I got his autograph. It’s against company policy. Always supposed to keep it professional, you know.”

“Which caterer was it? I forget.”

“Athens of the South.”

“Ahh. Playing on the Greek theme. Explains those leaf-wrapped thingies.”

“Spiced figs. Weren’t those delicious? I even snuck a few.”

“They were … different. Anyway, I doubt Johnny minded giving you his autograph.”

“I doubt he remembers.” Another wink. A thumb tilted to her lips.

Gossip columnists were scavengers for such morsels, and her impropriety was beginning to grate on me.

“Are you here for a reason?” I asked.

“Keeping my grandmother company.” She feigned a yawn. “She’s an art buff.”

“So you didn’t come here to …”

“What?”

“To see me?”

“If that’s a pickup line, I’ve gotta tell you it’s pretty weak.”

“Yeah. Forget I asked.”

“Thanks though. It’s nice to be noticed.”

I scanned the length of the gift shop, wondering if my contact was already present. Should I wait to be approached? What should be my strategy?

Her eyes flashed. “Now if your brother’s ever free, you let him know I’m available.” She pressed her catering card into my hand, then skipped away and linked arms with her grandmother.

My watch told me it was 12:51. The adrenaline that’d pooled in my stomach was making me queasy. Was I being played here? Was this AX’s way to prove he had the upper hand? Fine. Point made.

Waiting, I pretended to browse through trinkets and artsy gifts. There in plain view, a locked case held replicas of the glittery objects now on exhibit at Cheekwood.

Fauxbergé again. Another coincidence?

“Would you like me to open the case for you?”

“Uh. Sure.” I looked up and met the eyes of a saleslady. “Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw your picture. Is it Aramis? Did I pronounce that right?”

“Air-uh-mis. Close enough. Have you been waiting for me?”

“Not at all, no inconvenience. You take your time, sweetie, and look around.”

“But. Well. Do you have something for me?”

“Yes, it’s behind the counter. All wrapped up, ready to go.”

“I’m ready now.”

“I don’t mean to rush you.”

“I’ve gotta get going anyway.” Following her to the register, I trolled for information. “So this … item. You think it’s a good choice? Did you see it?”

“Exquisite.” She set a bag on the counter. “She’ll love it. She truly will.”

“She …”

“A perfect gift. I’m sure she’ll play along and act surprised.”

“Is this my mother we’re talking about? Long black hair. Wisps of gray.”

“And beautiful, soulful eyes. Actually, you favor her. You share similar coloring.”

My breath quickened. “Did she seem okay?”

“I suppose so. She was quiet but very polite.”

“When was this?”

“Thirty minutes ago or thereabouts.”

Wonderful. The e-mail had been sent to me after the fact.

“And was she alone?”

“Yes. She said her husband was waiting in the lot.”

“Her husband?” That must’ve been part of the act. “Did you see him?”

“I didn’t. I offered to have someone wheel her out, but she insisted it wasn’t necessary.” The clerk was looking past me. “I’ll be right with you, ma’am.”

My fingers brushed the gift bag. I thought of the riverbank and that first shot that had ripped into my mother’s thigh. The image of a wheelchair seemed appropriate, almost inevitable. If anything, it seemed to confirm her identity.

I heard the saleswoman tell me a price, with tax, found myself pulling twenties from my wallet. She gave me change and tucked a receipt into the museum gift bag.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Wait a sec.” I looked up. “You said you saw a picture of me.”

“A yearbook photo actually. They’re not always the best, but there was no mistaking your dark skin and wavy hair.”

Had Mom got ahold of one of my pictures, saving it all these years?

“Thanks for shopping with us,” the saleslady said. “And don’t you feel bad, sweetie. Your mother seemed very understanding about the late Mother’s Day gift.”

I didn’t make it past the museum’s rest rooms. Standing at a hand basin, I hung my head and gathered my thoughts. Mom had been here half an hour ago.

And she had my picture.

My hands trembled on the gift bag, peeling away pearl-colored paper, exposing a Fauxbergé within. Already I’d left one of these creations tucked beneath the front seat of my car. Here was a second, emerald in color, with translucent jewels.

In the Russia of a hundred years ago, before the days of Lenin and his revolution, the Romanov family commissioned these jeweled creations to be presented each Easter. I recalled that locked within the very first egg, a tiny golden hen had represented spiritual rebirth.

Rebirth
.

“Mom.” I looked into the mirror. “Don’t die on me again.”

