Read an Excerpt
An awed silence fell over Carnegie Hall as Marnie Lundy strolled confidently
across the stage in her elegant black formal, the flowing crepe whispering about
her wrists and ankles with every step. The darkness of the auditorium hid the
thousands of eyes she knew were fixed upon her, but she wavered not once.
Smiling to herself, she recalled, as she always did when she took the stage, the
old Bugs Bunny cartoon where the celebrated symphony conductor Leopold appeared
amid hushed and reverent murmurs of "Leopold. Leopold. Leopold."
Tonight, however, there was no symphony. Tonight, there
was no conductor. Because tonight, Marnie Lundy, concert pianist, would solo for
thousands of her admirers. Tonight, the hushed and reverent murmurs were of "Marnie.
Marnie. Marnie."
She threw back her head, shaking silvery blond hair over
her shoulders, and seated herself gracefully on the bench. Her posture was
impeccable, the piano was tuned to perfection and her knowledge of the music was
complete. The gods were smiling, the planets were aligned and all was right in
the universe. Lifting her hands to the keys, she gently stroked the ivory,
filling her ears and her mind and her heart with the lovely, lilting strains
of --
"Hey, lady, where’s the bathroom?"
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, sighing with much
eloquence as her fingers went still. "It’s behind you," she said glumly.
"Through ladies’ hosiery and designer handbags, in men’s sportswear. Next
to the Tommy Bahama display."
"Thanks, toots."
When she opened her eyes, it was to see a stout, balding
man in an ugly Hawaiian shirt and enormous pants waddling away in the direction
into which she’d sent him. Instead of a darkened Carnegie Hall, she was seated
in the middle of a brightly lit department store -- Lauderdale’s of Cleveland,
to be precise -- where Marnie Lundy appeared every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
evening playing the piano. And where she appeared hawking overpriced underwear
in the lingerie department other days. The black crepe formal was actually a
straight, gray cotton skirt and light blue sweater set, and the silvery blond
hair was really more of the dishwater variety. It was long enough to throw over
her shoulders, though, if she wanted to. But that didn’t happen often, since
it was generally twisted into a loose knot atop her head, as it was now.
Alas, the thousands of adoring eyes Marnie had imagined
worshipping her actually amounted to only eight, mostly indifferent ones: two on
the face of a young mother seated on a sofa near the piano (the two on the baby
to whom she was feeding a bottle were closed), two on the bored saleswoman in
ladies’ hosiery, two on a teenage girl who was clearly trying to decide if
anyone would notice her tucking the Kate Spade wallet she was fingering into her
jacket pocket and two on the face of the store manager, who really should have
been keeping his eyes on the teenager in Kate Spade instead.
Fortunately, those final two eyes were approving of Marnie.
Unfortunately, they were a little too approving. In spite of his name,
Bob Troutman wasn’t much of a catch. Not just because he was a greasy,
revolting little fish-faced man -- though, granted, that part was pretty
off-putting. But also because he had a wife and four little Troutmans living
with him at the bottom of whatever contaminated body of water he called his
habitat. All told, it was enough to put Marnie off her lunch whenever she saw
the guy. Which was why she always looked away whenever she caught him watching
her. Like, for instance, now.
Dropping her gaze back to the piano keys, she repositioned
her fingers and played the opening bars of "Stardust." In her Carnegie Hall
fantasy, she would have flawlessly performed Chopin’s Polonaise in A
flat, but here at Lauderdale’s, old standards were de rigueur, since so many
of Lauderdale’s shoppers were little old ladies who remembered when cotton
briefs only cost ten cents a pair. And, boy, don’t think Marnie didn’t hear
about that every day of the week, either.
Still, it was a decent job, as jobs went. The pay wasn’t
great, but it had flexible hours and gave her the time she needed for other
pursuits, like writing her music and giving lessons to her young students. She’d
never been one for setting the world on fire, Carnegie Hall fantasies
notwithstanding. Having grown up as the only child of a widowed,
never-again-married English professor father, hers had always been a quiet life,
and that still suited her. Working for Lauderdale’s enabled her to keep living
that way.
Well, except when Bob Troutman’s scaly bad self was on
the prowl. On the swim. Whatever. But if he was the worst thing that ever
happened in her life -- and so far, hands down, he was -- Marnie would die a happy,
tranquil woman.
