“Surely he has, ah, friends.”
“I’ve not seen many, man or woman since he moved in. His mom comes by, and his little sister, but that’s about it. He works most of the time from what I gather.”
“I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Danny but I need to get going. Oh, can you tell me where the nearest library is?”
“Library, eh? Sure enough. Let me write the address down. And while we’re at it, I’ll give you the elevator key.”
Marisol looked for the exit out of the building. She didn’t want to tell him she wasn’t coming back. “Can I get that later?”
“Sure, Miss Marisol. I’m here until six.”
“And what direction is the library in?”
“Let me call Mr. Ryan’s car. He’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Mr. Ryan left instructions to call his car if you needed transportation. So, Miss Marisol, I’m calling the car.”
Danny had a determined look on his face so she relented. “Thanks, Danny.”
Marisol walked into a bright New York air and waited for the car. She was surprised when it arrived. It wasn’t a limo, but a new Lincoln Town Car.
“Hi, I’m Jerry,” said the driver.
“Nice to meet you,” said Marisol.
After introductions they travelled the clogged New York street to her destination. Soon Marisol was delivered to a branch of the New York Public Library.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said to Jerry when they got there.
“That’s okay. I’ll find a place to park not far. If I have to drive around the block until I do that’s okay too. Mr. Kelley told me not to expect a call until around seven tonight, so I have all day.”
“And this is what you do? Wait for calls to take him somewhere?”
“Yeah. It’s a great job. For time to time, I’ll get a call to take a business associate somewhere, but it’s mostly Mr. Kelley.”
Marisol was dying to ask him if he ever drove any ladies with or with Mr. Kelley, but resisted the urge.
The driver’s phone rang, and he answered it.
“Sure, I’ll take care of it, Mr. Kelley.” He turned and looked at Marisol. “I’ve got to make a trip to Penn Station, but I’ll be back for you. Shouldn’t take me longer than an hour, even if the traffic is bad.”
“That’s fine,” said Marisol. “I’m sure it will take some time to do what I came here to do.”
“See you later then.”
In the library, Marisol spent several frustrating hours researching her mother and her family. While at first she found nothing, her excitement climbed she found a book about her written by her mother’s brother. The first half of the book was filled with pictures of her mother as a child, and in different dancing costumes as she grew up.
Marisol couldn’t help but feel pride of the beautiful young woman, but it was also apparent Alonda grew up poor and used dance as a way out of poverty. Unfortunately, the book didn’t have details about where the family lived. However, it was filled with Marisol’s uncle’s ruminations about how Alonda Morrison left behind her family when she became famous. Marisol was taken aback by the bitter tone. Her mother never said anything bad about her family, but then again, she never said anything good either.
Through the obituary records, she found both her mother’s parents had passed on, but there wasn’t anything on her uncle. Was he alive? Marisol had to find out.
The librarian that helped her kept staring at Marisol as if she was trying to figure something out.
“Is something wrong?”
“You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”
Marisol’s gut clenched, wondering if the woman was about to figure her out. She needed to finish up here quickly.
“I’m sure we’ve never met before. Is there a phone I can use?”
“There’s a public phone in the corner,” the librarian said, pointing to the area.
Marisol had a few coins in her pocket left from her ill-fated hot dog purchase and used them to make the call. “Hi,” she said, “I’d like to speak to whomever might have information about the writer of ‘The Alonda Morrison Story.’ Wilson Morrison is the author.”
It took several minutes before Marisol was put through to an editor.
“Yes, I remember him. Very sad story.”
“Did he die?” asked Marisol, her stomach sinking at the thought.
“Just who is this? I’ll tell you he doesn’t have any money. He comes in every so often looking for royalties, but that book is deader than the proverbial doornail.”
“No, I’m a reporter,” said Marisol, trying to keep the woman on the line. “I thought with all the news of the missing princess, I’d get some background on her mother.”
“Oh, yes. That is a story. It’s been running in the news day and night.”
“It has?” said Marisol. She was shocked she got that much interest from the media, but she also felt embarrassed. What was going her father going through? She had to bet a message to him. Then it hit her how her words sounded. “I mean, it has.”
