Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13)

by Heather Wardell

  As we finished, my cell phone signaled a message, which to my surprise was from a fellow member of the bonsai club.

  "Congrats, missy. Buy me that tree I've been wanting? Only $1000."

  I grimaced and put the phone down, but it signaled again immediately.

  "Remember my friend Carol? She needs fifty grand. Call me."

  I barely remembered the person who'd written the message, never mind Carol.

  The phone signaled again, but this time I ignored it.

  Ted gave me a sympathetic smile. "I guess the media's released your name. The demands beginning already?"

  I shrugged. "Just a couple. It won't last."

  His smile this time was professional and utterly bland. "I'm sure you're right."

  I knew he wasn't sure, and by the time I got home I also knew he was right not to be. My cell rang constantly as I drove, whenever it wasn't signaling a newly arrived text, and when I reached the apartment and logged into my laptop I found that my original email inbox was groaning beneath several hundred new emails and the new inbox wasn't anywhere near empty either.

  Wondering how so many people knew already, I went online to the Toronto Times newspaper's web site. Though of course they hadn't yet been able to put my story in print, it was front-and-center on their site complete with a picture of me grinning inanely above the huge check.

  They hadn't given out my contact information, thankfully, but enough people had it that the stream of messages was still never-ending. I skimmed through everything, over and over, deleting the stuff from people to whom I hadn't spoken in ages and wishing I'd been more selective in giving out my contact information, but even the requests from the people I did know and like were overwhelming.

  A few things weren't requests, since my friend Claudia from work simply said, "Congrats! Can't wait to hear all about it," and John sent a "just woke up and saw you online. Nice picture" text that made me smile, but mostly the messages were about what I could give to other people.

  I did want to give to them, at least some of them, but I couldn't do it right away. Besides, making my decisions based on who shouted the earliest and loudest didn't exactly seem like the best plan.

  My stomach growled and I considered ordering pizza but then wondered if the delivery guy would have seen me online, so instead I made myself spaghetti and ate it while the messages continued flooding in.

  Once I'd finished my dinner, I started sending back brief "sorry, the advisor says no moves for six months" messages, but that proved to be a mistake because I then had two streams of messages coming in: new people's requests and the others' replies to my refusal that begged me to reconsider or called me unexpectedly rude names for being so 'selfish' as to not immediately give them the money they demanded.

  The angry people I struck off my mental list at once, but the begging ones hurt. Some of my longest-term friends were groveling like I'd never imagined they could and I felt horrified on their behalf. Didn't they know how undignified they were being?

  The highlight, or lowlight, was the email I received from Blake on my old address since I hadn't given him my new one.

  Just heard, Angie. Congrats. Listen, I was wanting to go to Paris this weekend, and I know you've always wanted to go too. Why don't you treat me? It'd make up for the stuff I bought you and I promise I'd make it worth your while.

  Call me,

  Blake.

  Tiff, though she'd never met him, had been right about him. I could almost hear him saying the words. They wouldn't be begging, not from him. They were dripping with confidence. He would never believe I would say no to his offer.

  And I didn't.

  But I did delete my email account, since I'd given the new one to everyone who mattered. Blake would no doubt write again and figure out my answer when his email bounced.

  I'd given my new email to everyone who mattered, true, but apparently also to a lot of people who didn't because I had far more mail in there than I'd have expected and a lot of it came from names I didn't even recognize. I didn't understand until I read a few 'my friend knows you and said you'd be happy to help' emails, and realized that some of the people I'd thought were good friends had passed out my contact information to everyone with a sob story. And then those people had passed it on too.

  I spent a while setting up filters to put all the emails from people in my contact list into one folder and all the random-sender emails into another, but though that made it easier to see the emails from people I actually knew it did nothing to stop the flood, and after a while I couldn't stand it any more. I shut down the computer, turned off my phone, and crawled into bed to hide from the demanding world.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke the next morning from my fitful sleep to the sound of someone banging on my apartment door, and hauled myself out of bed and into my dressing gown so I wouldn't greet whoever it was in my threadbare pajamas. I was glad I had when I peered through the peephole and saw two police officers.

  The female one said, "Are you all right, ma'am?" the moment I had the door open.

  I blinked, struggling to wake up. "I think so. Why?"

  "You haven't tried to leave the building yet?"

  I shook my head. "Is something wrong?"

