This week on the Crime Cafe podcast, Graciela Kenig will be my guest. She’s also giving away an ebook copy of The Plans They Made to the first 15 people who email her at this address: graciela@gracielakenig.com. Sign up for her occasional newsletter and download a free copy of the prequel, Ruby’s Diary.
Meanwhile, enjoy the following excerpt from the book!
Surveillance Reports
London, England
Re: Post July 19, 2003 Incident
July 25
No significant activity reported in or surrounding the apartment building on Russell Square since the above-referenced incident. Landlord picks up mail, draws curtains daily. Lights come on and off at different times each day, as programmed.
August 1
Nothing new to report all week
August 8
Nothing new to report all week
August 11
Landlord reported that an American woman inquired about the subject today. No name or description provided. Will investigate.
August 13
The American woman returned at 1300 hours today. Asked landlord about the subject again. Sat on a bench at Russell Square, the park facing the building. Unable to say for how long. Targeted surveillance will begin tomorrow.
August 14
Woman returned today at 1600 hours but did not enter the building. Sat on a park bench and took notes while frequently looking up toward the window of the subject’s apartment. Stayed for thirty minutes. Then walked across the square to an apartment building on Coram St. When asked about the American woman, doorman at said building wouldn’t talk. It may be her location while in London. Description: Shoulder-length brown hair, 5 foot 5, 110 lbs. (Snapshots attached. Will attempt a better angle to improve quality.) Carried a large handbag.
August 15
Woman returned today at 1400 hours. Sat on the same bench for 10 minutes. Took notes and used her cellphone. Looked up toward the subject’s second-floor window several times. Walked to the Holborn tube station. Lost track of her in the crowd. Still unable to determine the woman’s identity. Pictures too grainy and distant. Will retake when possible.
August 19
Woman’s name is Kate Brennan, Chicago-based investigative journalist turned novelist. She hasn’t returned to the area since August 15. Nothing new to report.
CHAPTER ONE
London, August 20, 2003
Kate heard the news indirectly. That morning, she’d been doing research at the London Metropolitan Archives and had lost track of time. At first, she tried to ignore the noise that seeped into the reading room from the reception area, even though it was unusual in a library. She merely lifted her eyes from the black and white photographs she’d spread on the table and returned to her only task: Pick one castle. Just one. She had put it off long enough because of Ruby.
But the glass wall made it impossible. The din grew louder and more annoying. And the people on the other side looked like zombies: mouths agape, eyes bulging, heads shaking. It was as though they had fallen under a spell.
Without a second thought, Kate joined the crowd in the reception area.
“What happened?” she asked.
The tall clerk who’d been so helpful that morning placed a hand on the base of his neck. “A suicide bombing,” he said. “It happened a few hours ago in Baghdad.”
“I see.” Only months after the US president had declared the war over, Iraq remained a chaotic and violent place. “What was the target?”
“The UN headquarters.”
Kate’s heart sank. “The UN? Did you say the UN?”
The man’s forehead wrinkled. “Do you know someone who works there?”
She nodded. “But I don’t know if she was in Baghdad.”
“Who?”
“My best friend.” Kate hyperventilated. God, Ruby. Is that what you didn’t want to tell me?
Even before she transferred to London three years earlier, Ruby had never said much about her job. The projects she’d handled in Washington, DC fascinated her but ultimately bored everyone else. Or so she often said when they talked on the phone. If Kate ever wanted to know more, Ruby veered their conversations into the mundane. Like one of her boys had been sick, or the other had won a science award, or their father had done yet another despicable thing. When they discussed the details of Kate’s visit—after she’d booked the flight from Chicago—Ruby wouldn’t commit to a specific reunion date. There were some details to nail down for the upcoming school year . . . and a possible business trip that couldn’t be avoided. But she’d sounded happy that Kate would be in London for six months. “You’re gonna love the apartment I found for you,” she’d said. “Just across the park from mine. I wish you could stay with us, but Julian and Jason are messy, typical teenagers, you know? And you’ll need a quiet space to work on your novel.”
