Read Online This Doesn't Happen in the Movies by Renee Pawlish - Free Book Online
Authors: Renee Pawlish
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How are you, really?”
“I’m just tired. It was a long day and I fell asleep on the couch.” Half the truth was better than the whole thing. No way could my mother handle the whole truth. Not when her son was falling down in the line of duty, and especially not when my duty involved a profession that she saw as “chasing those people around for money.”
“I’m glad you’re working hard, but you need to take better care of yourself, dear. Now, I wanted to let you know that your father and I made our flight reservations. We’ll be coming to visit in two weeks.” She rattled off the dates for their annual Christmas visit and I pretended like I was writing it all down.
“Now it’s late, so I’ll let you go,” she said. “I love you, dear.”
“I love you, too, Mother.” I hung up the phone and promptly fell back asleep.
*****
I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a tender spot on my temple where the butterfly bandages held the cut closed. I also knew I wanted to find out what had happened to Peter Ghering, and why I was the target of an attack. As I stood in the kitchen fixing a bagel and cream cheese, I thought through what last night’s assailant said to me: “Stay away from Amanda.” Someone was taking an interest in my investigation, someone who was either tailing me or knew where I lived. Or both. But why was I such a threat? I’d barely gotten started on this thing. Was it about this case, or something else? Why stay away from Amanda? And the biggest question: who attacked me?
It was Saturday, so I lingered over a long breakfast, showered, then reapplied bandages to the cut on my temple. After a half hour of contemplation over a cup of coffee, I decided that I would focus on the source of my anxiety: Amanda. If she was hiding something, I wanted to know what it was. I’d had a bad feeling about her from the start, but my focus had gone in another direction, to finding her husband, Peter. It was time to turn my attention to her.
It was now almost eleven. I took two more Advil for my headache, threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes and headed out the door. I stopped by the office to check messages – none – and grabbed a sandwich from Jason’s Deli across the street. A light snow fell, and temperatures hovered barely above freezing, so I drove with caution over slick roads to Castle Pines.
Once in Amanda’s neighborhood, I parked where I could see the road that led down to her house. I opened a Coke and ate my Italian sub sandwich while I waited. The DJ on the 80's radio station gabbed over the end of a Cars’ song, saying that it was heading into the noon hour, time for the top five songs from the last week of April, 1984. I kept my eye on the bend in the road. It wouldn’t be long now.
As if I’d just looked into a crystal ball, Amanda’s gray Lexus came into view. She barely looked toward my vehicle. She yielded for a second before tearing off down the road. She hadn’t even noticed me, unless the whack to my head had left me more addled than I realized. I could surmise where she was going - to her country club.
Sure enough, I followed the Lexus back onto the highway and soon exited onLincoln Avenue, where Amanda drove straight to the Lone Tree Golf Club. I knew the club, had golfed there a few times the previous summer. Advertised as a premier private country club, with an Arnold Palmer designed course, the club catered to the social elite of south Denver.
Amanda turned into the circle drive entrance of the Lone Tree, got out, and handed her keys to a young valet who had helped her out of the car. She said something that made him laugh, pulled her long fur overcoat around herself and walked into the building. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait, at least a couple of hours. I hunkered down in the car seat, where I could still see the front door, turned on the
“I’m just tired. It was a long day and I fell asleep on the couch.” Half the truth was better than the whole thing. No way could my mother handle the whole truth. Not when her son was falling down in the line of duty, and especially not when my duty involved a profession that she saw as “chasing those people around for money.”
“I’m glad you’re working hard, but you need to take better care of yourself, dear. Now, I wanted to let you know that your father and I made our flight reservations. We’ll be coming to visit in two weeks.” She rattled off the dates for their annual Christmas visit and I pretended like I was writing it all down.
“Now it’s late, so I’ll let you go,” she said. “I love you, dear.”
“I love you, too, Mother.” I hung up the phone and promptly fell back asleep.
*****
I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a tender spot on my temple where the butterfly bandages held the cut closed. I also knew I wanted to find out what had happened to Peter Ghering, and why I was the target of an attack. As I stood in the kitchen fixing a bagel and cream cheese, I thought through what last night’s assailant said to me: “Stay away from Amanda.” Someone was taking an interest in my investigation, someone who was either tailing me or knew where I lived. Or both. But why was I such a threat? I’d barely gotten started on this thing. Was it about this case, or something else? Why stay away from Amanda? And the biggest question: who attacked me?
It was Saturday, so I lingered over a long breakfast, showered, then reapplied bandages to the cut on my temple. After a half hour of contemplation over a cup of coffee, I decided that I would focus on the source of my anxiety: Amanda. If she was hiding something, I wanted to know what it was. I’d had a bad feeling about her from the start, but my focus had gone in another direction, to finding her husband, Peter. It was time to turn my attention to her.
It was now almost eleven. I took two more Advil for my headache, threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes and headed out the door. I stopped by the office to check messages – none – and grabbed a sandwich from Jason’s Deli across the street. A light snow fell, and temperatures hovered barely above freezing, so I drove with caution over slick roads to Castle Pines.
Once in Amanda’s neighborhood, I parked where I could see the road that led down to her house. I opened a Coke and ate my Italian sub sandwich while I waited. The DJ on the 80's radio station gabbed over the end of a Cars’ song, saying that it was heading into the noon hour, time for the top five songs from the last week of April, 1984. I kept my eye on the bend in the road. It wouldn’t be long now.
As if I’d just looked into a crystal ball, Amanda’s gray Lexus came into view. She barely looked toward my vehicle. She yielded for a second before tearing off down the road. She hadn’t even noticed me, unless the whack to my head had left me more addled than I realized. I could surmise where she was going - to her country club.
Sure enough, I followed the Lexus back onto the highway and soon exited onLincoln Avenue, where Amanda drove straight to the Lone Tree Golf Club. I knew the club, had golfed there a few times the previous summer. Advertised as a premier private country club, with an Arnold Palmer designed course, the club catered to the social elite of south Denver.
Amanda turned into the circle drive entrance of the Lone Tree, got out, and handed her keys to a young valet who had helped her out of the car. She said something that made him laugh, pulled her long fur overcoat around herself and walked into the building. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait, at least a couple of hours. I hunkered down in the car seat, where I could still see the front door, turned on the
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