  "I'm Detective Constable Radmacher and she's Detective Constable Guillebeau. May we come in?" The male officer's tone made it sound more like "we are coming in" than a question, and I was opening the door in response to the implicit command before I realized I was going to do so.

  Once they were inside, I tied my dressing gown tighter around my waist because I felt exposed, then shut the door behind them and gestured to the living room. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "That's all right, ma'am. But don't you lock your door?"

  "Not usually when I'm home. It's a safe building."

  "I'd start if I were you."

  Completely disoriented now, I did lock it, then said, "What is going on?"

  "You should look out at the street below," Guillebeau said, giving her partner a 'quit pushing her around' look. "But try to stay hidden."

  I went, not sure I actually wanted to, over to the living room window and drew back the curtain enough that I could peek out.

  A crowd milled around in the apartment building's driveway.

  I turned back to the officers. "Why are they all here?"

  "Your address is in the phone book." Something in Radmacher's tone made that sound like being listed in the phone book was the stupidest thing anyone had ever done.

  "But I changed my number to an unlisted one," I said, then quickly added before he could, "I know, that doesn't change the printed phone book. You think those people are here for me?"

  "We know they are," he said. "They've all got plans for your money. At least you didn't list your apartment number in the phone book too or they'd all be up here. In your unlocked apartment."

  For the first time glad that my landlord hadn't bothered fixing the buzz board in the front entranceway, since otherwise people would have been trying every number to get hold of me, I said, "Are they allowed to hang out there? I don't like it, and my landlord will hate it." I'd met the building's owner, a man who'd make pickles seem sweeter than cotton candy, only a few times but I knew he'd be furious at me though this wasn't my fault.

  "Officers downstairs will disperse them," Guillebeau said. "But I'd suggest you be careful going out for at least the next few days. Is there somewhere else you can stay?"

  "If I have to," I said dubiously, looking around at the lush bonsai forest. "But I can't leave my trees for too long and taking them with me would be a nightmare."

  "Service entrance."

  "Pardon?"

  Radmacher didn't quite roll his eyes but I felt like they wanted to roll. "If you go out, you should use the service entrance. Less likely that anyone will see you."

  "Or hire a bodyguard."

  Radmacher did roll his eyes this time, but his partner continued. "I think it's a good idea, actually. You nev
er know how badly someone's going to want your money. I can recommend a firm if you'd like."

  I couldn't imagine the idea of having a bodyguard following me around, escorting me to the grocery store and hanging out in John's apartment playing video games with us. "I think I'm okay for right now. But thanks, though."

  "Okay," she said, with an 'it's your funeral' sound in her voice, then pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it over. As I glanced at its no-nonsense standard-looking self, she added, "If you change your mind, feel free to get in touch."

  "Same here," Radmacher said, drawing out his own card and laying it on my hall table face-down. "I'd suggest you stay inside until the crowd's dispersed, and maybe consider changing your appearance before you spend much time in public. Hair dye, that sort of thing."

  I must have looked shocked at the idea because Guillebeau smiled and said, "Or a hat, even. Hat and sunglasses, like a movie star."

  Radmacher snorted. "Let's go."

  Once they'd gone and I'd locked the door behind them, I went back and picked up Radmacher's card.

  Unlike Guillebeau's, it was brightly colored with a bunch of balloons on one corner, and instead of his name it read, "Donate to the Hospital House for kids awaiting surgery or treatment," with a toll-free phone number and a website.

  I dropped onto the couch, still clutching both cards. Was a cop allowed to do that? I doubted he'd done it accidentally, given how he'd carefully placed it so I wouldn't see it right away and his partner wouldn't see it either.

  It might be a good cause. It might be the best cause on the planet. But I felt horribly threatened by having even the person who was supposed to protect me hounding me for cash.

  Chapter Ten

  I stayed inside toying with my bonsai, feeling lost and scared, until my cell phone lit up again in the early afternoon. I'd been getting a steady stream of messages all day, from the people to whom I'd given my new number and from their various friends and relations, but I didn't recognize a single sender in this new flood. The texts arrived so fast I could barely read one demand from a stranger before another appeared, and it took me three tries to grab enough time between the incoming messages to place a call to my cell phone provider.

  "I need to change my number," I said once my call finally came out of whatever 'priority sequence' was and actually got answered.

  "Now, ma'am, I see you beep number a few beep."

  The stupid phone was still receiving messages, and each arriving one beeped out a few of the woman's words.

  "I did, but I need to change it again. I'm receiving unwanted phone calls and messages."

