Page 48 of Go Back to December

But Baz is one hundred percent compliant with the system. Unfortunately, bujoing is all about shorthand and code, and I can’t decipher what half of the scribbles mean.

I flick through the pages and search for recurring meetings or names I might recognize. There’s one that reads “UC” every Tuesday and Thursday. Another note, from the day before the party that reads, “Call UC” and lists a phone number.

After two rings, a receptionist overly committed to their consonants greets me. “University Club, how can I help?”

“Oh, um, is this the alumni club?”

“Yes, madam, you’ve reached the front desk.”

Madam? They must have a death wish. “Uh, yes. I’m calling for Sebastian Johnson. There was a message.”

“Yes, he’s on my list of notifications for the locker room renovation. Some of his items have to be cleared out next week.”

I’m deflated by the perfunctory nature of the request. “Thanks. I’ll let him know.”

“And does he require the standing conference room booking for today?”

There must be a thousand conference rooms in the Blackhart & Steele building. Why in the world would Baz have a regular reservation for off-site?

I can conceive of only one way to find out.

The University Club perches halfway between downtown and the river. Membership is by invitation only and the annual dues would pay off the national debt. There’s a spa, overnight accommodations, and three swimming pools, which explains why Baz keeps a locker here.

In the shadow of the stately entrance, I squelch a shudder. The first and last time I visited this place was on the heels of the abrupt and painful closure of the refugee aid society, and I was desperately searching for jobs for my displaced staff. While the club had openings, the arrogant turd of a restaurant manager wouldn’t even make an appointment with me, so I came down here to confront him. The altercation was a dumpster fire. I froze, just like at the B&S party.

Over two years later, that blow hasn’t fully healed. If I’d had hustle, like Baz, maybe I would have been more successful. Thank God I didn’t run into him here that day, and he didn’t catch me fleeing from the service entrance, tears streaming down my face.

According to the thorough floor plans posted on the club website, the conference center is located conveniently next to the gym. I should be able to manage a cursory search while the attendant retrieves Baz’s belongings.

The website also specified a dress code. To be on the safe side, I’m sporting a gray sweater dress and a remnants scarf I knitted that hits an eclectic flamboyant note and will hopefully distract anyone from recalling the rest of my physical description.

Unfortunately, the front desk sentinel is not pleased about allowing me access without membership. I flash him one of Luiza’s photos of Baz in the hospital—she posts everything on her feed—and he reluctantly agrees to let me pass through the wood-paneled corridor.

Two men in dark suits march to the top of a grand staircase that circles the bar. One of them wheezes a laugh I last heard toasting Baz. I crane my neck in time to catch Denny Blackhart’s gray hair disappearing at the top of the stairs.

“Melody?”

Sofia stands in the hallway, dressed in black and pearls.

She flashes a confused smile and kisses me on the cheek. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Right back at ya, Mrs. Johnson. If Baz spends so much time here, he keeps a locker, this can’t be a regular haunt of hers.

“When I texted this morning, Baz said he had an appointment,” she adds.

“He has PT,” I babble with a nervous laugh. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Peter emerges from the restroom wearing a dark suit and tie and does a double take at my appearance.

“Baz is here?” he asks, bewildered.

“No, he had to go to physical therapy.” Sofia smiles again. This time it’s a little sad and Sphinxy. “But Melody’s here. Isn’t that lovely?”

“It’s really good of you.” Peter’s eyes crinkle. “We should head in.”

Before I can summon a protest, they whisk me down the corridor, through the open doors into a large reception area filled with people dressed in elegant somber attire. Everyone’s attention focuses on the flower-laden lectern, and a framed photo of a woman wearing dark robes and a lace collar.

As a string trio plays a soft adagio, I can no longer deny that I have stumbled into a Money funeral. And I tremble.