by Maia Ross
There was a beat before he shrugged slightly. “I wouldn’t know. Not my area.”
I looked at his hands, the hands he’d used to try to strangle me. It was so funny that I wasn’t angry to see them. Which was another part of why I’d retired: I was worried I was losing my edge in the field.
“What do you hear about this robbery?” he said casually. The ice in his drink popped, and I held myself so I wouldn’t flinch. Boris flashed me a sly smile.
“I was just about to ask you the same question,” I said, matching his expression.
He smiled. Not a nice smile. For a moment I could see the predator in him, and it made a chill bloom somewhere my spleen, but the rest of me perked right up. I’d never been afraid of dangerous men. I still wasn’t quite sure if that was a benefit or a handicap.
“I heard something about a man dying in your driveway,” he said, instead of answering my question.
I sighed. “He was mostly in the street in front of my driveway, actually. What are you doing on the island, Boris?”
He smiled, looked down at his glass. “Like I said, my nephew asked me to come visit. So, here I am.”
“Just as a dead man rolls onto my life.”
The edges of his mouth twitched. “I would expect he was alive when he ‘rolled’ into your neighbourhood.”
I shrugged my concession to his point. “You didn’t happen to have anything to do with this? The man hasn’t been identified by police yet. So he’s not local. I’m thinking somewhere overseas.” I looked at him directly.
He glanced down at his glass, then back at me. Then he shook his head. “I’m a businessman now, Irma. I buy low and sell high. It’s a bit…” He swallowed. “Pedestrian.”
I exhaled. I knew exactly how he felt. “Of course. Well, you’ll give me a ring if you hear anything about it, won’t you?”
“I’ll be sure to.” He held my gaze, nothing in his eyes, like he could be someone’s friendly uncle.
A young Slavic-looking man whispered a pardon me as he leaned over to speak softly into Boris’s ear. Boris rolled his eyes, finished his drink, and stood. “I’m so sorry, Irma, I must deal with a minor issue.” He kissed my hand again. “But I would enjoy seeing you while I’m in town.”
There was a lot to unpack in that statement. See me again so he could finish the job, or see me again socially? “I’d enjoy that,” I said, a little darkly, so he could see I was still formidable.
He smiled as he took his leave of me.
“Evening, Irma.” Emily, Charlotte’s party planner, sidled up to the spot he’d vacated. She’d been hovering behind him for a while, I’d noticed; the purple ends of her chin-length bob helped her stand out in a crowd.
“Good evening, Emily. You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” She grinned, her pink cheeks dimpling. “What a handsome friend you have. I’ve seen him down at Frenchman’s Bay some mornings when I’m jogging.”
“I see.” So he hadn’t been lying about that detail. Maybe he was here on vacation.
“His Hawaiian shirts really are...something.”
“I can only imagine.” I took a welcome sip. “How are the preparations for the fundraiser going, dear?”
She sighed heavily in that way young people do but brightened up almost immediately. I had to tamp down on the suspicious feelings her good humour always managed to inspire in me. Not everyone was a potential predator. Although it would be an excellent cover, the bad Irma whispered.
“It’s very chill. I still have some decorations that haven’t arrived, and the flowers are not as vivid as I was hoping for this time of year, and Luna’s Café is doing the deserts, and she needs some special flour that’s back-ordered? Or something? But good, good. I’m happy.”
“How wonderful. How is Charlotte doing? I called her this afternoon and she seemed all right, but she said she didn’t want any company and—”
Emily leaned forward. “She’s taken to her bed.”
A trail of ice zinged down my spine. The last time Charlotte took to her bed was when her husband of fifty-two years had died of a massive heart attack four years ago. “Oh, dear.”
“Yes,” Emily said, nodding. “I had to push her to come tonight. It wouldn’t be right if she wasn’t here. I mean, the Van Oots’ company helps sponsor this dinner.”
“Thank you for your efforts, dear.”