That had stung. I would’ve stayed with you and the boys even if I couldn’t write one chapter. It’s not my first novel, for God’s sake.
“When did you last speak to your friend?” The clerk’s deep voice gave Kate a slight jolt.
“I’ve been trying to reach her for a couple of weeks . . . more, maybe. I think it has been three weeks . . . We were supposed to meet here in London, but—”
“Please have a seat Ms.—”
“Brennan, Kate Brennan.” She lowered her body without checking if there’s was an actual chair to catch her.
“Oliver McNeal.” He held her arm, perhaps expecting her to miss the chair otherwise. “I’ll fetch you some water.”
As if by magic, once Kate felt the seat’s cushion underneath her, the crowd dispersed, allowing her to see the small television set that had brought about all the commotion.
A BBC reporter spoke to the camera against a background of dense, black smoke and lingering flames that obscured the cavernous hole in Baghdad’s United Nations building. As usual in such circumstances, the footage was repetitive. Mangled metal, naked tree branches, and debris. Each time the images reemerged on the screen, Kate noticed different details. The broken left headlight of an early nineties Chrysler covered in layers of black dust. The crushed hood and trunk of a yellow VW Bug, its driver’s door abandoned ajar. Flat tires, missing hubcaps, windows devoid of glass. They had the look and feel of empty eye sockets.
A female voice recited the names of some victims. Though she didn’t hear Ruby’s, it was too soon to tell.
All the people who were just there doing their jobs.
“Here you are, Ms. Brennan.” McNeal said.
Kate yelped as though somebody had attacked her.
“So sorry.” He attempted to hand her a glass but stopped in mid-air. “Oh, you can remove the gloves now. You only need to wear them to handle our photographs.”
Kate looked at her hands. She recalled being annoyed at having to sift through actual photos that should’ve been turned into slides. But instead of removing the vinyl gloves, she took a sip of water. It made her shiver.
“Is there someone you could ring?”
She gazed into his eyes, the color of molasses, and smiled. “Oh no, I’m feeling much better now. But thank you.”
“I meant . . . about your friend . . . perhaps a coworker who might know if she was there?”
Kate tried to stand up. But the effort made her dizzy all over again and she had to lean against the man who towered over her, and whose body was sturdier than it looked.
This is so embarrassing.
McNeal just swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as though he needed extra air.
“I tried a few things already.” She’d called the UN offices in London, but no one there recognized Ruby’s name. Even Kate’s boyfriend Scott, a television anchor in Chicago, had turned nothing up through his extensive network of contacts.
“I left messages in her answering machine . . . thought she might check them remotely, but nothing.”
“Any relatives?”
Kate winced. Ruby only communicated with her ex-husband through lawyers or friends who took on the role of mediators. “I could call her sister, but she lives in Ohio and, and . . . I just don’t want to alarm her.”
“If your friend wasn’t in Baghdad—”
“But if she was . . .”
It was a natural next step, yet Kate had been avoiding it for days. What am I afraid of finding out?
McNeal shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind. We can give you some privacy in one of our back offices.”
“You’re so kind, Mr. McNeal.”
His cheeks turned pink, erasing the paleness that had blanketed his face. As he walked away, Kate noticed a slight hunch, a common feature of people who are tall. Ruby had it too, but it only showed when she wanted to make a point through direct eye contact with Kate. Otherwise, her posture was perfect, like that of a model.
Kate had chosen London to do background research for her fourth novel, mainly because Ruby lived there. They had never been physically apart that long since they met in high school, and it seemed like a good way to reconnect. But nothing had worked out the way they planned. Even if Ruby wasn’t in Iraq, something had happened to her. There was a huge knot in Kate’s gut.
I need to know.
She stood up, removed the vinyl gloves, and tossed them into a wastebasket.
“Thanks for the offer, Mr. McNeal. Yes, please, I would like to make some calls if it’s still okay.”
