The pain of the previous day had given way to a pervasive, deadening grief that filled every part of Julie's body. Like an automaton, she left her red Honda scooter behind and struck out for her office on foot. Her destination, a two-story vintage house, was less than a mile away on Cypress, a dead-end street on the east side of Lake Eola.
The sky was a robin's egg blue and a light breeze wafted through the giant oaks, lifting their lacy hems of moss. Neighbors, walking a dog or pushing a carriage, smiled at her as they passed. Julie was so numb that none of it registered. It seemed to her that she had just left her building and suddenly found herself facing the lake at the end of Cypress, turning left into the bricked parking area in front of her office. The handsome amber house was angled toward the water, white columns gracing a wide veranda. Only the gold plates on the dark green double door hinted at the business done inside. The left one read, "Garrett Investigations". The right plate had only one word..."Merlin".
For the past three years, Julie had leased her office space from Joe Garrett, a private investigator who lived upstairs. Her office was on the right and his was on the left. For a change, she was actually hoping to see him.
At that moment, Joe Garrett came out and started down the front steps. He was a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a dark tee shirt and jeans, a little older than Julie, perhaps forty. He was ex-military, which probably accounted for his no-nonsense haircut. He smiled when he looked up and saw her. "Morning, Merlin," he called out. "You're up bright and early."
As she approached, he saw the desolation on her face. "What's the matter? You look like your best friend died."
Julie handed him the paper coldly, folded to show the article. "He was my best friend."
"Oh, Jesus, I'm so sorry, Julie..."
Grief pierced the dullness like a sharp knife. Joe was one of the few people she knew who called her "Merlin" one time and "Julie" the next ...just like Marc had always done.
"Wait a minute," he said, scanning the article. "Is this the guy you visit down in the Keys?"
"Yes, it is. Marc and his partner, David. I haven't been able to get David."
"So it just happened Saturday?"
"I guess so," she said, holding back tears. "Joe, I was thinking about your friend, Jake Goldman, the attorney in the Keys. Do you think he could get some more detail about this?"
"I don't know, but sure, I'll call him." Concerned, he put a hand on her shoulder.
"Good, thank you," she said, moving away.
Joe got the message. "Well, I'll call you later, okay?"
"That'd be good. Thanks a lot. I'll be here most of the day."
Julie turned, quickly climbed the steps and went into her office.
Luz Romero, Julie's assistant, was already at her desk, sipping coffee. She was a tall, well endowed woman in her late forties who was blessed with thick and glossy black hair which she twisted in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Unfortunately, the same Latin genes had given her equally heavy lashes which seemed to pull the outer corners of her lovely brown eyes downward, suggesting a sadness that was rarely the case.
A warm-hearted, single woman who thought of Julie as a daughter, Luz took one look at her boss, and was out from behind her desk. "What happened?" she asked, hugging her close. "Are you all right?"
Julie's face crumpled, despite her resolve. "No, I'm not. My friend died." Julie handed her the paper.
"No," said Luz, incredulous, "your artist-friend?"
"Yes."
Julie grabbed some tissues. After a moment, she regained her composure. "I need to clear my calendar, Luz," she said, heading for her desk in the other room. "I'm going to Boston for the funeral. I'm not sure yet of the dates, but I'll know soon. I'll probably go to Key West, too. Anyway, I need some time for this. Will you bring the schedule in?"
The two of them spent the rest of the morning rearranging her itinerary. Later, when Luz left for lunch, Julie's eyes fell on her business card:
MERLIN
She smiled. Marc adored my crazy name. Julie had hated it in the beginning. She was a corporate trainer, a body language expert, not a magician! But the odd single name had been an undeniable boon for her business. She had John Tate, an attorney, to thank for the moniker.
She'd only been a few months into her consulting business when Robert Cronin, an accountant with the Lindsor hotel group - one of her clients - was murdered. His body, shoeless, was found in the dense shrubbery behind the parking lot of their headquarters in Orlando.
The police, following an anonymous tip, had found the shoes in the backseat of a beat-up old Toyota, which belonged to a drug addict who lived nearby.
Julie had never met Cronin but, as it happened, she knew the accused. During a drug-free period, Michael Trudeau had been hired by Lindsor to sell timeshare in LVC, the new Lindsor Vacation Club. He'd been in a training class Julie was conducting for Lindsor to help their new hires recognize different social styles and deal with them more effectively. Julie had been impressed with the young man's demeanor and the questions he'd asked. She had a hard time believing that Michael Trudeau could kill anyone.
And for what? A pair of shoes?
Julie had offered her services as a body language expert to John Tate, Michael's attorney. She sat at John's side and advised him during jury selection, skillfully helping to ferret out biased and unsympathetic jurors. Most important, she identified two who could be counted on to side with the defense.
The state's case was circumstantial and the jury had acquitted Michael Trudeau. When interviewed later by a local TV reporter, the two jurors' comments had confirmed Julie's analysis.
John had teased her afterwards. "I'm going to call you 'Merlin the Magician'."
"Don't you dare!" said Julie.
And so, of course, he did. When Luz answered the phone, John would ask for "Merlin." He dutifully referred Julie to his colleagues, too, but always as "Merlin." Her reputation and demand as a body language expert had flourished exponentially.
She shook her head, thinking back on it.
There was never any magic, John.
I just see what people aren't saying.
* * * * *