“Well, I’m not sure you’ll get much out of him, but he likes to hang out at Munson’s Coffee House.”
Marisol secured the address from the woman and thanked her profusely. Feeling much happier than she had in a long time, she walked toward the entrance of the library. Then she spied the librarian that helped her with a security guard pointing toward the direction of the phone.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she looked for another way out of the library, but each door she encountered was locked. There was only one thing to do. Keeping her head down, she walked briskly to the front door.
“There!” the librarian shouted, and she and the guard rushed toward Marisol. She dashed out of the door with the two running after her. Marisol’s heart pounded in her chest as she made her escape. She looked around frantically for the Lincoln and finally saw it ahead on the left-hand side of the street. With her feet slapping the New York pavement, she made the car and jumped in, breathing hard.
“Are you okay?” asked Jerry with concern in his eyes, peering at her from his rearview mirror.
“Yes. Can we please go to Munson’s Coffee House?”
***
Marisol didn’t know what to expect when she walked into the coffeehouse. Its lighting was dark, and a brooding atmosphere permeated the space. Against the back wall was a wood service counter where a young man stood waiting to take orders. A few people sat at scattered tables, but it generally seemed a place that didn’t get much business.
She scanned the room, but saw no one that was a candidate for her uncle. A couple of Asian boys sat huddled over a computer, and a woman in torn jeans sipped a cup of coffee while reading a book.
On the right was a bank of leather booths, so she took one with a good view of the front door. To the right of the double door was a large television suspended from the ceiling. A news channel was playing. Although the sound was off, closed captions ran at the bottom. A picture of Marisol popped up on the screen behind a reporter. Closed captions ran with the reporter’s commentary.
Princess Marisol Duvaingnon of Dalaysia, twenty-one, is still missing. She disappeared last night from the Grand Wedgewood Hotel during a state dinner celebrating her engagement with Prince Tristan Vattakov of Kriegov, a small, independent state that was once part of the Soviet Union. While police report no clues in the disappearance of the princess, sources inside the The Grand Wedgewood Hotel report a server is being questioned in connection with Princess Marisol’s disappearance. Allegedly, the server was found with several items belonging the to princess, though at this time no charges have been filed. At this time, law enforcement has not stated they suspect foul play, but due to the high-profile nature of this case, the investigation is ongoing. Local and federal law enforcement are working closely with Dalaysian and Kreigov security in following up on leads provided through a tip line set up by the NYPD. P
lease call 555–780-0000 if you have any information that will assist in the investigation.
Marisol hung her head. Her father must be worried sick. Plus all these people were looking for her, diverting time and resources from the cases that needed their help. She resolved to get a message to her father as soon as she could and let him know searching for her was unnecessary.
The door opened with the ring of a bell overhead, and a black man walked in. Her breath caught in her throat. Though aged and with graying hair, the man was the spitting image of her mother. She rubbed her arms while she took a deep breath. The man walked haltingly to the counter and spoke to the barista, who frowned before he prepared a cup of coffee for him.
Marisol watched each movement he made, torn between walking up and introducing herself and flying out the door. She had never met this man, and he’d been around Marisol’s age when her mother left New York to fly off to Dalaysia with a crown prince.
He turned with coffee in-hand, looking over the room until he spotted Marisol. His eyes narrowed, and he approached Marisol’s booth.
“You,” he hissed when he got close enough. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for family,” she said.
“Well, you gave that up when you left. What the hell do you want now?”
Marisol was confused. What was he talking about?
“I’ve never met you,” she said. “But I think you’re my uncle Wilson.”
He blinked as if trying to adjust his world view. He peered at her more closely.
“I would have sworn you were Alonda.”
“No. My name is Marisol. Alonda was my mother.”
“Oh,” he sneered. “The half-white brat.”
Marisol was shocked by the vehemence in his words.
“Excuse me?”
“Our own people weren’t enough for her. She left us for that white—”
“Excuse me,” said Marisol shaking with her indignation. “My father is a wonderful man, and he loved my mother with all his heart.”
“And he took such good care of her that she’s dead now.”
“That wasn’t his fault.”