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Peter was halfway up the first flight of stairs when he overheard June in the parlor saying something about Neal and the Guggenheim.
Peter and Neal were going to interview a witness in Queens, so he'd dropped by June's place that morning to pick Neal up—something he rarely did anymore—and now he had a dilemma on his hands. By rights, he had no business eavesdropping on June in her home. On the other hand, Neal had no business going to an art museum, especially the Guggenheim, which had explicitly banned him. Then Mozzie's voice joined June's, and suspicions thoroughly aroused, Peter retraced his steps and went to investigate.
"So it's settled," said June clearly, as Peter approached the doorway. "Dinner tomorrow night at Paola's, you, me and Neal, and then a private evening viewing of Kandinsky’s Painting with White Border at the—" She broke off when Mozzie made chopping gestures at his own neck. "Ah, Peter. Good morning. Are you looking for Neal?"
"There's a small problem with that plan," said Peter, determinedly ignoring Mozzie.
June's eyebrows arched in delicate query.
"The oppressive strangulation of a hundred million miles of red tape," said Mozzie.
Peter continued to ignored him. "Neal's not allowed in the Guggenheim."
"Not without an FBI escort," said June.
The invitation was unmistakable, and Peter took an automatic step back. "Oh no."
"It's been a rather trying week, as you know," June told him, transforming before Peter's eyes from a self-possessed matriarch into a rather tremulous elderly woman. "Ford's betrayal and abrupt departure, you know. I expected more of my old friend. I feel like such a patsy. So Mozzie kindly offered to cheer me up with an outing, but of course, it wouldn't be the same without Neal—"
"I happen to know Mrs. Suit is a great admirer of Kandinsky," said Mozzie.
Peter glared at him, exasperated. "Contrary to your views, my wife is not a Suit, and she is definitely not authorized to represent the United States' government. Even if she wanted to."
"Well, perhaps the two of you would be good enough to join us," said June. A glimmer of amusement appeared in her sad eyes. "We won't make you sing, I promise."
Peter protested weakly, but somehow she overrode him—far more effectively than Neal ever managed to, and God only help him if they should decide to join forces against him. He found himself agreeing to dinner the following evening, followed by a private tour of the Guggenheim.
"If Elizabeth's free," he said, clinging to the corollary.
"She is," said Mozzie.
"My treat," said June.
Peter sighed heavily and remembered his manners. "Thank you."
*
June sat in a folding chair in the window of Saturday, Mozzie's fourth-floor safe house, which was located directly across the road from Paola's. Her borrowed binoculars were old Russian army surplus, but they did the job. She could make out every detail of the restaurant's façade and the table she'd booked for Neal and the Burkes at the front of the restaurant.
Mozzie came through from the kitchen, carrying champagne in a bucket and two flutes, but June spared him only the briefest of glances, intent as she was on the show about to play out before her. The radio receiver on the table conveyed the discreet murmur of the restaurant patrons, broken only periodically by an occasional burst of laughter or a noisy passing sports car.
As expected, Neal arrived first. He visibly hesitated when he was shown to a table for three rather than five, but the waiter forestalled his query, saying, "Mrs. Ellington asked me to convey this message."
He handed Neal the folded sheet of paper Mozzie had delivered earlier on June's behalf. June knew perfectly what it said: Darling, Mozzie and I have been unavoidably detained. My deepest apologies. Please enjoy your meal without us. I've taken care of the check. Love, J.
"Thank you," said Neal to the waiter. He took the chair facing the door and brought out his cellphone, no doubt checking for messages. A frown marred his handsome face, calculating, considering, and June held her breath, wondering if her scheme would fall apart so soon, but Neal gave an infinitesimal shrug and seemed to accept the situation, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth. He scanned the street, as if he half expected to see June and Mozzie skulking behind a lamppost or staking out the restaurant from a car. The dear boy really ought to know June better than that: she liked her comforts.
Speaking of which, the distinctive pop of a champagne cork brought her attention back to her immediate surroundings.
"I can't believe you talked me into this," said Mozzie, half disapproving, half impressed, as he poured the champagne. He handed her a flute, and they toasted the occasion with the chime of fine Italian crystalware. The champagne was very good.
"Hi, Neal, sorry we're late," came Elizabeth's voice over the receiver, and June put her drink aside and raised the binoculars again. Mozzie came to stand beside her, with a small, hand-held telescope.
The Burkes looked as if they'd gone to a lot of trouble for the occasion—Peter was even wearing a dark, well-fitting suit. June presumed Elizabeth could take the credit for that, and her regard for the woman increased accordingly.
"You're not late at all," said Neal, half rising to greet them.
"Where are June and Mozzie?" said Peter, ever suspicious.
Neal explained about the note. "We're here now, though, right? We may as well eat."
"It does look good." Elizabeth was already reading the menu. June smiled; she liked a woman with good taste and a healthy appetite.
"How long till they figure out it's a date?" murmured Mozzie.
"That depends on how much they want it to be one," said June, lowering her binoculars slightly to smile wickedly at him.
"Excuse me," said Neal's voice over the receiver, and she looked back. Neal had acquired the attention of one of the establishment's waiters. "One of my dinner companions has allergies," Neal continued. "Would you mind removing the centerpiece?"
"What was that about?" asked Peter, but the question faded into the general hum of the place.
"I think Neal's onto us," said Mozzie. "El doesn't have allergies."
"Maybe it's Peter," said June, doubtfully. With the bug no longer transmitting from the desired location, the receiver instead began to give them far too much information about that evening's bookings.
Mozzie turned it off, but June was watching Neal. If he knew, he'd surely give a sign. And there—he was giving a subtle thumbs up, disguised as a gestured description of something. She wasn't imagining it. Definitely a thumbs up. June grinned. Her dear boy.
"Why?" said Mozzie quietly, and since he'd been so willing to conspire with her, to help her trick Peter into agreeing and even to drop the bug in the restaurant, all without questioning her sanity, she decided he deserved an honest answer. He wouldn't judge.
"It's all terribly selfish, I'm afraid," she said. She reached for her champagne and took a sip without dislodging the binoculars. "Vicariously recapturing my lost youth."
"Ford?" He didn't sound surprised.
"Yes, dear. Ford and Byron." For a moment the lenses clouded and she couldn't see a thing. She blinked hard, and they cleared again, and she saw Elizabeth leaning across the fine white tablecloth toward Neal, her face alive with warmth and humor. For a moment June could project herself back to that halcyon time when she'd been loved more than any woman before or since. June transferred the binoculars' focus to Neal and noted the answering smile in his eyes, his solicitude, and then to Elizabeth's right, Peter with his indulgent air toward the two of them, obvious even in profile. With a sweet pang of nostalgia and accomplishment, June thought that perhaps, just maybe, Elizabeth Burke might be as lucky now as she herself had been, all those many years ago.
END