A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

I was already at La Taberna when Alex arrived. I could see him cornered near the front door, the ever-ebullient host, Anastasia, laying a big Euro kiss on him. She was dressed in a designer black sheath, perhaps even more low cut than the last time I’d seen her. Josu, the maître d’, oozing with professional courtesy, escorted Alex into the dining room. I’d gotten good at lip-reading during my reporter days, and I could just make out their conversation.

“Good evening, Josu. I see our table is ready—and waiting.”

“Yes, madam arrived a little time ago. It was very good to see her again, if I may speak so directly.” I saw a raised eyebrow, and loved him for it. The implication was as strong as his Spanish accent that Alex had brought women whom Josu didn’t like. “But she doesn’t seem to be herself,” he added.

“She’s been dealing with some serious stuff.”

“When was she not, sir?” Josu said, sotto voce.

Alex nodded, as Josu pulled back his chair.

“I’m glad you shed your country look,” Alex said to me, studying my own black dress and beaded necklace. “I don’t suppose you find much use for that in hillbilly holler.”

I wasn’t about to let him bait me, not tonight. I rose and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, way more chaste than Anastasia’s. “Good to see you, Alex, and to be back here. The closest we have in Laurel Falls is a Mexican cantina.”

I didn’t want that comment to sound like a put down of the honest effort of those restaurateurs. I’d always appreciated any kind of cuisine—as long as it was prepared and served with integrity. I quickly added, “Actually it’s quite good. A couple of migrant workers opened it so they could enjoy their own food, for a change. But this,” I waved my arm at the luxurious Moorish décor, “I needed a treat like this. Thank you, especially today.”

“Bad news?”

Before I could answer, the sommelier arrived with a bottle of Dellaques De Riscal Rioja 1979. He spoke cordially to Alex, opened the wine, and poured some in his glass.

“Wonderful, Emilio. Excellent choice.”

“Madam chose it.”

I shrugged. “I took the liberty. It’s a wine we used to like.”

“Good memory. That had to be more than a year ago,” Alex said to cover his forgetfulness.

“I remember things for a long time.”

The sommelier scurried away, knowing when to skip the chitchat and move on. We clinked glasses and sipped the velvety wine. “Yes, bad news, or make that sad news. But I’m better now,” I said, though I felt my chin quiver. I cleared my throat and added, “Nigel confirmed the forgery, and I don’t know what to do.”

Alex looked startled. “That means she was murdered?”

“I told you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I thought you were ...”

“I know what you thought,” I interrupted. “Now tell me something I don’t know. What can I do with this information?”

“Talk to that sheriff.  He’ll have to do something now. Turn it over, get it out of your hands. You can let it go now.”

“I don’t know. I wish if this had to happen it had been on Forest Service land. Gregg O’Donnell would be a lot easier to approach than Brower. I’m not sure he’ll even believe me. He’s a lazy son of a bitch who won’t want to open up what he considers an easy closed case.”

We sat in silence, leafing through the thick menu, elegantly bound in dark Spanish leather. We both looked up at the same time, silently acknowledging the vast distance that had grown between us. I felt pummeled by the events of the past weeks, today’s report from Nigel, the months of separation. But I didn’t want to ruin our special meal. God, how long had it been since I’d dined with white linen and fine wine?

“Let’s forget that for now. I can’t do anything tonight, and I’ll know what to do by the time I get home again.”

Our waiter, Felipe, dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo, arrived just as the tension broke. The waiters were all trained in Europe, and I was sure they learned how to read their customers’ moods and body language.

I nodded at Alex, letting him know he could order for me. He spoke fluent Spanish, which always got us the best service and usually something special—an amuse bouche or extra dessert. Josu spoke excellent English, but many of the waiters weren’t as comfortable with the language.

We started with a ragout of exotic mushrooms and prosciutto di Parma with melon. My entrée was the lamb steak with roasted garlic cream, accompanied by butter beans and dandelion greens, Alex’s the grilled New England rockfish with salsa verde. As had been our habit, halfway through our main course, we switched plates. Alex taught me that trick—much classier than dripping samples across the white linen to the other’s plate.

Over dinner, we talked about safe things, mostly politics. What else in that town? Fortunately, we mostly agreed on the topic, unlike a lot of couples I’d known there. And the evening worked its magic. By the time I polished off the last bit of our shared flan and my glass of port, I felt as though nothing untoward would happen again in my life. But eventually, reality won out.

“Do you think you could help me, somehow?” I asked. Alex had investigated—and embarrassed—more than a few politicians and business leaders inside the Beltway. And since he was working freelance, I figured he could make time to help me, if he wanted to.

“And I thought you were going to comment on