She sat behind a cluttered desk in a room made up of file cabinets and blank walls. But Scott’s cellphone number went straight to voicemail. So did his desk phone at the television station and all the others she’d usually called when she had to reach him in a hurry. At last, a receptionist picked up and took a message.
Kate swallowed hard and dialed Helen in Ohio but had to leave a voicemail there as well.
***
The phone was already ringing when Kate opened the door to the apartment on Coram Street. She ran all the way to the kitchen and snatched the white receiver on the tiled wall like her life depended on it.
“Kate?” A familiar woman’s voice allowed her breathing to slow down.
“Yes?”
“I was about to try your cellphone next—”
“Oh, Helen.” Kate recognized Ruby’s sister’s Midwestern twang. “I’m so glad you called back . . . thank you!” She reached for the cardigan sweater she had draped over a kitchen chair. Though it was stifling hot outside, she felt a sudden need to cover her bare shoulders.
“I know it’s been a while since you and I—”
“Ruby wasn’t in Baghdad.”
The abruptness of Helen’s words made her sit down. And when she understood their meaning, Kate let the tears stream down her cheeks as though she’d never been so relieved.
Thank God.
“Phew . . . Like I said in my voicemail, I haven’t been able to get a hold of Ruby since I came to London. Do you know where—?”
“Oh, Kate—” Helen’s voice cracked, and Kate could’ve sworn she heard a sniffle or two coming through the line. Then again, transatlantic connections were not always clear.
“Ruby wasn’t in Baghdad because . . . because she was already dead.”
Kate’s heart stopped beating. Or at least it felt that way for a second. Whatever Helen said was absurd. Not true. No way. She stood up and paced the small kitchen, wrapping the telephone cord around her fingers.
“What do you mean?” Kate held her breath.
“My sister died in a motorcycle accident.”
She closed her eyes to avoid picturing something that gruesome, but it was too late.
“Did you say she was in a motorcycle accident?”
“Yes.”
“Ruby doesn’t ride motorcycles.”
“Apparently, she did. At least since she transferred to London.”
Kate’s mouth went dry. “When?”
“A month ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Your phone number was disconnected. And the email I sent you bounced back. I also wrote a letter. I didn’t know what else to—”
Kate shook all over. She had moved in with Scott a year earlier and could no longer use her work email after she quit her job at the Chicago Tribune. But something about what she heard still made no sense.
“I can’t believe this, Helen . . . I just can’t . . . Ruby’s quite the daredevil . . . but a motorcycle?”
“I thought the same thing.”
Kate’s old self resurfaced as though she’d simply changed hats. “Did you get a police report?”
“They faxed it to me. Well, they faxed it to my parents—”
“Oh, God . . . your parents. How did . . . how are they dealing with this?”
“Dad will never get over it. He hasn’t gone back to work yet. And Mom . . . well, you know my mom. Dora Cunningham was never a fan of Ruby’s. Her own daughter.” Helen cleared her throat. “At first, she kept saying that Ruby brought it all on herself. That she always made bad choices, and this was her final one. But now . . . now she seems inconsolable.”
Kate shook her head. She always knew, or hoped, that Dora would eventually regret being such a bitch to her oldest daughter. But not like that.
“Anyhow, the police report says it was an accident. Case closed.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“Another rider, a woman. But she said Ruby was already . . . gone . . . by the time she arrived at the scene.”
“Her name?”
“It wasn’t in the report . . . well . . . it was, but someone blackened it.”
Something snapped inside Kate’s chest. “This is so . . . strange . . . so . . . out of character . . . don’t you think?”
“Yes, it was surprising to hear that. But what could I do? My children are young, and I live in Ohio . . . I can’t just pick up and go to London.”
Helen stopped talking, and Kate realized she was sobbing.
“Forgive me, Helen. It’s the old reporting instinct in me.”
Helen blew her nose. “You became quite the star, Kate. The whole town was so proud of you when you won those awards.”
Kate’s cheeks warmed up. “Oh . . . that was a while ago . . . but thank you. And how are you doing, Helen?”
“I manage.” she said, breaking down again.
