I think you just gave me a heart attack.

Sorry, didn’t mean to. Look, I know some things.

Obviously.

And I’m tired of these little chat rooms and silly names. Are we going to meet and have a serious discussion?

New York, next week, honeymoon. I’ll be there on business.

Any particular hotel?

The Lowell, on 63rd. I’ll find you.

10.

After two days and nights at the Lowell with no contact, Bruce was privately bitching about Manhattan hotel prices and thinking of leaving. To make matters worse, Noelle was shopping out of boredom. Whatever the reason, the prices were high and the boxes were piling up. Bruce had lunch with Nelson’s editor, and he had drinks with an agent, and he hung out in a couple of his favorite bookstores, but he was tired of the city. On the third day, Noelle was having tea in the hotel bar when an attractive brunette stopped at her table and said, “You’re Noelle, right?”

The “i” was flat, as in North Florida.

“I am.”

She handed over a small envelope, yellow. “Please give this to Bruce.” And she was gone.

Bruce read the note: Meet me in the second floor bar of the Peninsula Hotel on 55th at 3:30 p.m. I’ll be alone.

They arrived early and the bar was empty, and dark. Noelle took a table close to the counter, ordered a seltzer, and began reading a newsmagazine. Bruce went to the rear with his back to the mirrors and a full view of the bar. At 3:30, the same brunette sauntered in like a fashion model, noticed the couple was not together, and walked to Bruce’s table and sat down. Without offering a hand, she said, “I’m Danielle.”

“Also known as Dane?” Bruce asked calmly, and she couldn’t conceal the shock. She exhaled as her shoulders dropped and all pretense of being cool and in charge vanished. She flashed a fake smile and glanced around. Perfect teeth, high cheekbones, lovely brown eyes, a bit too much padding in the forehead, but all in all one good-looking woman. Tall, slender, decked out in designer stuff. Very classy.

“How’d you know?”

“A long story, one of many. I’m Bruce. We weren’t expecting a woman.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Look, I’d feel better if we had more privacy. I have a room on the fourth floor.”

“I’m not going to your room, because I’m not sure what I’d find there.”

“You’ll find nothing.”

“If you say so. Noelle and I are happy to invite you to a room we have on the sixth floor.”

“Very well.”

They rode the elevator with three strangers so not a word was spoken. Once safely inside the room, they managed to relax as they sat around a small coffee table. With a flair, Bruce began with “Well, I’m Bruce Cable, small-town bookseller from Camino Island, Florida. This is my wife, Noelle, peerless importer of antiques from the South of France. And you are?”

“Danielle Noddin, Houston, Texas, and I have a lot of questions.”

“So do I,” Bruce said. “How did you know about our wedding ceremony on the beach?”

She flashed a warm smile and Bruce almost melted. “I was on the island with a friend, just a few days at the beach. I wanted a closer look at you and your turf. When we were in the store we overheard a conversation about the ceremony, so we just happened to stop by. It’s a small town and I guess people talk too much.”

“That’s certainly true,” Noelle said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I mentioned it so that you would take my letter seriously.”

“Oh, I did,” Bruce said. “We’re not playing games here.”

“No, we’re not. Why did you know I’m called Dane?”

“We went through Nelson’s stuff after the police were finished. There wasn’t much. Virtually all of his notes and research were, evidently, in his computer and heavily encrypted. But there were three notebooks with all sorts of random chicken scratch. Notes on the best dive lodges in Bermuda; restaurants in Santa Fe; a three-page story idea for a novel, one that went nowhere because the idea was not good; a few phone numbers that the police checked out and got nowhere. That sort of stuff. But there were four references to a ‘Danielle,’ who was also called Dane. I take it you guys met once in San Antonio.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “We did.”

“The police paid no attention to it. No surprise there.”

“Where is their investigation?”

“Still open, but they’ve found little. Coffee, anyone?”

Noelle nodded and Dane said, “That would be nice.”

Bruce stepped to the phone and called room service. Noelle asked her softly, “You’re in the city often?”

“Twice a year. The usual, shopping and Broadway and a new restaurant or two, with some girls from Houston.”

It was obvious Dane had expensive tastes and lived well. Noelle pegged her age at forty-one, max.

Bruce returned to the sofa and asked, “Now where were we?”

“How much do you know about Grattin?” Dane asked.

“Well, everything that has been written about a company that works extremely hard at revealing nothing. Basic corporate structure, sales figures, number of facilities, a few names of the big boys, and a lot of bad press about nursing home abuse. The company seems to relish staying in trouble.”