Flights and Falls

by R. M. Greenaway

  “Why?” he said, glancing at her. “D’you miss my old self?”

  “God, no. You were a royal jerk. I couldn’t stand you. Good riddance.”

  “I’ll be a royal jerk again soon. Just watch me.”

  At Skyview Manor they were asked by staff to wait in the common dining room for their eleven o’clock meeting with Mrs. Gold-Seton. Here, Dion occupied himself getting coffee, while he considered JD’s insult and how to retaliate. At the counter he filled two cups, thinking maybe he would just disengage. But that would be like running away. Best to fight fire with fire. Back at the table he said, “You’ve changed, too. You’re … snippier.”

  “Yeah, because I’ve lost my few good friends on the force, including you, even if you were a jerk. And Looch. I’m not blaming you, Cal. But nothing’s been the same since.”

  Dion almost said, But I’m here, though he knew what the answer would be. No, you’re not. She had always liked Looch more, anyway. She had found a brother in him. With Looch around, she had been a happy person. Everybody loved Luciano Ferraro, and everybody missed him, and Dion had gone and killed him, and JD was lying when she said she didn’t blame him.

  There was still no sign of Gold-Seton. The cafeteria was nearly empty but for a small gathering over by the window, laughing it up. A radio played.

  At 11:02, JD said, “Let’s head over there.”

  They found her unit, and Heidi Gold-Seton let them into her clean, well-kept apartment. “Sorry,” she said shortly. “Was just heading over to get you. Still adjusting to the lower rpm.”

  Dion had been expecting another Mrs. Vlug, but Mrs. Gold-Seton was on a different spectrum. Square-bodied and erect, in spite of her walker. Her face was squarish, too, and resolute. Her hair was cut short and white as snow, but her eyes were almost black. And steady. Unnervingly steady, as she stared at Dion with a cynical slant to her wide mouth.

  “Well?” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Just a few questions,” JD said.

  “So you said when you called. Please, sit down. You want coffee or cookies, or something?”

  Dion was thinking he would rather have Patricia Vlug as a grandmother any day.

  JD declined the refreshments, and they sat at the table. Looking around, Dion saw a large cage over by the window. Mrs. Gold-Seton had a bird, as Mrs. Vlug did, but the bird, too, was on a different spectrum — a lot bigger, and brilliant blue with yellow markings. It was also quiet, motionless, maybe dead. No, it twitched an eye, lifted a foot, set it down again, and shuffled down its perch. A beautiful but grumpy-looking bird.

  Mrs. Gold-Seton said, “That’s my surviving hyacinth macaw. A talker, usually, but having one of his days. His mate died last year, and he still moons over her.” She called out, “Hello, Ralph!”

  The bird nodded once.

  “His real name is more glamorous,” she explained. “But I call him Ralph. That’s my deceased husband’s name: the Honourable Mr. Justice Ralph Seton. They’re much alike. Well, what do you want to ask? I have a hair appointment at eleven forty-five.”

  “I remember Justice Seton from court,” JD said. “I liked him.”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton studied JD, maybe suspiciously, maybe assessing whether she should warm to her or not. “Thank you,” she said coolly. “He was enduringly likable.”

  JD got back to the point. “We’re here about your son Karl’s stepson, Scott Mills.”

  Heidi’s brows went up, and Dion expected her to say something nasty, as Karl had done, likening the boy to an email virus. Instead she leaned forward with a worried wince. “Scott? What’s happened?”

  She was familiar with Scott, then. And in a positive way.

  “Nothing’s happened,” JD assured her. “We need to talk to him, but it seems he’s out and about. We thought you might be able to help.”

  This wasn’t true. They didn’t expect her to produce the kid. Up to now they hadn’t expected her to give two figs for him. All they were here to do was take a look at her, see if her name had anything to do with the case, or was just some kind of phonetic foul-up. Then find out what her connection was, if any, with Amelia Foster, who had worked at the Skyview as a care aide.

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?” Mrs. Gold-Seton asked.

  “No, no,” JD said. She paused. “You seem fond of him. Do you get together much?”

