No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  Austin also knew that Merrix, despite the claims on his website, was at best a second-tier agent. His clients weren’t the elite stars, although it was possible that one of them might graduate from junior or university hockey to become the next big thing. Instead, he represented third- and fourth-line NHL players, players on the rosters of European teams, players who rode buses in the American Hockey League or the East Coast Hockey League, players whose NHL dreams had been crushed by the realities of supply and demand. Still, many of them received salaries and endorsement cheques to rival those of corporate CEOs. It was this access to large amounts of capital and Merrix’s ability to influence where and when that capital was invested that intrigued Austin.

  “Matt,” he said, offering his large right hand as he reached the table, “thanks for your time today.”

  “I’m pleased we could do this, Stafford,” said the agent, standing to shake. “It’s good to finally put a face to the voice on the phone.”

  “Agreed,” said Austin, as he sat and ordered a beer from the attentive waiter. He glanced down at his sodden pants. “Another wet one out there. What’s your schedule like tonight, Matt?”

  “I’ve got an hour before I’m off to Rogers Arena for the Canucks game. Two of my clients are playing. I have an extra ticket if you’d like to join me.”

  “Excellent.” Austin was a baseball fan and, until a few weeks ago, had known little about hockey. But he wasn’t about to tell Merrix that. He’d spent days studying books, stats, and game films to gain enough information to play the role of average fan rather than clueless hick. “I haven’t had time yet to watch a game this season, and it would be good to see that new kid on the Oilers’ roster, the one everyone’s talking about.”

  When Austin’s drink arrived, they toasted to a Canucks victory. Then Merrix quickly shifted the talk to business. “So, you said you had an interesting investment opportunity that some of my clients might like?”

  Austin paused before responding, taking a slow, thoughtful sip of his beer. Even though in his mind his pitch was a perfect balance between science and art, numbers and passion, he understood that guys like Merrix would be approached dozens of times a month about new business opportunities. And although Merrix’s clients were often seen as wealthy and largely uneducated — ideal targets for get-rich-quick schemes — that’s where mistakes were made and doors slammed closed before they’d opened more than a crack. Austin knew that today’s pro athletes surrounded themselves with lawyers, accountants, and business advisers: perceptive people like Merrix. Austin’s approach had to be professional, credible, and compelling.

  “I do,” he said. He lined up the edge of his cocktail napkin with the edge of the marble tabletop, then placed his glass in the centre of the linen. Everything had to line up. “It’s a little-known fact that a recent change to federal legislation allows for new ski areas to be built in some of Canada’s national parks. The investment community has yet to pick up on it. While ski hills in parts of B.C. and Alberta and even in Europe are suffering the effects of climate change, I’ve found an intriguing high-elevation site in Yoho National Park that gets lots of snow and has some of the biggest glaciers in southern Canada. It’s on the north edge of the park, between Banff and Jasper, on the border between B.C. and Alberta. The number of skiers in the world is growing each year, so there’s going to come a time, sooner rather than later, when an undeveloped, high-quality location like this will be extremely rare. It may already be. And rare means valuable.”

  “And you’re looking for investors.”

  “I’m looking for investors who want to get in on the early stages of a project that will, by completion, be worth something in the order of five hundred million. It won’t just be a ski hill. There’s a base resort component with condos and hotels, and there’s also significant potential for summer activity. I’m calling it the Top of the World Resort.”

  “You’ve probably heard that some NHL players were burned in the Bear Mountain project near Victoria,” said Merrix, his eyes narrowing. “A lot of money disappeared in that one, Stafford, something like thirteen million dollars. Everyone in my world is nervous about that kind of investment. How is this different?”

  “I heard about that,” Austin said. He’d known Bear Mountain would come up. “There are two key differences here. The first is the unique nature of this project. Bear Mountain was a golf course development that started at the same time as many other similar projects, just before the economy took a nosedive. It was one more project among many at a time when the market was already saturated with golf courses and golf resorts. Whereas Top of the World is a unique project that, if we get the approvals, will meet a growing demand others can’t satisfy. Instead of being late to a party that’s already over, this is an opportunity to be first in the door.”

  “And the second difference?”

  “You mean aside from the fact that I won’t be taking millions out of the business to buy an NHL team?”

  “Yes, aside from that.” Merrix smiled.

  “This will be an investment fund, a fund that will not focus solely on the ski resort,” Austin said. “I don’t want all our eggs in one basket, and I want the level of risk to be low. There will be other investments to support guaranteed regular returns to investors. These include shares in other businesses, commercial mortgages, divi­dend stocks, etc. The resort project, as one of the core holdings in the fund, will be phased in over a number of years. So initial investors can, if they wish, take their money out, plus interest, at specified intervals. Or they can reinvest their earnings and grow their ownership stake in the larger fund.”

  “You mentioned guaranteed returns. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m looking at guarantees in the range of 10 to 12 percent per annum for initial investors.”

  “Huh. That’s very attractive, especially with interest rates so low,” said Merrix. “How are you setting up the investment structure?”

