Castle Cay (2 page)

A warm-hearted, single woman who thought of
Julie as a daughter, Luz took one look at her boss, and was out
from behind her desk. “What happened?” she asked, hugging her
close. “Are you all right?”

Julie’s face crumpled, despite her resolve.
“No, I’m not. My friend died.” Julie handed her the paper.

“No,” said Luz, incredulous, “your
artist-friend?”

“Yes.”

Julie grabbed some tissues. After a moment,
she regained her composure. “I need to clear my calendar, Luz,” she
said, heading for her desk in the other room. “I’m going to Boston
for the funeral. I’m not sure yet of the dates, but I’ll know soon.
I’ll probably go to Key West, too. Anyway, I need some time for
this. Will you bring the schedule in?”

The two of them spent the rest of the morning
rearranging her itinerary. Later, when Luz left for lunch, Julie’s
eyes fell on her business card:

MERLIN

She smiled.
Marc adored my crazy name.
Julie had hated it in the beginning. She was a corporate trainer, a
body language expert, not a magician! But the odd single name had
been an undeniable boon for her business. She had John Tate, an
attorney, to thank for the moniker.

She’d only been a few months into her
consulting business when Robert Cronin, an accountant with the
Lindsor hotel group - one of her clients - was murdered. His body,
shoeless, was found in the dense shrubbery behind the parking lot
of their headquarters in Orlando.

The police, following an anonymous tip, had
found the shoes in the backseat of a beat-up old Toyota, which
belonged to a drug addict who lived nearby.

Julie had never met Cronin but, as it
happened, she knew the accused. During a drug-free period, Michael
Trudeau had been hired by Lindsor to sell timeshare in LVC, the new
Lindsor Vacation Club. He’d been in a training class Julie was
conducting for Lindsor to help their new hires recognize different
social styles and deal with them more effectively. Julie had been
impressed with the young man’s demeanor and the questions he’d
asked. She had a hard time believing that Michael Trudeau could
kill anyone.

And for what? A pair of shoes?

Julie had offered her services as a body
language expert to John Tate, Michael’s attorney. She sat at John’s
side and advised him during jury selection, skillfully helping to
ferret out biased and unsympathetic jurors. Most important, she
identified two who could be counted on to side with the
defense.

The state’s case was circumstantial and the
jury had acquitted Michael Trudeau. When interviewed later by a
local TV reporter, the two jurors’ comments had confirmed Julie’s
analysis.

John had teased her afterwards. “I’m going to
call you ‘Merlin the Magician’.”

“Don’t you dare!” said Julie.

And so, of course, he did. When Luz answered
the phone, John would ask for “Merlin.” He dutifully referred Julie
to his colleagues, too, but always as “Merlin.” Her reputation and
demand as a body language expert had flourished exponentially.

She shook her head, thinking back on it.

There was never any magic, John.

I just see what people aren’t saying.

* * * * *

“
T
he Solomons got word last night that
the Coroner in Key West is gonna release the body for shipment back
to Boston,” said Pete Soldano. “They’re plannin’ the wake for
Tuesday night, September 18th, with the funeral the next day. Want
to come up Monday and stay with us?”

“Sounds fine, Pete, thanks. Tell Joannie I’m
looking forward to seeing her. Don’t worry about picking me up;
I’ll rent a car at the airport. See you guys soon.”

Julie spent the next few days finishing up
some work. Luz, who adored Julie’s cat, offered to spend time with
Sol twice a day while she was gone.

At last, she was on her way to Boston. The
plane was full, but, thankfully, it was quiet up front. Julie felt
so bone tired. She wanted nothing more than to lay back and rest.
She hadn’t been sleeping well at all since Marc’s death.

Joe Garrett’s friend, Jake Goldman, had told
him that the Key West police – unofficially - considered the case a
probable suicide. Julie simply couldn’t believe that. If only she
could talk to David. Surely, he’d be at Marc’s funeral.

She closed her eyes as her thoughts drifted
back to Marc.

Eighteen years ago.

Such an odd place to meet…

* * * * *

June 1989
Boston, Massachusetts

I
t’s too damn hot for
pants!