  The woman scowled. “I haven’t been able to get around so well these days” — no marathons, Dion thought — “so not as much as I’d like. Can’t even drive my car,” she said, and gestured toward the window.

  Out the window was the facility’s organically configured parking area, and before her unit sat a little white Porsche Boxster.

  “That’s your ride?” Dion said.

  She had noted his surprise, and he realized that his surprise could be taken as offensive. “That’s my ride,” she stated glumly. “Had exactly three spins in it before my stroke. Being the passenger just isn’t the same, is it?”

  “When will you be back behind the wheel?” asked JD.

  Dion feared the question would be a painful reminder to the older woman that she would never slam pedal to the metal again. But Gold-Seton didn’t look hurt, and her answer was another shock. “Doc says with rehabilitation, I’m looking at another six months before I’ll be driving again. Meantime, I sit and have coffee, I walk to the end of the hall, come back and have more coffee, and try to avoid the nitwits around here. He does visit, though, when he can, which is always pleasant.”

  “Who?” JD said.

  “My step-grandson, Scott — the one you’re here about. And I wish you’d explain why.”

  “When was he last in to see you?”

  “Not for a while. When he can manage, he comes by on the weekends. But he’s a busy boy. Goes to Capilano University. Digital Arts. He’s between semesters, but he’s looking for a job to help with tuition, so doesn’t have a lot of spare time. I told Karl to help him out, but Karl’s a bit of a tightwad, thinks young people should fend for themselves. ‘Makes ’em strong,’ he likes to say. Let me think. It was about two weeks ago, mid-December, when Scott came by last.”

  “He didn’t visit for Christmas?”

  A slight frown. “Odd, yes, but I haven’t heard from him. I’ve asked Karl and Maria about him, and they say he’s busy. Too busy to visit, I suppose, but I’m not going to gripe about it. I do like him. He reminds me of my son Evan.” She sat in silence for a moment, then gestured to a nearby cabinet. “Last time Scott came by he brought those flowers and that card.”

  Dion obliged by admiring the roses and lilies in their vase, desiccated but attractive. The card propped before them depicted an English country garden blowsy with sunlight. Behind the card and flowers stood a tri-fold hinged picture frame of ornate pewter holding photographs of yesteryear.

  He walked over to pick up the card and take a look at Scott’s handwriting, but there wasn’t much to see, as Scott had relied on the factory’s salutation and simply scrawled his name at the end of it. “Nice,” he said. No date.

  JD was going into the folder she had brought along for the photograph of Amelia Foster obtained from Tiffany Tan. Foster was very much alive in this particular shot, a plump, shy-eyed, smiling young woman in a soft-blue sweater, her short, glossy hair held back by combs. Until recently she had worked at Skyview, so there was a good chance the two women had met. And if Foster really had been trying to say Heidi Gold-Seton as she lay dying, perhaps they knew each other well.

  JD presented the photo to Mrs. Gold-Seton. “Do you know this woman at all?”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton grumbled something about her reading glasses and went to find them, while Dion studied the photographs in the pewter frame. Gold-Seton returned with her glasses on and took the photograph from JD. “She looks familiar,” she said. “Who is she?”

  “This picture is a few years out of date,” JD told her. “Her hair would be shorter now.”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton returned the photo. “Nope. Do
n’t know her.”

  For the third time Dion was surprised, and this time disappointed as well. He had been sure she would break the case wide open for them, say she knew Foster, provide the lead that would reveal what had led to Foster’s death. JD tucked away the photo. “Does the name Amelia mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. A brilliant young woman who was an advocate for equality, a pilot who flew across the ocean and, on July 2, 1937, disappeared off the radar. You look like her, in fact.”

  JD, the wannabe pilot, smiled briefly. “The Amelia I’m talking about is actually the woman in this photograph,” she said. “She worked here from April to mid-October in housekeeping. Her full name is Amelia Jeannette Foster.”

  “Good grief,” Gold-Seton said. “She’s the young woman who died on the highway just two weeks ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that why you’re here? What’s she got to do with Scott?”

  “We’re still a long way from knowing that ourselves,” JD said. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  Gold-Seton removed her reading glasses and shook her head. “Maybe she’s one of the girls. I’m not a people person. When housekeeping wants to clean my apartment, I vacate, let them work in peace without an old woman glaring at them. Never chat with them, as some do.”