  “The resort application was submitted under the name of Collie Creek Resorts Limited, but all investments will flow through the Collie Investment Fund. It’s registered with the B.C. Securities Commission. Initially, investors will receive certificates of deposit to confirm their investment and their rates of return. Later, they can also choose to become owners in key components of the resort project as it unfolds.” Austin reached into his briefcase and passed two documents across the table to Merrix. The first was a promotional brochure for the ski area filled with facts, figures, and dramatic colour images. The second was the formal prospectus for the investment fund.

  “We’d better get going,” said Merrix, looking at this watch. “You can tell me more on the drive over.”

  Three hours later, after the Vancouver team had beaten Edmonton, Austin was introduced to two of Merrix’s clients in the hall between the dressing rooms. One was a Canucks veteran defenceman on the verge of a new contract, the other a young forward in his first stint with the Oilers. At Merrix’s request, a passing equipment manager captured a photo of the four of them together. The men were all smiling, each for a different reason.

  “I like what I heard from you tonight,” said Merrix as they parted company outside the arena. “And it’s good to deal with someone who knows hockey. I’ll call you in the next few days once I’ve spoken with a few of my guys.”

  It was still raining. Austin wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice in one day. He climbed into a waiting taxi, cautiously optimistic that his sales pitch had gone well and the agent would recommend the investment fund to his clients. But nothing was certain until the money flowed. As the taxi worked its way through traffic back to the Terminal City Club, Austin, pleased with the evening’s efforts, chatted with the young driver as if he cared what the man had to say. All that mattered was that the first element of his business plan was in motion.

  CHAPTER 4

  DECEMBER 2

  As soon as Willson walked through the front door of the library, she grasped the import
ant role it played in the community of Golden, B.C. It was a physical space where locals gathered, learned, and caught up on local news. She saw people of all ages scattered around the large room, from seniors reading newspapers to a group of children gathered around a librarian who was enthusiastically telling them a story, holding the picture book to face them and pointing to the illustrations as she read.

  A bank of computer stations, all occupied, lined the wall on the west side of the building. As Willson circled behind the users, she saw faces intent on the screens, fingers picking hesitantly at keyboards. Mesmerized by what they were looking at, they ignored her. She understood that these machines might be these users’ only connection to the internet, perhaps to the rest of the world, either because they couldn’t afford a computer or because they were strangers to technology.

  Willson had grown up in Golden, a town of 3,700 in the Rocky Mountain Trench on the eastern edge of British Columbia. Back then, logging and the railroad had driven the economy, and the community had been predominantly white, so she was surprised by what she observed now: a Filipino family sat in the corner reading together, two elderly women pointed at a grainy photograph in a Cantonese newspaper, a middle-aged East Asian man studied the back of a hardcover book in the mystery section. Things had changed.

  Willson joined the queue at the front desk, standing behind a mother and three young children as they checked out their books. Gone were the index cards to be date-stamped and tucked into pouches in the front covers of books. Now the process was all vigorous swipes across digital chip readers, electronic beeps, and paper receipts, like from a store till. She smiled to see the three children’s flashing eyes, their eager movements. Their excitement to get their new treasures home was palpable. She fondly remembered feeling the same way on summer holidays and winter weekends, clutching a pile of new books tight to her chest. That hadn’t changed. One of the kids, a young boy, sat cross-legged at his mother’s feet, already reading, unwilling to wait. Once the books were checked out, the young mother corralled her children toward the door, and the boy continued reading as he wandered behind her, unaware of anything but the world between the covers. His mother gently steered him out of a near collision with the doorframe.

  Willson stepped forward as the librarian turned to look at her. “Hi, Mum,” Willson said. “Ready for lunch?”

  “Oh, Jenny,” said Anne Willson in a librarian’s whisper, a smile breaking across her face, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  She came around the desk and gave her daughter a long hug. She was thin, much thinner than when Willson had last seen her, her sandy blond hair now completely overtaken by grey. Her face had also thinned, and in contrast to her bright smile, her eyes showed lines of sadness and fatigue. Willson was troubled that Anne looked much older than her sixty years.

  “Can you get away for lunch?”

  “Yes. Let me tell Heather I’m leaving. Then I’m done for the day.”

  The two women walked the four blocks from the library to Jita’s Café, crossing Highway 95 near the Kicking Horse River. They sat facing each other in a high-backed booth with a view of the Purcell Mountain Range to the west and the Rockies to the east. Both ordered chicken curry wraps and chai tea. Around them swirled the usual lunchtime collection of athletic post-yoga mothers, dirtbag skiers fresh off a morning run on the local hill, and late-season tourists who’d wandered in on their way down the Rocky Mountain Trench. But in the booth, just the two of them, they were in a world of their own.

  “Jenny, I’m happy you’re here … and so pleased you might be moving back.”

