by Mara Kalyn
In the shop, despite the hardworking florescent lights that swung from ceiling rafters, all four corners were dark. Two women sorted through boxes at a long table.
“Hello. Feel free to browse.” Two pairs of eyes fastened curious stares on Tori. “Are you the lady who’s replacing Rhonda?”
“Yes, I'm Tori Carlin.”
“Nice to meet you. I'm Dawn, this is Corine. Say, where is Doris? We haven't seen her since poor Reverend Andrew...”.
“She passed out and they took her to the General for observation. She's home resting now.”
“So, she's okay.”
“She's a tough lady.”
“I guess she would have to be, after what happened. Horrible, horrible,” Dawn paused, head tilted, eyebrows raised. Tori shrugged her shoulders.
“It was an awful thing to experience.” She waved her hand toward a far table. “I'll start there, I think.”
“Staff gets a ten percent discount.”
Tori chuckled. “Almost free, then?”
“Just about,” Dawn grinned and resumed sorting clothes.
“These jeans,” Tori stretched them across her hips. “What size are they?”
“A lot of the stuff doesn't have labels,” Dawn sighed. “Here,” she plucked a measuring tape out of a small box on the table.
Tori measured. “Twenty-eight inches. My waist was never that small.”
Dawn laughed. “I hear you. They don't make clothes for real women any more. Maybe better luck on that table?”
At home, one closet shelf was dedicated to jeans, better quality than these. Why, she asked herself, buy more? As she rejected one pair after another, it occurred to her that if she was serious about investigating this Dom, she'd have to follow him to his lair, if he had one. For that, she needed a disguise herself. Why take a chance he'd recognize her from their brief encounters on the street? If he was playacting, as she suspected, he was aware of his surroundings. Motivated now, she chose a white cotton shirt and a beige ball cap. The idea was to blend with Ms. Everybody and Anybody in the street.
She added a pair of mule type sneakers, and huge sunglasses to her stake-out wardrobe.
Her own mother wouldn't recognize her in this getup. These, clean, gently used clothes were what she needed. A starched shirt and stiff jeans fresh from a department store screamed 'just bought'. And this whole bag of goodies only cost her twelve dollars and change. Tori thanked the thrift shop ladies, and headed upstairs. She wanted to check on the young man again.
The room was silent, as if resting until brought to life again by worshipers. The mysterious young man had gone. Tori understood and respected reluctance to share personal issues with strangers. Still, she knew that unshared burdens were the heaviest.
Back in her office, she glanced at the wall clock. Her shift was over in ten minutes. Doris wasn’t expected at work, so nobody would miss Tori if she nipped into the wash-room for a quick change of clothes. She detoured into the Reverend's vestibule, where there was a full-length mirror. “Perfect. Ms Anybody and Everybody.” Just like the dozens of generic casually dressed females who strolled along the rue Sainte-Catherine window shopping, or sipping coffee on terraces.
Satisfied with her transformation, she stuffed her wallet, mobile, and keys into the little purse she'd bought.
Outside, she put on the sunglasses and adjusted the ball cap low on her forehead. Dom, who was lumbering down the hill, turned, and stared up the street. A burning sensation flooded her upper chest. He's seen me, he knows who I am. Tori spun around and walked in the opposite direction. Half a block ahead, she recognized the young man she'd tried to console. A backpack slung over his shoulder, head down, he walked westward beside a companion. She was glad he wasn't alone.
Daring to turn back again, she caught sight of Dom as he continued downhill toward the train station. Tori watched him, her gaze bouncing away from him every few minutes. She didn't want him to intuit an intense stare. A few minutes later, satisfied he'd had enough of a head start, she followed.
Inside the cavernous train station, Tori walked across the space to a vendor of luggage and handbags. From this location, she had a perfect view of the entrance to the men's rest room. A janitor, who could have been a programmed robot, dipped a mop into a bucket, passed it through the wringer, swiped the floor cross-motion, and repeated. Tori watched him for a few moments. His glance moved rhythmically from floor to mop and back again. A lot could escape his notice. She picked up a brown tote, holding it at eye level. This is ludicrous. What am I doing? I should stop the nonsense and drama, go home, and have tea with Mom.