  “Here’s another name for you, then. Desiree Novak, or Dezi?”

  “Don’t know that name, either.”

  “Did Scott ever bring a girl with him when he visited, about sixteen or seventeen, blonde, very pretty?”

  “He never brought anybody. Now, I’m getting thoroughly tired of your evasions. Was Scott involved in the crash? The papers said it was a single-vehicle accident and that she had lost control.”

  “We think he may have some knowledge about it.”

  “He’s a potential witness, then? Why don’t you just say so?”

  JD seemed to be losing steam. She looked to Dion for advice.

  “Is this Karl?” he asked, pointing at one of the photos in the hinged frame.

  The woman switched her glare from JD to him. “That’s Karl on the left,” she said. “Went through a few wives, but never had any kids until he married Maria.”

  Neither Karl nor Maria was said with love, Dion noticed.

  “So at least I finally have a grandson,” she said. “Who I swear is more of a blood relation than any of my official kith and kin.” She sniffed. “And one who I am hoping is not in some kind of trouble, though I’m starting to think he is, with all your fancy footwork.”

  JD seemed to realize her PR charm was getting her nowhere, and got to the point. “There have been some accidents along the Sea to Sky here. Drones and other flying objects are attacking cars. Scott likes his flying toys, and he lives right uphill, so of course we’d like to talk to him.”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton had been staring at JD throughout her disclosure. Now she threw her head back and laughed. When she was done laughing she said, “Scott wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the kindest young man I’ve met since, well, Evan. You see that boy in that photo?”

  Dion picked up the hinged frame and peered at the central photo, an informal shot of a young family of four: husband and wife and two small boys.

  “Not that one,” Mrs. Gold-Seton snapped. “On the right, the dark-haired boy by the gate. That’s Evan. He died two years after that photograph was taken. Scott is so like him, in looks and spirit. I’m not a fanciful woman, but I’ll go so far as to say I feel I’ve connected with my younger son through Scott.”

  On the other side of the room, the macaw said, “Peek-a-boo.”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton stared distractedly at her pet. “Where he got that from, I don’t know. It’s not the kind of nonsense I’d ever teach him.”

  So Evan was the dreamy-eyed boy leaning on a rustic gate in the photo in the right-hand wing of the frame, Dion was thinking. The photo in the left-hand wing was a studio shot of a proud young man in lawyer’s robes. Definitely Karl. He had the same big teeth and challenging eyes as the man who had made Dion’s life miserable in court, but with coal black hair. The picture struck him as touching. He glanced at Heidi Gold-Seton and thought of the passage of time, the years of change she had lived through. When she was born, cars still had to be cranked, probably, and the Great Depression and the Second World War were just around the corner. She had gone from that to this — a marathon, indeed.

  JD was looking at the photographs over Dion’s shoulder. “So that’s Ralph Seton as a young man,” she marvelled. “Great photograph. Mind if I take a snapshot?”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton didn’t mind at all, and JD captured it with her phone camera as Dion held out the frame. He placed it back where he had found it, behind the dead roses, and JD sat back down to deal with one last question: confirming Karl’s alibi. Mrs. Gold-Seton recalled a recent visit from her son, but couldn’t say whether it was the night of the Amelia Foster crash.

  “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” JD said. “I hope you’re back on the road soon.”

  Mrs. Gold-Seton grumbled acknowledgement, and as they left the macaw called out, “Goodbye.”

  * * *

  “Maybe we misjudged poor Scott,” JD said, back at the car. “His step-grandmother, at least, seems to think the world of him.”

  Dion was still puzzled by the disparity between Karl and Heidi’s opinions of Scott Mills. It was like they were speaking about two different people. He said, “If Mills manipulates planes and causes crashes for kicks, he could be a people manipulator, too, sucking up to her. He wasn’t born into money, he just lucked into it through his mom. Maybe he wants to make sure he’s an heir to Heidi Gold-Seton’s estate. Maybe Foster knew he was pulling the wool over her eyes, and was trying to warn us.”