The music flowed from her fingertips for the three hours
she was scheduled to play -- interspersed, it went without saying, with periodic
directions to the bathroom, the elevator and better dresses. At closing, she
straightened up for whoever was scheduled to play in the morning, tidying with
what a couple of the other pianists had called her obsessive-compulsive
neatness. Well, could she help it if she liked the sheet music alphabetized? And
then put in numerical order according to the year it was written? Things like
that brought order to a troubled civilization. The world would be a better place
if more people took a few minutes out of their day to alphabetize and put stuff
in numerical order.
But Marnie had to take more than a few minutes that
evening, because whoever had played over the weekend had really fouled things
up. That was why, when she finally found her way to the employees’ exit at the
back of the store, there was no one left for her to walk out with. Not that
Lauderdale’s was in a bad part of town -- on the contrary, this part of
Cleveland was quite upscale -- but no woman relished entering a dark, deserted
parking lot alone. The presence of a few cars indicated there must still be a
handful of people around somewhere, so she decided to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, she was growing impatient. She
could see her car from where she stood, she reassured herself, right in the
middle of the lot beneath a streetlight, with nothing parked near it. Pulling
her keys from her purse, she jingled them merrily in defiance of the unwelcoming
darkness.
There. Take that, Mr. Bogeyman.
But Mr. Bogeyman snapped back when she took her first step
through the exit. The night was heavy and damp from rain earlier in the day, and
even darker than usual thanks to thick clouds looming overhead. The streetlights
dotting the parking lot radiated fat, milky halos of light that never quite
reached the pavement, trapping moisture within. Something about the sight made Marnie feel trapped, too. A faint shudder of apprehension stole down her spine,
and goose bumps rioted on her arms beneath the sleeve of her sweater.
How strange. She was one for neither whimsy nor portent,
never succumbed to omens or premonitions or shudders down the spine and goose
bumps under the sleeve. Whatever she was feeling now was unfounded and silly.
Today had been like any other day. Tonight would be no
different.
With her purse dangling from one bent elbow, she buttoned
up her sweater against the cool April evening and squared her shoulders. This
was silly, this unfounded aversion to nothing, and honestly, she’d walked
through this door and into this parking lot hundreds of times without suffering
so much as a stubbed toe, and I mean really, stop being so ridiculous. Marching
forward with renewed purpose, she strode into the night. And she got almost all
the way to her car before she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder.
Hard.
She cried out as she spun around.
Then halted at once when she saw that the hand was
attached to the arm of a tidy, wizened little man who was shorter even than she.
And since Marnie stood no more than five-three on a good day -- in one-inch
heels -- that was saying something. The man wore an aged brown suit, and his gray
hair was slicked straight back from his face, though whether that was due to the
damp air or some kind of hair goo favored by elderly men, she couldn’t have
said. His features gave him the appearance of being kind, sweet even, and he
smiled benignly at her reaction.
"I’m so sorry," he said gently. "I didn’t
mean to frighten you."
Marnie smiled back, though the gesture was less a greeting
than it was a reaction to profound relief. This guy probably didn’t weigh much
more than she did, and couldn’t possibly be dangerous. Probably, he was a
shopper who’d lost his way to his car and wanted help finding it. Certainly he
wasn’t menacing.
Until he said, "I’m so relieved to have found you,
Lila. I was beginning to think they weren’t going to send anyone. I was
beginning to think they didn’t even believe me."
That was when Marnie began to suspect that the guy,
however unassuming, might just be a stark raving lunatic, and maybe it was
something other than his car that he was looking for, and maybe it would be a
good idea for her to throw up her hands and run screaming like a ninny in the
other direction.
Not wanting to be an alarmist, however, she replied
instead, "I beg your pardon?"
The man smiled his kindly smile again. "I wasn’t
expecting them to send you, though, Lila, since this is something one of the
junior operatives could have handled. Still, using a department store for the
exchange is quite ingenious. I just wish I’d had some warning. I couldn’t
believe it when I saw you working last night. One minute, I was looking for a
birthday present for my daughter--she loves those big flannel pajamas, you see,
especially the ones that have some kind of happy-hour motif. Though I myself
kind of worry about her in that regard. She really does drink too much
sometimes, and . . ." He blinked rapidly a few times in succession, as if he
were confused -- thank God, Marnie wasn’t the only one -- then asked, "Where was
I?"
"Um, happy-hour pajamas?" she prodded. Though, really,
he was someplace that Marnie would just as soon not visit. La-la land.
