Secrets of the Red Box (9 page)

Bonnie slipped
into
Paul Warsoff‘s sleek, two-door 1940 Packard 120 convertible. She loved the
long, sinuous line of the vehicle, the elegant leather upholstery, the sound of the powerful engine as
Paul started it up. He smiled at her as he shifted into gear. “You smell great,” he commented.
“What’s that perfume?”

He leaned close to her and sniffed, closing his eyes. “Mmmm,” he said as if tasting her. He
straightened up and backed the car away from the Drake. “Do you like Italian food?”
“Sure,” she said.
“I know this great little café,” Paul said. “It’s not fancy, but it has some of the best food in town.
It’s called Comento’s. Have you heard of it?”
Bonnie felt her spine stiffen. That’s where Dave Miller had taken her the night of her cab ride,
where she’d met Mr. Caparelli, the owner. Maybe she shouldn’t go there—maybe Dave would be
there. But what were the odds of that? She grew angry with herself for worrying about such things.
What did it matter? And what if Mr. Caparelli recognized her? That didn’t matter either. Still, she
was left with a nagging concern in the back of her mind. “Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Oh,” he said scratching his temple. “Well, let me take you somewhere you haven’t been. How
about the Bombay Room at the Hotel Fontenelle? Ever been there?”
Bonnie shook her head and felt some relief they weren’t going to Comento’s. “No, I’m pretty
new in town.” She noticed the “C” ration stamp in Paul’s window for gasoline. That was meant for
essential drivers. How did he get that, she wondered. Was an attorney essential to the country? So
essential that he deserved nearly limitless amounts of fuel? She decided not to ask him about it.
“So, what brought you here?”
Bonnie thought about the story she’d told Christine and decided she’d better stick to it in case
they discussed her. “My parents were originally from Omaha,” she said with ease. “In fact, I was
born here, but they moved to New York when I was six months old.”
“Really?” Paul said with interest. “So you’re a native Nebraskan.”
“I guess,” she said with a laugh. “But I feel like a native New Yorker.”
“What? You’ve forgotten all your six-month-old memories of good old Omaha?” He crooked
his arm on the edge of the door. “So, what made you leave New York?”
Bonnie turned a little in the car so she faced Paul more directly. “Paul, you need to know up
front that I was married. My husband…my husband was killed in the war…he was in a
submarine…the Japanese sank it.”
Paul pulled his left hand inside the car and took the wheel with it while he placed his right hand
briefly on Bonnie’s forearm. “I’m so sorry, Bonnie. I can’t imagine…”
Bonnie managed a smile and twisted back in her seat. “It’s been very hard,” she said, fussing
with the scarf around her head. “I would have stayed in New York, but my parents were killed in a
car accident not too long ago, and well, I’m an only child, so I didn’t have a lot of reasons to stay.”
She gave out a little laugh. “Ijust wanted to get away from all the memories, and Omaha seemed like
as good a place as any to do that.”
“Sure, sure, I understand,” he said.
They drove for a few more blocks in silence. Then Bonnie turned her face to his, studied his
handsome profile, his straight long nose, the angle of his jaw. She couldn’t understand why she
didn’t feel any attraction toward him. He was as good-looking as any Hollywood star, she thought.
He was well off, successful, available. So why no spark, no zip? She looked to the road ahead. “You
never expect someone to just be gone one day,” she said with a sigh. “I mean, one day my parents
were home, happy, getting ready for a dinner party they’d been invited to on Long Island…and then
they were gone...killed. No one knows what happened, what caused my father to crash into a tree.
There were no skid marks left by the tires, like he was trying to miss something in the road…no
witnesses who saw anything…he just drove into a tree and then they were dead.”
The silence between them was palpable. Paul kept driving, his fingers gripping the steering wheel
and then relaxing again to hold it more loosely. Bonnie shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m
afraid that’s not very good conversation.”
Paul flicked a brief smile at her. “It’s all right,” he offered. “I’m the one who asked the question
in the first place.”
Bonnie folded her arms and leaned back in the seat. “I suppose I’ve been running away from
death,” she said. “Maybe I thought if I ran far enough away it wouldn’t follow me. But at night I
dream—I see my parents swerving into a tree, my husband trapped in that submarine, the explosion
that must have happened, all of them drowning…”
Paul shifted in his seat and turned his troubled face toward her. “Bonnie…don’t talk about
it…not if it’s too painful for you.”