Even if Dom's intentions were shady, what could she do about it?
Leave the poor bugger alone. He's a homeless man going about his business, doing the best he can with what he's got.
Tori hung the tote back on its hook and headed back to the Cathedral to change and go home.
~6~
A Double Life
SHE DIDN'T LISTEN TO herself. She couldn't. Tori fixated on Dom's disappearing act for most of the previous evening and began over again in the morning. He'd gone into the restroom, but hadn't come out again. No way she would have missed the dirty clothes, the shuffle and the habit of kneading his left hip. Surely the man hadn't evaporated. Yesterday, she'd crossed the concourse to speak to the janitor who mopped the floor outside the restrooms. He'd stopped in mid motion when she asked about another exit from the restroom.
“Nope, no other exit.” The janitor had lifted an eyebrow, rolled his eyes, and resumed mopping the floor. She gave herself a mental shake. Brooding over the situation wouldn't help, but brood she did. All this leap-frogged in her brain while she munched on a Swiss cheese and ham on rye and sipped iced tea. Remembering to brown-bag her lunch had been an easier goal to fulfil than letting go of the conspiracy theory she'd woven around the homeless man. Why was she so obsessed with thoughts of him? 'Enough,' she told herself. 'Enough, stop this nonsense. Haven't you got a life? Go home.'
Could it be, Tori thought as she reached into the desk drawer to retrieve her handbag, that she was bored? She considered her life quiet, but not boring. She had her mom, step-dad, sister, best pal Annie, a son and daughter, a hobby business, and this job to keep her social and creative life at a steady simmer. Maybe she missed the daily excitement, drama, office politics, and interaction with all kinds of people in her former job. In the end, she'd been worn down and exhausted by it all. She'd gladly left that behind her. Perhaps brain cells not occupied with daily living itched for a challenge, a puzzle to decode. A challenge like how did a homeless man fade into thin air under her nose? Her fingers brushed against the plastic bag with her new-old clothes.
Tori squeezed her eyelids shut and waited for direction. Ice-cream. She could almost taste the smooth creamy richness of the soft serve from the Creamerie in the Gare Centrale. As if of their own volition, her fingers closed over the bag and she marched to the ladies' room.
Dressed again in her new spy uniform of jeans and white cotton shirt, she raced out of the Cathedral, adjusting the ball cap, fumbling with sunglasses, barely remembering to lock the door behind her. Dom was already halfway down the hill. Ball cap pulled low to meet the frame of the sunglasses, she ambled along half a block behind Dom. While he headed toward the men's room, Tori veered off to the Creamerie. A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her that Dom hadn't yet reached his destination. A woman ahead of her in line examined each tub of hard ice cream. Tori shifted from foot to foot.
Come on, lady. Decide. She directed an impatient glance at the restroom entrance.
The clerk's gaze swept over Tori and the line of customers gathering behind her.
“Madame, do you mind if I serve the others while you decide?” The woman shrugged and moved over.
Tori nodded her thanks and ordered an ice cream sundae with caramel fudge drizzle and whipped cream. As she turned to leave, the woman asked for a plain vanilla ice cream cone.
Tori's sucked in her lips
and repressed an expletive. She threw the woman a venomous stare. The sundae, cupped between warm palms, had begun to melt around the edges. Thin rivers of chocolate and caramel sauce snaked down a soft white mountain of frozen deliciousness.
Momentary annoyance dissolved as she placed a generous mound of cold unctuous goodness into her mouth, and licked the spoon clean. She exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. Seconds later she remembered her mission, and her head jerked up toward the restroom. Hopefully he hadn't snuck out while she indulged in sensory excess. Tori strolled toward a bench with a clear view of the rest rooms and sat next to a woman with two suitcases and a duffle bag. Enough for two. Passersby will assume one of those bags is mine. The woman launched a suspicious glare at Tori and pulled her luggage closer to her knees.