  “Me, too, Mum. But nothing’s decided yet. I have a meeting with the park superintendent this afternoon, so I should know by tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be nice to have some company,” Anne said, a tear suddenly running down one cheek, “and just in time for Christmas. It’s been years since we spent time together. But I do know you’ll be busy, so I don’t want to be a burden. If you move here, that is …”

  Willson reached across the table to grab her mother’s hand. “I’m here now,” she said softly, “and you’re never a burden. Tell me how you’re doing, Mum.”

  That one small prompt punched a hole in Anne’s emotional dam. She started slowly, strained words trickling through the breach. “I just can’t believe that soon your father will have been gone twenty years. I still miss him terribly. Some days are better than others, but there are lots of mornings where I struggle to get out of bed. When I really can’t cope with things, Heather, the head librarian, lets me spend my shift reshelving the returned books so I don’t have to talk to people. It’s very understanding of her. And, oh —” she said, changing track before Willson could fully process what she’d said, “I finally got my widow’s pension from the railway sorted out. They’d stopped it for two months because of a clerical error in head office! It was tough, I had to make do on just my part-time salary. But at least it’s coming in again.”

  “Wait,” Willson interrupted, “they stopped your pension cheque for two months and you didn’t tell me? You should have called, Mum, I could have helped.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. I know how occupied you were with your investigation.”

  Willson held her mother’s hand and let her talk. She was starting to realize just how bad Anne’s depression had become. Things like going out to buy groceries or making an appointment at the bank, simple tasks for most people, were insurmountable challenges for Anne on a bad day. Worse still, her daily routine had become isolated and unvaried, apart from the library, and devoid of any activities to look forward to or enjoy. It sounded almost as if her life had lost meaning, as melodramatic as it sounded, and that scared Willson. Though Anne had struggled with chronic depression on and off over for the last couple of decades, she had still moved through life with purpose and curiosity. But now it seemed she was merely going through the motions. Gazing into Anne’s troubled eyes, Willson was relieved she’d come up with the plan to spend time in Golden. It had been the right decision for all sorts of reasons. Her presence here, even if only temporary, might give her mother something to focus on besides her sadness. But Willson was also sure that her mother needed more than just her company; she needed professional help.

  By two in the afternoon, the café was quiet. They were the last customers left, and Anne had run out of steam. Willson paid the bill, and they began the slow, cold walk back to the library, where they had both left their cars.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” Anne asked, her eyes lifting from a damp café napkin still clutched in her gloved hand.

  “Not right now. I haven’t met anyone yet who’s worth a second date.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You deserve to find someone nice. Are you still doing that internet thing?”

  “If by ‘that internet thing’ you mean online dating, Mum, then yes, I’m still doing that. It seems to be the most common way to meet people these days.”

  “I can’t imagine what that would be like. Is it a good idea to have your personal information online for anyone to see?”

  “I choose what I share,” said Willson, “and not everyone in the world can see it.”

  “It’s just there are lots of wackos and perverts out there. You know, I’ve mentioned you to some of my friends who have sons. We could introduce you to them.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see.” Shit. Time to change the subject. “So, Mum, while I’m here, what are we going to do together?”

  “We’ll have a special dinner tonight to celebrate your possible return. Tomorrow night, there’s a thing in town up at the senior centre I’d like to go to. I wouldn’t go by myself, but with you here, I think I can do it.”

  “A thing?”

  “Actually, it’s an open house about the new ski hill proposal up the Blaeberry River.”

  “Why would you want to go to that?” As Willson asked the question, a thread of guilt wormed its way into her thoughts. She hadn’t imagined having to be dis­honest
with her mother on her first day back in town. This was going to be tougher than she’d imagined.

  “Everyone in town is talking about it,” said Anne. “People are asking me about it when they come in to the library — what I know about it, whether I think it’s a good idea or not. I don’t have enough information to answer their questions.”

  “If you want to do that, then sure, let’s go. If I’m going to be a new warden in the park, I guess I should know something about it, too.” She hadn’t lied, but neither had she told the truth. Back outside the library, she hugged her mother.

  “See you about six,” Anne said, looking over the top of her car. “Good luck with your interview.”

  “Until then, Mum,” Willson said, looking back and waving.

  With an hour to spare before her meeting with Jack Church, Willson decided to circle the town to see what had changed since she was last there. Still on the south side of the Kicking Horse River, she cruised past her old high school, then the provincial government buildings and city hall. She crossed the river on the narrow two-lane highway bridge and toured the small but vibrant downtown, noticing new stores, restaurants, and coffee shops alongside others that had been there since she was a teenager — a good sign.

  She turned in to a back alley that paralleled the river and was shocked by what she saw. What she’d remembered as a charming but ancient log building was now a smoking skeleton of burnt wood criss-crossed on blackened concrete, everything sealed with a thin layer of ice. The entire area, including a burnt-out vehicle, was circled with yellow police tape. Small red flags waved from scattered spots throughout the debris; Willson knew these marked key evidence locations. A van from the provincial fire investigator’s office was parked to the north. Nearby, an RCMP officer sat in his cruiser, head down, tapping on the car’s computer.

  Willson got out and approached the cruiser. “Hi there,” she said from a distance, trying not to startle the Mountie.