Julia scolded herself for wearing them as she
pulled open the heavy glass showroom door. She sighed with relief
as the cool air from inside washed over her. Straightening up, she
tucked some stray locks of hair back into the tortoiseshell
barrette at the nape of her neck, and looked around.

Five brand-new cars gleamed on the polished
floor, and several curious male heads turned her way. Their gaze
made her change her mind in a flash. She had gone back and forth
over what to wear today; her blue summer dress and heels, or the
tan slacks with a plain, white silk shirt and flats. Now, despite
the heat, she was glad that she had opted for the latter.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders
and headed for the circular desk centered on the rear wall. A
young, pretty brunette behind the desk looked up at her,
smiling.

“Welcome to Solomon Chrysler. May I help
you?”

“Yes. I’m Julia Danes. I’m here to see Mr.
Soldano.”

The girl pulled the big microphone toward
her, pushed a button and intoned, “Mr. Soldano. Mr. Soldano. Front
desk, please. Customer waiting.”

“Oh, I’m
not
a customer,” said
Julia.

“I’m here for the job interview.”

The brunette’s brow creased into a puzzled
frown. “You must want Mrs. Bennett, the Office Manager?”

“I spoke to a Mr. Soldano on the phone. His
name was in the ad…?”

A tanned and dapper, thirty-ish man walked up
and interrupted them. “Hi, Julie Danes? I’m Pete Soldano.”

He was shorter than she had expected him to
be, but then most people seemed short to Julia. They shook hands as
he looked her up and down approvingly. Then he nodded to his
right.

“My office is just down the hall there.” With
that, he leaned over the desk, put his left hand over the
microphone, and whispered to the receptionist, “Don’t put any calls
through to my office, Doll. And keep these knuckleheads out here on
the floor. I don’t want any of them interruptin’ me, either.”

As they walked back to his office, he smiled
broadly at Julia. “So you want to sell cars, huh?” Without waiting
for an answer, he turned into a small office with glass windows
facing the hallway. “Come on in, Julie,” he said, grabbing the
chair behind the desk.

She hesitated a moment too long, and then it
seemed too late to tell him that her name was “Julia
”
, with
an “a
”.

“Close the door there. Have a seat.” He
lifted the coffee mug on his desk. “You want some coffee?” he said,
as he took his seat behind the cluttered desk and leaned back,
making himself comfortable.

“No thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

“You know, we used to have a store out in LA
with all girls sellin’ the cars. They did pretty good. They were
all redheads.”

Julia had researched the company and knew
about them. They all wore the same sexy outfits, too. It didn’t
last long.

“Really?”

“Yeah, no kiddin’,” he said. “So, have you
done any sellin’, Julie?”

“I’ve done well selling Avon, sir.”

“Avon. That’s makeup, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir…but Avon has all kinds of products
now. I’ve been in sales for three years, sir. I’m a group
supervisor and I’ve recruited and trained four girls who work under
me.”

“How old did you say you are?” he said,
skeptical.

“I’m twenty, sir, but I’m really good at
sales. I know I could sell cars!”

“Look, Julie, relax. You got the job. And
stop callin’ me ‘sir’.”

Suppressing an urge to dance, Julie exited
the showroom clutching her “employee paperwork” like a winning bet
on a long shot. With a wide, triumphant grin, she jumped into her
mother’s old Ford, shifted into reverse and backed out of the
dealership.

I did it! I got a job with a car. I’ll be
able to make some real money…I’ll be able to move!

•

Daydreaming all the way home about her future
freedom, Julie finally turned into the driveway, lining up the
sedan’s wheels with the two paved strips in the grass and weeds, as
she always did. She pulled up even with the back door to her
family’s old, white clapboard house. Jumping out, she ran up the
crumbling flagstone steps. The wooden screen door banged shut
behind her as she absently kicked off her shoes. “Mom, I got the
job!” she yelled, stepping out of the hall.

Happiness flew away like a popped
balloon.

Julia’s mother was kneeling on the kitchen
floor. She was crying, her hand bleeding into a puddle of gin,
drunkenly trying to pick up the broken pieces of her martini glass.
As her mother slowly turned toward her, Julia saw an angry, purple
welt on her right cheekbone that was also bleeding.

