The Last of the Stanfields(52)

I crossed the space quickly and sat right down at the table, facing the wall, leaving “George Harrison” no time to think things through. He looked at me, perplexed, and then strode over to join me.

“I admit, your little story about growing up without a father really tugged at my heartstrings,” I said. “You’d have to be a stone not to be moved by that, and even more so to make it up. Now, look at that photo. Are you really going to try and tell me running into each other, first at the hotel and now here, was a coincidence? How? When that’s my mother you’re looking at!”

George Harrison glanced at the photo and went pale as a sheet. He went in for a closer look, unable to get a single word out.

“Well?” I persisted, raising my voice.

“There, right next to your mother,” he finally managed. “That’s mine . . . my mother.”

He turned back to me, his face a combination of confusion and mistrust.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

George Harrison dug into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out an envelope, which he laid on the table. I immediately recognized the handwriting.

“I don’t know what it is you’re accusing me of, but go ahead and read this,” he said, tapping the envelope softly. “Read it and you’ll see why I drove the whole night to get here.”

I unfolded the letter and read, hardly breathing. As soon as I finished, I took my own letter from my bag and handed it to George Harrison—or rather, George-Harrison. He looked as shocked and afraid as I was, and went another shade paler by the time he finished reading. We studied each other silently. The staring contest went on until the waitress finally came back, wanting to know if we would be dining together . . . and if we had finally settled on a table. Yes . . . and yes.

“When did you receive that letter?” George-Harrison asked.

“It came around ten days ago, followed by another about a week later telling me to come here.”

“I got mine around the same time, same story.”

“I’m still not sure who you are, George-Harrison.”

“But I know who you are, Eleanor-Rigby. I didn’t until now, because my mother never called you by name.”

“Your mother . . . talked about me?”

“Well, not you in particular. Your family. Every time she scolded me, she’d say, ‘My friend’s children in England would never talk back to their mother like that!’ Those kids, they always had perfect table manners. They would clean their rooms, they never whined when their mother asked them to do something, and, of course, they were model students . . . Basically, everything I screwed up as a kid, your family did well.”

“Then your mother didn’t really know my family at all.”

“Who would pull a dirty trick like this? And . . . why?”

“I still have no way of knowing it isn’t you.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Right, just a question of perspective, I suppose,” I admitted. “There’s no way for either of us to know exactly what’s running through the other’s head. And we both have reasons not to trust each other.”

“Are you sure? If you ask me, that’s why we’re here in the first place.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said, our mothers knew each other. My mother mentioned yours many times.”

“But mine didn’t mention yours.”

“That’s a shame. But it doesn’t change anything. This photo shows them getting along very well—like partners in crime, even. I’ll bet that the person behind this whole thing wanted us to see that. Together.”

“Wanted us to see it so we would have a reason to trust each other? I’d say that’s a bit of a stretch, but fine. Why would the poison-pen want us to trust each other?”

“Poison-pen. That’s good. I don’t know. To save time, I guess?”

“The fact that you can understand such twisted reasoning doesn’t exactly cry innocence, you know.”

“Granted, but maybe it does cry . . . intelligence?” he asked.

“Sure, with a nice dash of modesty on top.”

“Someone is messing with us. Why, I have no idea. But we have a way better chance of unmasking him if we join forces.”

“Well, don’t you think the poison-pen would see that coming?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s a risk he chose to take.”

“Why he and not she?” Even though I’d been assuming it was a man as well, I didn’t want him to know that.

“Good point.”

“Whatever happened to trusting each other? I’m the one who brought it up in the first place.”

“Which definitely cries sincerity, or at least proves you’re smart.”

“Smarter than you, you mean?”

Once again, our eyes locked, and we studied each other for what felt like ages. And once again, we were saved by the bell as the waitress arrived to take our orders. George-Harrison asked for a lobster roll, never taking his eyes off mine. I was too engrossed in the stare down to think up something original to order, so I ordered the same.