“I’m so, very, very sorry, Helen.” Kate could no longer hold back the tears.
“How long had it been since you two saw each other?”
Kate wiped her face with a towel and swallowed hard. “Four? Five years? Even before she moved to London, we never seemed to find a time to visit each other. Our jobs, the boys, the ex-husbands, the boyfriends . . . it all seems so stupid right now.”
“Her job was very demanding.”
Kate thought about Ruby, her long, blonde curls falling every which way, and couldn’t imagine a world in which the two of them wouldn’t share something important the next time they talked. She couldn’t accept that there wouldn’t be a next time. How could her best friend be gone? Forever?
“Was there a funeral?”
“A memorial service here in Toledo. But we buried her in Virginia. That’s where Ralph lives, you know?”
“That creep.”
“He is he children’s father. And they’ll stay with him from now on. With him and his third wife, of course . . . the kids were in Virginia when Ruby died. Spending the last few weeks of summer with Ralph. In a way, that was a blessing.”
Kate’s grief morphed into disgust. Once, she had been Ralph’s biggest fan and had loved him like a brother. It seemed so unfair that the boys would end up living with him.
“How many more divorces will he put the boys through?”
“No idea. But it bothers me to think about that. Ralph has always been too busy sleeping around to care for the kids. And I’m sure he thinks having them full time is more of a burden than a plus.”
“Sick.” Helen was probably right. At least both boys were already in high school. Living with their father was at worst a short-term arrangement.
Kate could hear Helen’s labored breathing again. Or perhaps it was a long hesitation that seemed odd.
“Helen?”
“You know?” she sighed. “I think there is something suspicious about the way Ruby died. I’ve felt that all along.”
“Yes?”
“Is there a way you could . . .?”
“Could what?”
“Do a little digging around?”
“Oh goodness, Helen. I know how to investigate, but I don’t have—”
“I can forward the police report. It’s a place to start, isn’t it?”
“But I haven’t been a journalist for quite some time. I write novels now.”
“Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?”
“Maybe. But this is too personal.” Kate caught her breath. “Besides, I have no credentials here in London, and no contacts of the type I need.”
“Ruby was working with a guy . . . Nigel. Nigel Williams. I can give you his phone number.”
“Sure, but—”
“But what? Don’t you want to know what really happened to Ruby?”
“I do; of course I do.”
“Great.” She sounded relieved. “But Kate, there’s something else you should know about Ruby.”
“What’s that?”
“She changed her name.”
“Huh?”
“In London, she was Annie Henderson.”
“Why on earth?”
“Her job was . . . complicated.”
“She worked for the UN, for heaven’s sake. What was so complicated? Ah . . . Scratch that. Even the UN is a target now.”
“Yes, I know. That was awful. But listen, Kate. I gotta go now. Need to pick up my kids at summer camp. Nigel Williams should be able to fill you in. Have a pen handy?”
Kate jotted down the man’s phone number.
“I’ll email you the report later tonight.”
“You got my new email address?”
“It was in your voicemail. But Kate, whatever you do . . . just be careful, okay?”
“Why?”
“You just have to.”
Kate heard a click, immediately followed by the repetitive sound of a busy signal. Through her tears, she stared at the receiver as though it was a foreign object that had landed on her hand.
What am I to do now?
The busy signal turned into a recorded message urging her to hang up. Kate obeyed and thought about her last conversation with Ruby. She had never sounded more comfortable with her life.
“I have so much to tell you,” she’d said, immediately having to cut their chat short so she could tend to something else.
What were you going to tell me, Ruby? What was going so well for you at last?
Kate shook her head. She and Ruby had come a long way from awkward teenagers, through even more awkward first boyfriends, terrifying abortions, controlling ex-husbands, career highs and lows and heart-wrenching goodbyes. While Kate had accepted that they might never live in the same town again, in her mind, their friendship was forever. Without Ruby, Kate’s life would not have been the one she’d lived.
She looked at her notepad and dialed Nigel Williams.