With a nonchalant air that implied indifference to any possible infringement of space bubbles, Tori pinned her gaze to the arrival and departure boards while keeping the restrooms in view.
A man she hadn't seen enter came out, Dom's backpack slung over his shoulder. He wore a white tee-shirt, aviator style sunglasses and knee length khaki shorts. His features dissolved in the shadow of a long-billed baseball cap. He stepped onto the escalator that would take him to Place Ville Marie and on to the city center. What if she was wrong and this wasn't Dom? Then she saw it. The man rubbed his left hip as the homeless man had. This was Dom the homeless man, looking much less pitiful and in full control of his mental capacities.
She'd been right. He was pretending to be homeless. Curiosity now at full throttle, she wracked her brain for the next step. Confrontation? Definitely not. Without further thought, Tori tossed the empty sundae dish into a trash bin and followed him up the escalator. Outside, momentarily blinded by the bright afternoon sun, she lost sight of Dom until, wearing her sunglasses, she spotted him strolling toward the rue Sainte-Catherine. She ambled along on the opposite side of the street from Dom, stopping in front of store windows as she caught up to him. Keeping him in view while feigning interest in window displays, she let him get ahead, then resumed tailing him.
Fifteen minutes later, mesmerized by an intricate necklace in a window, she almost forgot about Dom. A sharp blast of car horn snapped her focus back to the task at hand. She caught sight of Dom's backpack as he ducked into a narrow brown building sandwiched between a shiny new construction and a run-down, sagging dwelling. No mistake, this was Dom without his disguise. Tori didn't believe it was coincidence that this man massaged his left hip the same way as she'd seen Dom the homeless man do.
The sign on the door advertised rooms for rent. Where did he get rent money? Did street begging supply enough? Unlikely. He had another source of income. Which meant his situation as a homeless man was temporary. Probably a cover for something else going on in his life.
She stopped to consider her next move. If she followed him in, he might recognize her at close range through her thin disguise. Flapping the front of her shirt to create a breeze, she scanned the street for a good cool spot from which to keep an eye on the rooming house. Two doors down a coffee shop advertised the best coffee, pastries, and free Wi-Fi. Stepping into the air-conditioned coffee shop, she ordered an iced tea and a scone. Sipping the icy, tangy tea, she glanced around the almost empty room for a window seat.
As she sipped tea and nibbled on the scone, it occurred to her to document with photos. Tugging the mobile out of her tiny purse, she pointed the lens at the rooming house door. Too late now, but she should have snapped a photo of cleaned up Dom at the train station.
After forty-five minutes, another iced tea and a lot of boredom, the plate-glass door opened. Dom stepped out wearing dress slacks and a white shirt. He carried a briefcase and a dark suit jacket was draped over his arm. She snapped a couple more photos and steeled herself to follow him even though her bladder now burned with the need to relieve itself. Thigh muscles clenched, knees tight together, she focused on Dom. A businessman moonlighting as a homeless man?
She shivered with gratitude when the man got into a recent model black sedan and drove off. She snapped a photo of the license plate and bolted for the restroom.
As she squatted over the toilet bowl, in the afterglow of an empty bladder, she reflected on the facts as she knew them.
Dom lived a double life. He masqueraded as a mentally challenged homeless man. He lived in a rooming house and drove a recent model of automobile. Why? Was he an author or a journalist researching the homeless? A social worker? Why work from a rented room, not from the comfort of home?
The missing pieces to this puzzle were surely in his room at the boarding house. Manuscripts, or a journal. But how to get in? Which room was his? What name had he used to rent it? These questions roiled in her mind all the way back to the Cathedral, distracted her while she changed into her day work clothes and during the walk to the commuter bus terminal.
Familiar landmarks flashed by as the bus sped along the highway. The still waters of the Peel Basin, disturbed only by a raft of ducks diving for their dinner, didn't hold her attention as it usually did. Tori's brain gnawed on the conundrum of Dom, the homeless man who wasn't.