What now? With groping fingers, I searched for the egg’s unlocking mechanism. What would I find inside?

My legs found new strength and took over. I hurried through the front doors of the Frist, pounded down the steps, and curved left toward the edifice of Union Station, an old railroad depot that’s been refitted into a first-class hotel. Rising into a cloudless sky and boasting a statue of Mercury, the station clock tower said it was ten past one.

This had to be the place.

Inside the Fauxbergé, I’d found a locker-style key and a slip of paper. The printed words said: “If there’s to be a union between mother and son, you will need to get on track.”

A doorman ushered me into a spacious lobby where gold-leaf mirrors, bas-relief statues, and a grand limestone fireplace greeted me. Built in 1900,
the Romanesque structure must’ve once awed train passengers. Sunlight filtered through the lobby’s barrel-vaulted ceiling of stained glass, enhancing the hotel’s grandeur.

“May I help you, sir?”

“The tracks.”

“Sir?”

“How do I get to the railroad tracks?”

“Through those doors there,” he said. “But they’re not—”

I careened out onto a covered platform, found a wrought-iron railing that looked down upon numerous sets of rails flanked by barbed wire. Apparently access to this area was limited to rail workers. Orphaned cargo cars sat on one set while a Louisiana-Pacific engine purred along another. Twenty feet below me an open coal car was motionless.

I could attempt a jump, but I was doubtful of this location.

“Okay,” I said aloud. “Where is it? What am I looking for?”

In my hand, the key bore numbers. Were there old station lockers nearby? I wandered back inside to the polished registration desk. An outdated train schedule hung on the wall behind the clerks, a reminder of a bygone era.

“Excuse me. Do you have any lockers here?”

“No sir, we don’t. But if there’s something you need stored securely—”

“Never mind. Thanks though.”

I turned and stared at the clock above the lobby fireplace. The huge hands pointed, giving no true direction. What was I missing?

A
fter two restless circles of the lobby, I shook my head and stalked past the doorman back toward the Frist Center’s parking lot. I was so close. Over twenty years had gone by, and I’d missed my mother by thirty minutes.

The vibration of my phone brought me to a halt. Another e-mail.

A small price? What’d he done to her?

My jaunt through Union Station had been another false lead, but at least I’d come up clean. What if the cops
had
tailed me? What price would my mom have paid then? This guy was a certified nut job, spouting Scripture as though he was God’s emissary to earth.

The Greyhound station.

I hopped into my car and reached my destination in less than two minutes. Located on Eighth Avenue South, the terminal maintains a steady flow of travelers and vagabonds. I edged between the listless souls at the front doors and found myself inside the main waiting hall. Odors of urine and
mildew hovered among the hard seats, while crushed cans and crumpled pretzel bags camped at the base of a trash receptacle.

The lockers drew me in. The key was warm in my palm.

I crouched, looked both ways, then opened the corresponding lock. Inside, a burnished silver tube was propped at an angle. No longer than my forearm, no wider than my wrist, the thing bore red plastic caps on each end.

Couldn’t open it here. Not out in public.

I tucked the object under my arm, left the key, and strode back to my car, where I slumped into the seat.

Final instructions? Or more games?

I pried a cap from the tube and felt a feathery tickle against my fingertips. Images of hairy-legged spiders fired through my nerve endings, awakening my imagination and barking orders at my muscles to drop this menace. I locked down the illogical fears and forced myself to hold on, lifting the tube for closer examination.

And then I understood.

Your mother has paid a small price … The key will lead you to the locks
.

I braced myself against my seat, reached fingers into the opening, and grasped hold of the rolled sheet of paper that peeked through long, silky locks of black hair.

“There. Explain
that
, oh wise and older brother.”

Johnny was zipping up a garment bag containing a stage ensemble of tight, torn jeans, a belt with a pewter buckle, and a black and gray striped shirt. In a box on the bed, his Stetson still contained knife slices—for publicity purposes, no doubt.

He set down the bag. “What’ve you got now?”

“See for yourself.”

He took the paper from my hand. His eyes darted over the slanted letters and slightly open loops, then widened—just as mine had—when he recognized this as the same handwriting we’d come to cherish among Mom’s old letters and scrapbooks.

“Where’d you get this?”

“She wrote it herself, sometime in the last hour or so.”

“And you know it was her?”

“Yes. Did you read the whole thing? We need a few minutes to talk.”