Bonnie smiled at him, a soft smile of understanding. “No, it’s all right. Somehow I feel
comfortable talking to you about it. I hope you don’t mind.”
Paul shook his head. “No, I don’t mind. I’m glad you feel comfortable.”
Bonnie laughed again. “I suppose that’s a good quality in a lawyer…being a good listener. Do all
your clients confide in you so quickly?”
It was Paul’s turn to laugh now. “Not usually,” he said. “But in college, I always seemed to be
the one everybody talked to about their troubles.”
“You went to Fordham, right?”
“For law school.”
“I was supposed to go to Smith—at least, that’swhat my father wanted me to do,” Bonnie said.
“But Jimmy and I had different plans. He wanted to start his own band. He was a terrific trumpet
player…had always been musically inclined. So, we worked to put a band together. I’d always done a
little singing, you know—choir, high school chorus, at Mom and Dad’s parties. Anyway, Jimmy
convinced me I could sing in his band, and well, I fell in love with the idea, sort of the way I fell in
love with Jimmy. We were doing all right, touring the Northeast, trying to make a name for
ourselves. And then the war came along and messed everything up. Between musicians volunteering
and getting drafted, it was pretty pointless to go on.” Bonnie looked off to the side of the road.
“Pretty pointless…”
Paul pulled up to the curb of the Hotel Fontenelle. Bonnie clasped her hand to her throat. “I’m
so sorry, Paul. I’ve just prattled on the whole way. I wouldn’t be surprised if you dropped me off
here and drove away.”
Paul smiled, picked up her hand, and pressed his lips to it. “Not on your life.”
Bonnie was surprised by his reaction. The valet opened her door and she stepped onto the
sidewalk. “Well, Ipromise,” she said as Paul came up beside her, “I only want to hear about you for
the rest of the evening.”
The center of the Bombay Room was filled with small tables for two, accompanied by padded
leather chairs. There were some larger configurations for groups, while booths lined the walls. Long,
pendulous lights hung from the ceiling, adding to the exotic look of the rich colors and burnished
wood tables. Paul and Bonnie were seated at one of the tables, which was lit by a glass-encased
candle.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked as the waiter came near with their menus.
“I’ll have a Manhattan. And ask the bartender to add an extra cherry.”
Paul smiled. “An extra cherry, sure.” He gave the man Bonnie’s request and ordered himself a
stinger. He opened the menu and ran his finger down the column. “What sounds good, Bonnie?”
Bonnie read over the menu. She saw that the beef items were crossed off due to rationing. “I’ll
have the baked chicken.”
“Excellent choice,” he said, closing his menu. “I’ll have the same.”
Bonnie interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on them. “So tell me about you, Paul. What
about your family?”
Paul smoothed his tie down the front of his chest. “Well, I have one brother who’s in the Navy
right now, been over in the Pacific almost a year. We get V-Mail from him every now and then,” he
said, making a small rectangle shape with his fingers to indicate the microfilmed and miniaturized
copies of letters sent to aid in delivery logistics. He drew in a long breath and sighed it out as the
drinks arrived. “My sister is married and moved to Little Rock about three years ago. She has two
boys and one girl, cutest little kids. Ihardly get to see them now that they’ve moved. Her husband
works for an engineering firm down there. Nice guy.”`
“And your parents?” she asked, sipping her cocktail.
“They live here in Omaha. My father retired recently. He was the president of Omaha National
Bank. He and I share a real love of the Civil War. We could talk for hours about the battles, the
strategies, and so on.” Paul picked up his stinger and took a drink. “He contends that if Jackson
hadn’t been defeated at the first battle of Kernstown in March of 1862—his only defeat, I might
add—that the entire…”
Bonnie stopped listening at the very mention of the Civil War. She’d never cared about history,
not in school, not as a hobby. She sipped her drink and nodded politely, interjected a comment or
two as she could, but otherwise disengaged herself from the conversation. She was relieved when
their meal came and Paul’s mouth turned to eating. But after a couple of bites, he picked up the Civil
War topic and carried on. Bonnie tried to keep her eyes on Paul and not let them wander off, as her
mind wanted to do. She wished she could think of something she could say to change the subject.
When a slight pause presented itself, Bonnie pointed at his plate with her fork. “How is your
chicken?”
“Fine,” he said, cutting off another bite. “How’s yours?”
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll be glad when the war is finally over and we can stop all this rationing
nonsense.”
