Reba could put two plus two together. Or one plus one. Her youthful assistant and an aging but vigorous Lothario had vanished at the same time.
Clearly, John Schatz spirited Li-Li away to Palm Springs.
The studio filled with a disparate group of the curious. A few, like the aromatherapist Colleen Gadden, had no idea why they were there. And didn’t especially care. Colleen hadn’t seen a client in a month. Whatever was happening, it was action.
She chatted with Catherine Baker, Reba’s friend and future maid of honor, introducing her to Maxie Rosenquist, a sculptor, Lorna Ballmer, a flutist, Phil Rash, an experimental science fiction writer (he wrote entire novels omitting verbs; it’s actually possible) and a half dozen other tenants of the Essex Art Cooperative.
At intervals they stopped talking to listen to Reba, who made a mad welter of calls.
First to Li-Li. Then John Schatz. (Neither answered, to no one’s surprise.) Then to Li-Li’s roommate. Then Walt, reluctantly volunteering, rang up Schatz’s warehouse (a temp acknowledged he indeed left for Palm Springs). Finally Reba called Li-Li’s father. The girl had requested time off, saying she would be at a family gathering in Duluth. Not revealing anything (she wanted to protect Li-Li from scandal, if possible), Reba carefully probed. How is the reunion? How is Duluth?
Mr. Feng was confused. What reunion? What Duluth?
That did it.
She hung up. “She’s been kidnapped!” She sent her cell phone clattering across the table.
“Please,” Walt said. “Let’s not exaggerate.”
“She’s a kid. We were caught napping. How am I exaggerating?”
An image of Schatz loomed before her, not the mild, dapper businessman, but a giant bestride the city of Minneapolis, horrible, heavy-bearded, half-naked, an awful, sword-bearing, ogre-iffic Viking scarred in Nordic runes.
“She’s twenty-three,” said Walt. “I’m sure she went of her own free will.”
“You call a girl running off with a sixty-year old man free will?” A look of terror and awe came into Reba’s face. “He’s drugged her!”
Walt sighed. “More likely fooled her into thinking he’s younger, and richer.”
“Same thing.”
Catherine spoke up. “When I was that age, I dated older men all the time.”
“You could handle them,” Reba snapped.
She smiled. “That’s true.”
Reba paced. “I’ve got to do something. I’m responsible for her. I sent the wolf to her door.”
Colleen Gadden had seen John Schatz come and go. She wore a waist-length braid of gray hair, and quite revealing sun dresses. To those who knew her well, she did not so much practice aromatherapy as the “erotic arts”, as she called it. “You could send the wolf to my door,” she said.
Reba was in no joking mood. “There’s only one thing to do. We have to rescue her.”
Walt spoke softly. “Reba…”
“Don’t Reba me.” She turned to everyone. “If none of you will help, I’ll go alone.”
A murmur went through the studio. Should they leave, en masse, for California? It sounded like a splendid party. But it was ninety-two in Minneapolis. What would it be like in Palm Springs? Cooler heads, literally, prevailed. One by one the artistic menagerie wandered off to studios, leaving Reba, Walt, and Catherine to consider their options.
“If you’re really going,” Catherine said. “I’ll come.”
“Thank you, Honey.”
“I better go, too,” Walt said. Things were happening fast. They hadn’t considered the details. Or the obvious. “How are we going to find them?”
“You’re right!” Reba looked at the girl’s empty desk. “Li-Li, where are you?”
“Oh, we’ll find them,” Catherine said.
Most of her career had been spent with John Schatz. She had traveled with him, attended trade shows with him, negotiated deals with him, ate sushi with him, been in nightclubs with him, knew his favorite wines, his favorite colors, clothes, furniture, listened to his opinions, and though he had never so much as laid a hand on her, knew his deodorant (Arrid, unscented), and dental floss (mint, waxed).
She knew Schatz. “He can run,” Catherine Baker said, eyes alight with memories. “But he can’t hide.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com