CHAPTER TWO
Nigel Williams spotted Kate at the crowded pub in Bloomsbury the moment he walked in. Over the phone, she’d told him to look for her at the corner barstool by the back wall—and that she’d be wearing a light gray top over black trousers. Check. Shoulder-length, dark hair and petite frame. Check again.
So that was Kate, Annie’s friend.
He’d taken a step forward when he caught sight of Gary Cirilo, the man’s iconic bald head shifting from side to side. Only one empty stool separated Gary from Kate. What was that CIA operative doing there?
Nigel’s gut tensed. He surveyed the entire room, but everyone looked yellow and cartoonish under the dim ceiling lights. He just couldn’t tell if there were other threats nearby. Gary was worrisome enough.
Heading toward Kate with renewed purpose, Nigel elbowed his way through the pack, ignoring the boisterous grumbles and even the brief but acute agony of an indignant punch to his back.
“Sorry, mate,” he said several times as though it were a blanket apology.
He had nearly reached his target when a dark-skinned, blonde waitress intercepted him with a tray full of drinks. The impact on his chest took his breath away. Shards of glass splattered and filled the air with an overwhelming scent of booze. All sound ceased after the commotion, and the entire pub seemed to turn in his direction.
His pulse quickened. Still panting, Nigel wiped his shirt and sidestepped the mess on the floor, all the while looking for Gary. But the man had already walked out.
Nigel got to Kate when her head slumped toward the counter, just in time to catch her body as it was sliding off the stool. There was a vacant look in her eyes, and she tried to speak but couldn’t. Had Gary put something in her drink? If so, why? What was the CIA hiding about Annie’s death that Kate was not supposed to find out?
***
Kate woke up with the sun in her eyes and the taste of cotton in her mouth. Blinking, she sat up in a bed that was not her own, in a strange room with recessed overhead lighting and white angular furniture, where gauzy curtains swirled and blended into the walls. She was naked, except for the lotus pendant she always wore—and a man with silver-speckled, dark curls snored softly next to her.
Kate had slept with men she didn’t know well in the past. She just couldn’t recall a time when the previous night was such a complete blank. She tried to get up, but her legs went limp, and everything turned like a merry-go-round.
Where am I?
“Here you go.” The sound of a man’s voice—mellow and very British—was new to Kate. She turned to face him, but he’d already left the bed and stood to her right holding a glass. The woodsy smell of him, mixed in with a hint of sweat, was familiar and not entirely uncomfortable. She didn’t know when he got up but the thought of meeting his eyes paralyzed her.
“It’s only water,” he said, placing the glass on the night table. His bare torso glistened over a pair of black skinny jeans.
Kate drank the water with greed.
“And here’s a robe—it was Annie’s.” He held something silky and green.
“Annie’s?”
The man let the robe fall gently on Kate’s lap. “I don’t know what name she used when you knew her. But is that the woman you wanted to talk about?” He pointed toward a framed photo of Ruby on the wall. Ruby with long, honey-blonde hair and bluish green eyes. Ruby, her best friend, who was dead at forty-five.
“Who are you?”
“Nigel, Nigel Williams, and you called . . .”
The memory of him emerged as if in a fog. He’d walked toward Kate at the pub, all the while combing those curly dark locks away from his face.
Was that the night before?
“Her name was Ruby.” The grief returned slowly, like flashcards meant to highlight the worst moments of an irreversible event: Gasping for air when Helen said Ruby died, wanting to scream at the realization that Kate would never see her again, agreeing to help figure it all out even though it seemed impossible.
“Ruby Cunningham.”
Kate slipped into the robe and tried to get up, but the room reeled again. Reluctantly, she let the stranger clutch her arm and walk her to the bathroom.
The nausea subsided when she stepped into the shower, and the hot water was soothing, especially in contrast with the icy marble floors. But she still didn’t know how, or if, Nigel could help her figure out what happened to Ruby. Could she even trust him?
“Do you fancy a cup of coffee?” he yelled out. “I’m about to feed you the best meal in London.”
I must leave. Now.