“Oh, God, Mom! Here, leave the glass,” she
said, rushing to help her up. “Stop, Mom. I’ll get it.
Where is
he?
”

“I don’ know.”

Elizabeth Danes was a mess. Disheveled
clothes and crazily teased salt and pepper hair. A sad clown would
have envied her makeup.

The usual war of emotions raged within Julia.
Her love and pity for her mother had kept her from going away to
college, even though she was an honor student. That was three years
ago, and it was plainly a mistake. Perhaps this dysfunctional play
would close with one less actor, she thought. Or was she the
audience? Leaving was the only way to find out.

I can’t change things, Mom.
I can’t change you.
I can’t change him.

Suddenly, the swinging door connecting the
kitchen and the dining room burst open, slamming into the side of
the stove.

Julia whirled around, every muscle tensed,
her fist clenching the glass shards in her hand, not noticing that
she’d cut herself.

“What the hell are you doing?” roared her
father. “Get away from her! She’s a fucking lush! Let her pick up
her own goddamn mess!”

George Danes was a drinker who never appeared
to be drunk. Over six-feet with silver hair and blue-gray eyes, he
could have been cast as a doctor on a daytime soap opera. An avid
fisherman and hunter, he was considered a “man’s man.” Men liked
him and foolish women flirted with him. Behind his front door, his
wife and daughter feared him.

Not me, Dad. Not anymore.

Julia quickly dropped the broken glass in the
wastebasket and grabbed the frying pan off the counter. She stood
with her feet planted apart, in front of her cowering mother.

“Stay away from her!” she said, holding up
the heavy skillet with both hands.

George stopped in his tracks.

This wasn’t the first time she had physically
defended her mother. But she wasn’t a child anymore, to be swatted
away like a pesky insect. She was tall and strong…and she didn’t
make empty threats.

George smiled and began to laugh.

“Goddamn! At least you’ve got balls. You take
after me.”

“I’m
nothing
like you.”

“Huh,” he snorted.

Still laughing, he turned and pushed through
the swinging door to the dining room. Julia heard the front door
slam, and the car start up out in front of the house.

She lowered the iron skillet.

“Mom, you’ve got to get a new bodyguard,” she
said, wearily. “I’m a car salesman.”

* * * * *

P
ete Soldano phoned Julia the next
afternoon to tell her that she needed to be at the dealership the
following morning for training. He also mentioned that there would
be another person in the class.

At nine sharp, as nervous as a filly in a
derby, Julia reported for duty. The store was empty, except for a
slim guy with glasses on the other side of the showroom. She walked
into the business office behind the reception desk, and found two
women. One was standing, cradling a steaming mug of coffee. She had
an old-fashioned pageboy hairdo, but appeared to be no more than
twenty. Julia gave her a warm smile.

“Hi, I’m Julia…ah, Julie…the new saleswoman.
I’m starting today.”

“Hi…I’m Annie.”

There was no return smile, just a nervous
glance at the older woman, who turned toward Julia while pulling
out a file drawer.

“Hello, Julie. I’m Mrs. Bennett, the Office
Manager. I’ll be with you as soon as I tend to a couple of things
here. You and Marc Solomon - he’s the other person in this class -
you need to see some training films. Why don’t you go out and
introduce yourself to Marc, and I’ll come out and get you in a few
minutes?”

The showroom seemed cavernous to Julia with
the lights off. She made her way around the shiny, new models
toward the fellow she’d noticed before. He was sitting at one of
the many round tables near the all-glass front of the room, sipping
coffee. He saw her coming, and stood up, nearly knocking over his
chair.

“Hi, I’m Julie Danes,” she said.
That’s
the new me, Julie.
An overwhelming sense of beginning filled
her as they shook hands. “I guess you’re Marc Solomon, the other
sales trainee?”

“Yup, that’s me,” he said with a sweet, shy
smile. He glanced down and his wavy, light-brown hair fell over one
side of his John Lennon glasses. “And, yes,” he said, looking up,
“I’m related to the boss.”

“I thought you probably were.”

“My father wants me to learn the
business.”