  JD gave his idea the thumbs down. “Mrs. Gold-Seton vacates the room rather than chat with housekeeping. Foster was probably a nice enough woman, but you get to know people, even if they’re dead, and I can tell you, she wasn’t any kind of saint. So why would she give a hoot if the grandson to one of the residents here was a worm in disguise, sucking up to granny to get his name on the will? I’d say nice try, but dead wrong. Foster wasn’t trying to warn us with her dying gasps to not let Mrs. Gold-Seton get duped. That’s just stupid. Sorry, Cal, but you’re wrong. She was simply hallucinating about a game of hide-and-seek, like we first thought.”

  JD was right, and Dion nodded. Behind the wheel, he turned the key. The engine growled alive and cool air punched out of the vents and riffled his hair. JD snapped on her seatbelt. “You keep not showing up at Rainey’s. Too bad, ’cause it’s lots of fun. You should come along, like I keep telling you. Oh, wait, I forgot, you’re gone.”

  “I’m not gone, I’m right here,” Dion snapped, and saw too late it was a trap.

  “No,” she said with mean satisfaction. “You’re not.”

  Dion felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the vent shooting air into his face. He manoeuvred the car out and aimed for the exit.

  “Sean is throwing a party New Year’s Eve,” JD said. “If you’re really here, you’ll be there.”

  “Of course I’ll be there.”

  “Sure you will be. Sure, sure.”

  He frowned as he drove. Ever since hearing of the party, he had harboured a secret intention to find some last-minute excuse to not go. Parties were sensory overload, stressful, and it was frankly too much work trying to compete with his old fun-loving self. But JD’s attitude changed everything. He’d show her.

  Thirty-Three

  GHOST

  A CREATURE OF HABIT, Leith brought a packed lunch to work most days, and the type of sandwich never varied, since he felt that ham or salami, cheese, mustard, and crispy iceberg lettuce was about as good as it got. But today he somehow ended up with JD in a small Vietnamese restaurant just off Lonsdale, eating something called spicy lemongrass noodle soup. It was good, but he missed his sandwich.

  As they were sitting and talking, mostly gossiping about colleag
ues, out the window they saw a bear-like man strolling by. Mike Bosko. He didn’t see them. “Sit very still,” JD said through her teeth. But the warning was unnecessary, for Leith had already gone still as a rabbit under a hawk’s shadow.

  Together they watched Bosko raise a hand to somebody in greeting. The somebody turned out to be Dezi Novak, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, being pulled along by three small dogs on leashes.

  The large man and the slight young woman stopped on the sidewalk and talked, like actors on a stage, but muted by heavy glass.

  “They know each other?”

  “Met briefly at the detachment,” Leith said. “Having quite a friendly little chat there, aren’t they?”

  Bosko and Dezi seemed to be discussing the three little dogs that were skittering about at the ends of their leashes.

  “She walks dogs for people,” JD said. “It’s a side job.”

  “Wonder what they’re talking about now,” Leith said, as the conversation on the sidewalk seemed to grow serious. Bosko was nodding as Dezi spoke, then Dezi nodded while Bosko spoke. Which he did at some length. When he was apparently finished, Dezi said something, looking indignant. Then the two went their own ways. Or at least Dezi did, while Bosko turned to Leith and JD, sitting motionless in their window seat, and gave a little wave.

  “Damn,” JD said. “He knew we were here all along.”

  “I swear he’s not human,” Leith said.

  The door swung open, and Bosko entered the restaurant. He took a seat next to Leith. “Well,” he said, “that was interesting.”

  “Do tell,” JD said.

  “I’m not sure how ethically sound it is,” he said. “But it went like this. I’ve been keeping tabs on the case, but I don’t feel I’m a hundred percent on top of it. I did recall her name, though. I greeted her and reintroduced myself. She asked if we had found Scott Mills yet. I said we hadn’t, and reminded her that if she heard from him, we should be the first to know, and she should not engage with him in any way. She said of course, but I thought I saw something in her eyes that said otherwise. Now, probably I’m wrong, because I’m not the most perceptive guy, but let’s just say I listened to the doubts in my head and leaned on her a bit.”