She found the gray top and cropped black pants folded on a bench as if someone had just laundered them. Had he?
“Nigel Williams, by the by,” he said, greeting her at the bathroom door with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. “Thought we could try again . . . a proper introduction this time.”
“Kate Brennan.” She looked directly at the man. He’d put on a perfectly ironed, clean shirt. Sky blue, like his eyes. And there was a small tattoo on his neck, in line with his Adam’s apple and directly below his left ear. A Celtic triangle.
At the pub the night before, he’d looked like a biker with his skinny jeans and short windbreaker. The last thing Kate remembered was watching him head toward her like he was meeting an old friend. Then the Black waitress with blonde hair caused a commotion when her tray landed on the floor.
Kate hugged the cup. Its warmth gave her a measure of courage. What really happened here?
“My clothes,” she said. “Did you—”
“Ah, yes.” Nigel looked at his feet when he spoke. “I’m afraid everything was a bit . . . soiled . . . I wanted to get you one of Annie’s nightgowns but couldn’t find any. And by the time I brought the robe, you were sound asleep.”
Kate’s cheeks burned. Did I throw up? Pee in my pants? The more she tried to figure out how she stained her clothes, the more she felt in need of fresh air.
As if on cue, Nigel opened the glass sliding doors that led to the balcony, and Kate let her lungs expand. But making eye contact with the man became nearly unbearable. He has seen me naked. Messed up.
“Have you ever seen the city from above?” he asked.
Kate shook her head and took in the view. “Where are we?”
“Annie and I shared this flat for a while.”
Kate swallowed. Once again, Nigel had referred to Ruby as Annie. Why had she changed her name? And were they an item, or just roommates? She didn’t dare ask. It was impossible to understand why her friend had lived as two different people. Or why she’d died just when they were about to see each other after such a long while.
“What time is it, Nigel? Kate tried to dissolve the lump forming in her throat.
“Two.”
“Two p.m.?”
“Or fourteen hundred hours, if you wish.”
In a sudden panic, she asked, “Where’s my purse?”
“Right there.” His eyes focused on a marble console table in the foyer.
As she walked toward the front door, Kate realized that her strength had returned. But the relief turned into agitation when she couldn’t find her cell phone.
“It rang a few times last night.” Nigel said, handing over the small flip phone. “I plugged it in so you could listen to your messages when you woke up.”
Scott had left three voicemails and several texts. The last text read, Ruby never worked for the UN.
“What?” She asked the phone.
“Bad news?”
“Confusing, maddening, frustrating . . . I have to—”
“Please.” Nigel showed her to a white pedestal table that looked like a throwback to the psychedelic sixties. It was set for a tea party, complete with a basket of pastries and mini sandwiches.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it.
“I need to go home. Now.”
“But you need some food, too,” he said, handing Kate a napkin. “Can’t get your strength back until you eat something, now, can you?”
Nigel’s caring style, almost paternal, gave her pause. Is this guy for real? Ultimately, though, the smell of food won her over. The minute he left for the kitchen, she bit into a scone with desperation. It was so dry she wished she would’ve seen the strawberry jam and cream before stuffing it into her mouth.
Somewhat at ease after finding her cell phone, she listened to Scott’s voicemails. In the last one he’d promised to get his intern to find out what Ruby had been doing in London. He sounded exhausted—and worried. Kate was about to call him back when Nigel approached the table with an omelet that smelled of cilantro and teemed with red and green peppers. He was whistling a tune she couldn’t identify.
“You’ve no idea how you ended up here last night, do you?”
Her shoulders slumped as the earlier anxiety returned. “Not a clue.”
But now I really need to ask. “Nigel, did you and I—?”
“Oh, no, Kate. So sorry.” He raised a pair of thick and unruly eyebrows and grinned, the shadow of a two-day-old beard unwittingly defining his angular face. “I can see why you might’ve thought we did.” His smile was comforting. “But I’m afraid this was something different, entirely—”
“Then why were you sleeping next to me?”
“I fell asleep waiting to make sure you were fine.”