AFTER ANOTHER RESTLESS night, Tori was not pleased to discover the Bishop's assistant had called in sick, and he assumed Tori, underwhelmed with work, would be delighted to take on the long list of tasks he needed done.
After every completed assignment, her mind cycled back, analysing Dom’s possible motives. What was his real name? Even if she could get past the watchdog at reception and sneak in, how would she find Dom's room? She could pretend to be his lady friend, but bile rose in her throat at the thought. No, they wouldn't allow just anybody into a guest's room, even in a low-end boarding house.
Frustrated by her inability to find a solution, she forced herself to focus on the next task. How many times had she told herself to forget Dom. It was none of her business. Why was she stalking the poor man? It was that quiet voice from deep in her mind that whispered – because it doesn't make sense. There's more to this business. Was it gut instinct, or obsession that drove her mind back to Dom?
As often happens, the mind, released from the pressure to resolve a puzzle immediately, serves up a solution. While she spoke to a customer service rep, an idea formed and zipped around her brain until she asked the rep to hold a moment, while she wrote it down. Tori clicked off the call and picked up her mobile phone. She flipped through the images from the previous day. There it was. A clear shot of the door and the telephone number. She took a deep breath, searched the ceiling for inspiration, scrawled down some talking points and tapped out the number. A deep voice, which could have been male or female, repeated back the number upon picking up.
“Bonjour,” Tori said in French. “Excuse me for disturbing you, but I'm looking for my younger brother and I have information he may have rented a room in your establishment. He's had mental problems and stopped taking his medication. I don't know what name he's using, but if I went over and showed you a photo, would you be able to help me?”
“Sorry, Madame,” The voice sounded bored and resigned, as if hundreds of females called about their errant brothers daily. “I don't know who you are, and this establishment respects the privacy of its guests. Unless you're the police and have authority, I can't help you.”
“Merci.” Tori stabbed the end button to disconnect. Nowhere as satisfying as slamming a receiver into its cradle.
Really, does Mr. Snooty think he works for the Ritz?
Damn, back to the drawing board. And to Bishop Laridy's phone calls. Now that she knew where Dom bunked down, there was no need to follow him. She'd find a way to get access to the supposed homeless man's room. There, she'd surely find clues to why this man cleaned up so well, owned a late model car and masqueraded as a challenged homeless man. If he was a journalist researching homeless people, there would be journals or notes. Why, then, was it necessary to rent a seedy boarding house room as a base of operations? Why did he change out of the homeless man disguise into casual clothes, and
change again in his rented room? So many questions, so few answers.
She tapped out Sasha's number.
“Aunt Tori.” Sasha's tone was guarded if not downright suspicious. “Have you called to nag me about not visiting grandma?”
“I'm sure your own conscience is doing that job nicely. No, I'm following up on the Reverend McAdam case. Have you any suspects?”
“Tori, I can't discuss the case with you.”
“I understand that, but I was there, I saw Reverend Andrew's dead body. And there's this homeless man....”
“A homeless man? Between the churches, the Bell Center, the fast food joints, and the high pedestrian traffic, it's a prime location for homeless people and scalpers. One needs money to eat, the other, well, we won't go there.”
“Yes, of course I'm aware of that, but this one is special. He changes out of his homeless get-up in the restroom at the train station, then walks five blocks to a rooming house, where I'm sure he lives. At least part of the time.”
“For crying out loud, Tori,” Sasha growled. “First, what are you doing following a strange man around the city? If he's leading a double life, it's his business, and obviously, he doesn't want to be identified. That's stalking. It's against the law. Besides, you're exposing yourself to danger.”
“There's something not right about him. I see him every morning. Sometimes he forgets he's supposed to be challenged because he looks very lucid to me. Isn't that unusual for a supposedly challenged individual to tip back and forth between sound mind and not so sound? And I didn't follow him on purpose. We happened to be going in the same direction during my lunch hour. A couple of days in a row, he went into the men's restroom, but didn't come out. A man came out who rubbed his left hip just like the homeless man, and carried the same backpack. I followed him out of curiosity.” She could almost see her nephew palm his forehead and shake his head.