"No, before that," he said, tapping his head lightly,
as if that might stimulate his brain. Good luck on that, Marnie thought.
"Oh, I remember now," he finally said. "One minute I
was shopping for my daughter, and the next minute, I saw one of the most
dangerous women in the world straightening underwear at Lauderdale’s.
Obviously, when I saw you, I knew you were waiting for me to make the exchange.
Though it would have been nice if someone had told me you’d be here," he
added in a chastising voice. But before Marnie could utter a word in response--not
that she had any idea what to say--he hurried on, "Anyway, I stayed up all
night last night getting my opus together, and I waited until closing time
tonight to give it to you. I didn’t want anything to interrupt us."
He spoke so quickly -- and so strangely -- that Marnie was
feeling dizzy by the time he paused for breath. What little sense she did make
of his speech left her even more confused. Clearly, the man had mistaken her for
someone else. Possibly, he was a tad delusional. Conceivably, he was quite mad.
Suddenly, the parking lot seemed a lot more menacing than it had before.
Suddenly, her aversion to leaving the store by herself didn’t seem silly at
all.
A quick glance around indicated she was still well and
truly alone -- alas -- so it might serve well to just play along for a minute and
pretend the guy was making sense. At least until she figured out how she could
make the short sprint to her car without giving him enough time to whip out a
carving knife.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked again.
The man’s eyes went wide, and he covered his mouth with
one hand in an uh-oh-what-have-I-done gesture. "Oh, of course," he said in a
chastened voice. "I’m not supposed to call you Lila, am I?" He made a fist
and gently tapped his forehead. "Silly me. I’ve been out of the
service too long. And that little run-in with the KGB years ago didn’t help."
He smiled at Marnie again. "What name are you going by on your current
assignment, dear?"
Current assignment? Marnie repeated to herself. Run-in
with the KGB? Oh, yeah. Definitely delusional. "Uh. . .Marnie," she said
without thinking. But that was probably okay, wasn’t it? As long as she didn’t
give him her last name, she should be fine, right?
He nodded as if he understood completely. Well, that made
one of them. "Marnie. Of course. Was it chosen by He Whose Name Nobody Dares
Say?"
Oh, yeah. Definitely quite mad. "Um, actually, it was my
father," she told him.
"Ah." The little man nodded in a way that made her
think he knew something she didn’t. She hated to think what. "I had no idea
the two of you were related," he continued. "How did that get by me? That
must have aided your quick climb up the professional ladder. Not to imply that
your ruthlessness and intelligence and complete flouting of personal safety
weren’t also responsible," he hastened to add. "And it’s a lovely name."
He winked at her before adding, "Marnie."
"Thank you," she said. She tried to backtrack to the
exact moment when her life had slipped into the surreal. In hindsight, it
probably hadn’t been a good idea to have that kielbasa from Hank’s Franks at
the mall food court for dinner. Just how long had it been on the rotisserie
anyway? Maybe she should have risked the long line at Ruthie’s
Smoothies.
Not that a digestively generated hallucination was her
biggest problem at the moment. Especially since her new bestest friend in the
world -- or, at least, Lila’s bestest friend in the world, whoever she
was -- seemed to be getting excited about something. And gosh, Marnie really
hated to think what.
"Although I must say, it’s not just your
high-ranking status that makes me surprised to see you in Cleveland. Last I
heard, you were on a leave of absence in Las Vegas. And then there was that
rumor about you having tried to kill--"
He stopped abruptly, his expression indicating he’d
almost said something he would regret later. Funny, that, since Marnie was
regretting it right now. He’d mistaken her for someone who’d try to kill
someone else? That couldn’t possibly be good, could it? Thankfully, he hurried
on before she had a chance to think too much about that. Or experience a stark,
raving panic attack.
"Well," he said, "let’s just say I’m glad you’re
here. For a number of reasons."
"Um, look," she interjected as gently as she could,
thinking it would probably be best if she didn’t hear any of those reasons.
"You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else. My name isn’t Lila. It’s Marnie. I’m sorry I’m not who you’re looking for, but . . ." She shrugged,
the internationally recognized sign language for Can’t help you, fella.
"Of course you’re not who I’m looking for," he
said. "I should have realized that right away."&
Marnie would have breathed a sigh of relief, but the
little man took a step closer, looked first one way, then the
other, then leaned in very close, crowding her personal
space way more than she liked.
Copyright © 2006 Elizabeth Bevarly
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