“Fine?”
“The bloke sitting next to you at the pub may have slipped something into your drink.”
Kate gripped her spoon. “There was no one next to me at the pub. I’d put my jacket over that stool so you could take it.”
“Jacket?”
She nodded.
“I’m afraid that’s gone. Sorry. But there was a man sitting next to that empty stool. Bald, broad shoulders—”
“I don’t remember . . . I kept looking at the door because—”
Nigel grabbed her hand, but Kate withdrew it. “Let me ask you this: had you had a lot to drink before I got there?”
“No, of course not. I’d barely taken a couple sips of wine.”
“Then I’m right.” He bit into his omelet and chewed it slowly, as though he was having a meal with a dear friend and nothing important was about to be said.
She wanted to shake him.
“I followed you into the pub and waited a bit to make sure it was you. But only a few minutes later, when I got close to you at the bar, you already sounded drunk—and disoriented.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“You’d passed out . . . and when you came to, you slurred your words. Now, there may be other reasons for that, but I think my assumption was rather spot on.”
“Then why was I naked this morning?” Her-self-assurance waned. I should’ve left the minute I got dressed.
“The paramedic gave you something that made you throw up. That’s why. And I had to—”
“A paramedic?”
Nigel nodded.
Kate’s unexpected tears trickled down her cheeks. How had this happened to her? And why am I crying again? Ruby would’ve said this was just Kate’s drama queen routine. Oh, how she missed Ruby at that very moment. Her sense of humor (or unexpected lack of compassion) often had helped Kate refocus and stop feeling sorry for herself.
“Do you know the bald man?” Her tears mingled with a sudden burst of hiccups.
“I do. We’ve worked together, occasionally.”
“Who is he?” Kate reached for a glass of water. “And why would he want to drug me?”
“Ah . . . I’m so bloody daft. Was the omelet too fiery for you? I fixed it because it was Annie’s favorite and . . . uh-oh . . . here I go again. You knew her as Ruby.”
“I knew her as Ruby? Ruby WAS HER NAME, the name her parents gave her when she was born. I don’t know why she—” The exhaustion, exacerbated by incessant hiccups, became unmanageable.
“Please, let me try to fill you in,” Nigel said. “I’m not exactly sure how or where to begin.”
Kate let him gather his thoughts and stared at the river. A sudden urge to leave overwhelmed her and she steeled herself to stay in place. The man seated across the table, a stranger who could be hiding the truth for all she knew, was her only conduit to Ruby’s last few months in London.
“Oh, Kate, I’m so dreadfully sorry this happened. I was gutted when she died.” A wrinkle crossed his serene forehead for the first time since he’d become a conscious part of her present.
He stood up and walked out to the balcony. “Fresh air feels good.”
Kate followed him, comforted by the midafternoon coolness, but surprised to discover that the building was one of several towers, all made of raw concrete.
“This is a rather strange complex,” Nigel said. “Controversial even before they built it.”
“It’s lovely inside, though.”
He smiled. “If you like that sort of thing. Apparently, the original owner was a rich Scandinavian who—”
Kate stopped listening and focused on the river. Yet even the sight of water, which usually calmed her, couldn’t keep the fear from creeping up. “Nigel, do you think this was random?”
He turned to look at her as if startled by the interruption. “Annie’s death or your being drugged?”
“Both, I guess.” Her heart pounding, she clung to the balcony’s rail.
Nigel waited a long moment, perhaps measuring his words. When he spoke at last, there was kindness in his blue eyes. “Neither . . . I’m afraid.”
***
One of Kate’s most treasured memories of Ruby was that of an October morning in high school. It was 1972, the year Kate’s family moved to Ohio. Ruby was rummaging through her locker like she’d misplaced a thing or two.
“What’d she say?” Kate asked, hoping that Ruby’s mother had agreed to let them have a sleepover at their house.
“There it is.” Ruby grabbed a book. As usual in those few and hurried moments between class periods, it was hard to navigate the congestion in the hallway. Teen voices competed for attention with slamming metal doors. Ruby banged hers and gave the combination lock one last turn.