Emily’s head dipped down to her chest, and she nodded with a faux modesty that made my neck stiffen. For a moment I wondered if I should have a background check run on her. I knew that Charlotte had her own staff for all that, but one could never be too careful.
Stop it. You are retired.
Emily raised her drink at me and bounced off to get lost in the crowd.
“Theresa, may I please have a club soda?” I asked the Club’s head bartender, and she nodded. Her lovely brown hair was pulled into a bun, some curly tendrils snaking out. She was in her late fifties, pleasantly plump, with kind eyes and a heavy pour. She’d been here forever.
Violet slid into the seat beside me. “Who was that dude?”
“Old friend,” I said absently, thinking about Charlotte. “Are you having fun, dear?”
“Irma, my idea of fun is some pizza pockets, a dark room, and high-speed Internet.”
I blinked, horrified. “That can’t be true. And what is a pizza...pocket?”
“It’s complicated,” she said, signalling for a drink. “So what’s our next step?”
“I find Jake Tapper. You figure out what happened to Scooter’s IV machine.”
“I meant next step, like what drink are we having next? When are we eating?”
“I’m going to have wine with dinner. We’re eating soon, but not pizza pockets. Which is not even food. Honestly, Violet, I’m starting to get worried about your digestive system.” I nodded my thanks to Theresa when she deposited Violet’s drink.
“Where’s Julian?”
I looked to our table. His chair, beside Violet’s, was empty. “He’ll be here. He has to be. His family and the Van Oots have been sponsoring this dinner for years, and he’s the only representative of the Harper family on the island right now.”
She made a frustrated noise. “I wanted to give him an update, but he’s not answering my texts.”
“He’ll be here.” It was a short walk to our table, past Snookie, ignoring the arthritic leg she thrust out to trip me with. The table had been decorated in a nautical theme: tiny beavers made out of driftwood holding place settings in their buck teeth, a three-masted schooner as the centrepiece. The beavers were all wearing captain hats, some of them with an eyepatch, others with a pirate sword grasped in their teeth.
Dinner was served. The amuse-bouche was a tiny caviar tartine, the soup was a cold cucumber that lingered beautifully on the palate. The wine was white and crisp. If I had been working, I would have stuck with soda, but one of the great benefits of retiring, I was noticing, was that one could indulge oneself more than previously. Which is why I held my glass out when they asked me if I wanted wine with dinner. I’d look for Imogene while I was digesting; missing a meal like this would be a crime in itself. Plus, one always draws more attention to oneself by not going along with a crowd.
I searched the ballroom for Charlotte; she was nowhere to be found. But as I was looking around the room, Boris’s eyes met mine. He inclined his head in salute and cut into his steak with relish that was mildly disturbing if you knew what else he could do with a blade.
Like I’d promised, Violet escaped upstairs to my office immediately after dessert was served. Julian, unfortunately, had never showed. And when I looked across the room, Boris had somehow slipped out from under my nose. I’d enjoyed our little chat, but I did not enjoy it when highly trained assassins suddenly disappeared. I mean, he could have simply been going to the gents, but one never knew. Now I was looking for Imogene, Charlotte, and someone who’d once tried to kill me. Honestly, why couldn’t people just stay where they were supposed to?
I took a lap around the first floor to bump up my heart rate and look for Imogene. That was when I saw it. The grand hallway leading to the front entrance was decorated in posters for tonight’s event. But the one beside me had been defaced. Under the Sponsored by Harper Inc. and Ootco title, written in fancy script so it would match the font on the poster, was: THE VAN OOTS PROFIT OFF YOUR MISERY. Under that: OOTCO PRESCRIBES DEATH. On the top of the poster was a photograph of a young woman, her hands flung out as she laughed. Beside her, it said: Remember Lucy Farmer. I looked up: all the posters had been similarly defaced, with different pictures and remember on each of them.