“Mmmm,” he murmured, chewing on a bite. He swallowed. “It’s nothing compared to what’s
happening in Europe. They’re even rationing clothes over there. Why, a tin of meat on the black
market can cost—well, everything is in shortage over there. We’re lucky by comparison.”
“I suppose so.”
The conversation stalled, and Bonnie glanced around the room, wondering what she’d be doing
if he hadn’t asked her out. Whatever it might have been, she was certain she wouldn’t be as bored.
She didn’t care about the Civil War, or rationing. She wanted him to make her laugh, to make her
feel alive. So far, the evening promised none of that.
Paul waved his fork in the air and raised his brows as if he’d been struck by a sudden thought.
“Did you know that during the Civil War, there were more deaths caused by dysentery than anything
else?”
Bonnie set her silverware down on the edge of the plate and patted her mouth with the napkin.
Her expression must have given him pause to realize what he’d said. Paul cleared his throat. “I’m
sorry, Bonnie. Sometimes I forget myself. That wasn’t a very pleasant thought to bring to the dinner
table.”
She gave him a slight nod and picked up her fork again. “I’m excited to hear the Dorsey Band,”
she said. “And to dance, of course.”
“You like to dance?”
“Love it,” she said with a broad smile. “I hear music and I can’t keep my feet still.”
“Me too,” he said as if they’d just shared a pivotal moment. “I can cut a rug with the best of
them.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Bonnie said with a grin. “I’m a pretty fair dancer myself.”
Paul turned his wrist over and glanced at his watch. “We should finish up and get over to AkSar-Ben.”
“That’s Nebraska spelled backwards.”
Paul smiled and motioned for the check. “See? You are a native.”
///////
Paul Warsoff was a very good dancer. Bonnie leaned into him as he maneuvered her around the
ballroom floor. She loved to dance and had always wished she were Ginger Rogers. She imagined
herself in the movies, dancing and singing. That wish seemed like years ago now, years before San
Diego, before life became twisted and hard.
Bonnie forced her attention to the present. It was a thrill to hear and see Tommy Dorsey in
person again. She loved the smooth rich tone of his trombone, the look of the band, decked out in
pearl-gray tuxedos, except for Dorsey, who wore a white tuxedo jacket with black trousers and
bowtie. His long, straight nose seemed to fit perfectly on his square face and the lights from the
bandstand glinted off his rimless glasses. They played all of her favorites one after another—“The
Music Goes ‘Round and Around,” “Marie,” “All The Things You Are,” “I’ll Never Smile Again,”
“I’m Getting Sentimental Over You.” Bonnie lost herself in the music, in the dance. She leaned her
head against Paul’s shoulder during the slow songs, kicked up her heels during the Sw ing numbers,
danced until her feet ached. But she didn’t care. She was out on the town, living life with a desperate
bravado. She wished it would never end.
Between numbers, Paul glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How about we go
to my place for a nightcap?”
Bonnie raised an eyebrow. “Your place?”
Paul wound his arm around her waist. “Sure. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I make a mean
martini.”
Bonnie pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “How about you take me home and we’ll
have that nightcap another time?”
Paul looked at her and offered a crooked smile. “Resistance is futile, you know. Women find me
irresistible.”
She leaned into Paul, let her eyes penetrate his for an instant. “Yes, I can see that.”
He grinned, took her hand, and walked her out to his car. A full moon gleamed overhead, its
mellow light glowing through the dark. Paul stopped her by the car, pressed her against the cool
metal, and slid his arms around her waist. Bonnie felt that familiar panic rise in her gut, wanting to
push him away. She fought against the urge and let her lips meet his. She brought her hands up to
his chest, slowly, letting his kiss deepen and then gently pushed him back. “Let’s get something
straight,” she said, the moonlight glistening off his sandy hair. “I’m still in love with my husband. I
know it sounds crazy, but I’m not ready for another serious relationship just yet.”
He traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger. “Okay. Who says we have to be serious?”
Bonnie lowered her voice to a cool warning. “And I’m not a cheap date, or a party girl. So if
that’s what you’re looking for, then this’ll be our first and last date.”
Paul peered into her eyes, a little surprised. He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I
never thought of you as any of those things. The way you dress, wear your hair, the way you walk…
I think you’re extraordinary.”
A wedge of cynicism cleaved her thoughts. She knew how men could be, how they would try to
wheedle their way into her bed with flattery and patience. She wasn’t fooled by him for a minute.
His intensions were as transparent as the rhinestones in her necklace. “And I’m not easily flattered,
either.”