“It’ll be fine. Just don’t be late because my mother hates it when food gets cold.” There was a hint of sadness in Ruby’s voice, the kind that only surfaced when she talked about her mother.
Kate squeezed her friend’s hand. “Are you sure?”
Ruby nodded and her turquoise eyes brightened, as if Kate’s gesture had given her the cue to step back into a more familiar role. “Of course. Just don’t dream of asking for cawfee. We’re too young for that in the Midwest.”
“Hey, don’t make fun of my accent.”
“I’m not. I find it adorable.”
Compared to Kate, who was petite and defined by her bony limbs and long, straight hair, Ruby was tall and broad-shouldered, with voluminous honey-colored locks. Perhaps it was the height that gave her an air of maturity most other girls in that school lacked. But there was something about the way Ruby took Kate under her wing that instantly made her the equivalent of an older sister, even though they were the same age. Fourteen.
They had met in homeroom the first day of school, when both took the last empty seats against the back wall because they were running late. It had taken a moment, once each could catch her breath, to make eye contact and smile.
“Let’s see,” the teacher said. “You must be Katherine Brennan and Ruby Cunningham.” The entire room turned to look at them. “Care to identify yourselves?”
“I’m Kate.”
“I’m Ruby.”
“And you’re both late. Don’t let that happen again.”
Truth be told, Kate had never needed protecting. But the move from New York City that summer had been quite the shock. Having lived on the tenth floor of a Manhattan high-rise until then, the two-story home that James and Lucy Brennan bought in Toledo’s neighborhood of Westgate felt more like a dollhouse. It was expansive and pretty, yet made of thin walls and floors that creaked under the plush carpeting.
Kate’s sister Emily, six years her senior, had stayed in New York. Though they’d never been close, Kate felt like an only child for the first time in her life. An only child whose mother felt lost in the Midwest and was struggling to adjust to the turn of events. James had accepted a corporate job and gave up his professorship at university when he realized he’d never be the chair of his department. Lucy would work as a substitute teacher until she could apply for a permanent position.
The end of an enormously long and unsettling summer could not have come soon enough for mother or daughter. Kate coped as she always had, retreating into a fantasyland where she made up intricate tales she later told to the kids at school. Lacking the eager audience she had back in New York City, that summer she wrote her stories down. By the time school started in Toledo, the chubby redhead who sat behind her in English class became a bully who freaked out children with his painted face and satanic red outfit. The blue-eyed pretty boy in math class turned into a clumsy savior, á la-Batman, except he couldn’t always rescue everyone he meant to help. And the girl in homeroom with a piercing look and incredibly dense, blonde curls was the all-powerful queen of the land. Her name was Ruby.
In the school hallway, Ruby repeated, “Five p.m., okay? And watch out for that idiot,” she whispered when the blue-eyed Batman character walked by, and Kate couldn’t stop staring at him.
“Huh?”
“He uses that dreamy look to fool girls . . . all innocent and sort of needy. But last week he cornered Martha in the hallway and force-kissed her.”
Kate’s lungs deflated. Not because she was attracted to him, which she was, but because she had made him the good guy in her latest stories.
“Don’t be late!”
*****
Graciela Kenig can’t remember a time when she wasn’t reading or writing stories—or partly covering her eyes during the most gruesome parts of famous thriller movies and plays. An explorer at heart, she has traveled to many corners of the U.S., Canada, Europe, the Middle East, and Latin America. Her favorite experiences include walking among friendly penguins in Patagonia and having lunch overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in Santorini.
Graciela has extensive experience as a features journalist, online forum contributor and careers columnist. Her work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times, along with several national publications. The Plans They Made, Winner of the 2022 Page Turner Award for best genre writing, is her debut novel.
Born in Argentina, she’s completely bilingual in English and Spanish and has lived in Chicago with her husband most of her adult life. Her son, wife and two adorable grandkids are always nearby. You can sign up for her newsletter at https://gracielakenig.com