The back of my neck tightened. Ootco was the pharmaceutical arm of the Van Oot group of companies, run by Dr. Richard Van Oot, Charlotte’s first cousin. The company had been splashed all over the news for months now because of the fallout from one of their opioid drugs; two class-action lawsuits had been filed against them and were about to proceed in court. More were lined up behind them.
“Evening, Irma.”
I looked up. Charlotte was perched in a window seat twenty feet away, looking out on the Club’s front garden. She was holding an almost empty teacup. The powder blue dress she was wearing normally brought out the colour in her eyes. Today it made her look sallow.
I walked to meet her.
“It’s a tragedy, isn’t it,” she murmured, gesturing at a defaced poster. “What’s happened to our fathers’ company. To their legacy.”
“Charlotte, dear,” I said as she air-kissed me. “Nothing can change what your father did, or what Richard’s father accomplished.” The Van Oot pharmacy conglomerate had originally been formed to provide cost-effective medicines to people who needed them and develop alternatives for those who were allergic to traditional opiates. After their deaths, Richard had perverted that aim and transitioned the company into an aggressive pill mill, although Charlotte had always had a bit of a blind spot when it came to Richard.
Her mouth turned down sadly just as Imogene Flores, the Club manager, flitted past us.
“Excuse me for just a minute,” I said to Charlotte as I sprinted down the hallway after her. Imogene was a tall, twitchy woman and tonight she was wearing a long black dress that made her look like Olive Oyl in mourning. “Imogene, dear, do you know a Jake Tapper, by chance?”
“Is there a problem?” she asked nervously.
“No, not at all. One of my friends told me he was a distant relation and was looking to reconnect.”
She frowned. “I thought he was from out of town.”
“Or something of the sort,” I said, waving my hand vaguely.
Her arms fluttered. “Tapper...Tapper...” Flutter, flutter. “Oh, yes, he’s the one who resigned.”
A sudden heat flooded my chest. “Did he? When?”
“Monday night.” Her voice was almost a squeak. “And he didn’t even give us any notice. Cleared his desk right out.”
Monday, after the robbery. “Did he leave any forwarding information?”
She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Irma, I have to get back to—”
“Do you have his home phone number?”
She looked left and right.
“Just between you and me,” I said.
“You know, it was the oddest thing. We never did get his home number. I’m sorry, Irma.”
Thirteen—Violet
My fancy shoes were killing me and the Spanx I’d earthwormed myself into weren’t feeling so hot either. And I was pretty sure the “office” Irma used didn’t actually belong to her. There was some nice-but-generic office furniture, a single doily on the table. Probably for her tea.
Plus, I had no idea where the bathrooms were up here.
I went back down to the main floor, and after taking care of business, I finally spied Julian. He was standing at the edge of a group of guys his age, nodding absently when a comment was directed his way. I meandered over.
“Hey,” I said softly.
He said goodbye to the young guy standing beside him, then directed me to a tiny nook off the main corridor. The club seemed to have an endless supply of similar alcoves. He slumped into the window seat opposite me. Then ran his fingers roughly through his hair.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around, although it wasn’t clear what or who he was looking for.
“You know what happened to Scooter wasn’t your fault,” I said quietly. “But I just wanted you to know, Medicil won’t give me any information about your setup.”
“Why not? I sent them an email to authorize it.”
“It’s not that. The Beaver Island police contacted them, so they can’t speak to us anymore.”
He met my gaze. Another round of fingers through his hair until it looked charmingly mussed. “Is there...is there any way you can take a look at the other IV units at the clinic tomorrow? To verify they’re configured properly? We just opened back up again.”
I nodded. “No problemo. We’ll figure this out, I promise. But I’d recommend using your old IV stands in the meantime if you can.”
“Yes, we’ve already moved the new ones into storage. Thank you, Violet.” His eyes looked unfocused for a moment. “You know, it’s the first bad overdose I’ve ever seen.”
“How small is this town?” I blurted, heat singeing my ears after I heard the words awkwardly hanging in the air. I’d never been good with people or new environments, and I was especially not good with people and new environments.
He made an attempt at a cheerful expression. It was nice to see some light come back into his eyes, but the smile was a ghost of his normal grin, the one that lit up his whole face. I felt a warmth in my chest I didn’t want to put a name to.
“Ten thousand in the winter, maybe?” he said. “More in the summer, obviously. I’ve lived in bigger places—we were in New York City for some of my teenage years. I liked it, but...I wanted to come home, you know?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t. When I was growing up, Phyllis had bounced me from one hellishly furnished Toronto one-bedroom apartment to the next, the bedroom always reserved for her. Which was why, at sixteen, I’d moved out on my own. Escaped, more like. That was part of why this island was so important to me. It’d been here I’d made the biggest decision of my life: to keep dancing or get an education.
His smile was lopsided. “So tell me, is Irma driving you crazy?”
I grinned. “Big time. And speaking of Irma...what is she retired from?”
He gave me a sly look. “Nobody really knows.”
“I don’t think they taught her how to whack an enormous guy in the larynx with a purse in the typing pool.”
He laughed. It was a great sound. “I heard about that. What happened?”
“It’s hard to explain. Some 250-pound dude had been about to kick a taupe toy poodle named Carl. Now Carl is so enraptured of Irma he tries to mount her leg every time he sees her.” I giggled. And I was glad to see a smile come to Julian’s face too. I might be shy with strangers, but I was direct with friends and I felt like I kind of maybe knew Julian a little. He was smart and funny and I liked the way his hair flopped over his forehead.
Julian tilted his head back for a minute before saying, “Not to change the subject, but I’d love to get out of here and have a drink if you’re up for it. I had to show up to take care of some administrative details, but the Van Oots can do all the hosting stuff.”
“Sure,” I said. A couple walked by, two women wearing ruffled blazer outfits, probably some new haut couture they’d been told was the latest thing. I wasn’t a fan. Both had duck lips and helmetized hair, and one of them stopped, her eyes glued on Julian.
I let the silence widen for a moment. “Help you with something?”
Blonde number two flashed me a well-I-never look before they skittered off.
“Who are they?”
“Distant relatives of Scooter.” Julian sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry. It must be hard.”
“I kind of just want to get out of here.”
“Then let’s go and—”
“I heard you were here!” A harsh voice rang out.
Julian and I had been leaning toward each other, our heads almost touching. He turned to the voice first.
“I can’t believe you even had the nerve to show up.” An older man stepped closer to the window seat, and I felt claustrophobia start to wrap around me. And I wasn’t even claustrophobic.
“Let’s just calm down,” I said, standing.
“Don’t you dare speak to me—”
“Hey!” Now Julian was standing too. I could see his fists clenching and unclenching, the muscles in his jaw jumping.
“You,” the man said with contempt. “You tried to kill him.”
Richard Van Oot looked different up close than he did on the nightly news, running away from ever-increasing numbers of news cameras. The Van Oots were Canada’s version of the Sackler family, owners of a company that was heavily involved in the opioid crisis. Of course, OotCo was an international conglomerate, so they’d pushed their wares on the world community, which pretty much meant everyone was mad at them these days, and news coverage was ramping up accordingly. The resulting wrinkles were evident on Richard’s face, his scowl making them look even more pronounced. He was medium-built and on the short side and his hair was dyed jet black, if those wrinkles were telling the right story about his age.
“Richard,” Julian said, “I’m so sorry about what happened to Scooter.”
“You should be. I am going to sue you for every penny your family has. And every one you’re ever going to make.” Van Oot put his hands on his hips, his fancy suit, tailored to his form, shimmering in the low light of the hallway.
Julian flinched, and I felt heat gathering at the base of my neck.
“This is a Van Oot event and you aren’t welcome here,” Van Oot continued. “You tried to kill Scooter and you came here to rub it in my face. And I am going to ruin you if it’s the last thing I do, Julian.”
There was a crowd hovering near us, a blur of tastefully dressed people and frozen foreheads.