  "Pardon?"

  I sighed and began again, and though it took twice as long as it should have we did eventually get enough time between beeps for her to understand that the constant interruptions were the messages I was trying to avoid.

  "Since you're being stalked and harassed, we will waive the beep."

  Go ahead and waive that beep, thank you. The last time I'd been willing to pay the number-change charge, but what was this if not harassment?

  "I can't make the number change while you're actually on beep, of course, but once we hang up I will and it will be active in beep minutes."

  Not caring how many minutes it took as long as it worked, I thanked her and ended the call.

  The phone continued lighting up with messages and calls for a minute or so, and I couldn't stand to be near it any longer. Afraid that powering it off would somehow interfere with what she was doing, I left it in the living room and took a glass of red wine into the bathroom with me. A little earlier than I'd usually start drinking but I didn't care.

  Soaking in the tub with a full bath bomb spinning and fizzing around me, I savored the phone-free quiet until I began to wonder how the number had been exposed so publicly. That barrage of messages had gone way past friends-of-friends. I hated the idea that a close friend or family member or coworker had released my number to the world, but it seemed like the only possible explanation.

  Would I just not give it to anyone this time? But what was the point of a phone that nobody could use to reach me?

  But I couldn't change my number every day either.

  How did movie stars handle this sort of thing? They probably changed their numbers fairly regularly and between changes only gave them out to people they could really trust.

  I'd thought I'd done that.

  But since I was almost certainly going to quit work, I didn't need to share the new number with my coworkers. Claudia and Terrence, sure, since we were also friends outside of work, but not every coworker. And I'd give everyone else a little scrutiny before sharing the number.

  That decided, I tried to push it all away and enjoy my bath. It did relax me, but it was hard to keep my mind from spinning around like the bath bomb. I had so much money now, and I had no idea how to spend it.

  The wisdom of Tiff's plan again revealed itself to me. Making a blanket decision that I would not touch the principal for six months meant that I couldn't do anything I'd regret later on.

  A smart woman, that Tiff.

  Why had she and John split up when I'd seen so much love between them in that old photo?

  I stayed in the bath, letting my mind ponder that and then dance around to whatever else it wanted to consider, until the water grew cold, then climbed out and dried off and put on yoga pants and my softest sweatshirt to give me comfort and the strength to face my phone.

  I paused at the doorway to the living room, listening hard. Silence. Had the 'beep minutes' elapsed?

  A quick check of the phone proved that it was so. No missed calls, and only one text message, from the customer support woman, listing my new number and thanking me for choosing Sapphire Mobile.

  I gave a deep sigh as relief flooded me. No more strange people and their demands.

  I began working my way through my address book, sending out my new number only when I felt sure I should. I didn't like analyzing everyone I knew for their betrayal potential but it had to be done.

  When I was nearly finished, someone knocked at my door. I almost didn't go to open it, afraid of who might be there, but eventually reached it and saw three old ladies standing clustered together looking distorted by my peephole. I recognized them as fellow residents of the building, so I opened the door and said, "Yes?"

  One elbowed another. "It is her. Told you I saw her on TV." To me, she said, "You're rich now, right?"

  "I..." I wanted to deny it, but she clearly knew it was me so I said, "Yeah, I guess so."

  The elbowed one glanced at the first one. "Go ahead."

  "You go."

  I looked back and forth between them. "What is it that you want, exactly?"

  The third one, so short that the top of her pure-white head barely reached my shoulder, snorted with impatience. "Gladys, Rose, you're useless. Angela, I'm Violet, and we have a proposition for you."

  "Okay," I said, trying to sound neutral.

  "Buy this building."

  I blinked. "And?"

  She blinked too. "And what?"

  "I don't get how that's a proposition."

  She frowned like she hadn't realized she'd be dealing with an idiot. "Buy this building and fix it up. Make it better for all of us to live in. Lord knows you can afford it."

  Yes, but not now, unless I wanted to incur the wrath of Tiff. Which I did not. "It's not a bad idea," I hedged, "but I'm not going to be spending any of the money for six months. I'll remember it, though."

  Violet burst out with, "Not spending it?" and Gladys or Rose added, "Six months? We'll be dead by then."

  "You might be," the other one returned with spirit, seeming to have forgotten my presence, "but not me."

  "Hush, Rose," Violet said. Returning her attention to me, she said, "That's ridiculous, if you don't mind my saying so. What's the point of having it if you're not spending it?"

  "I'm making plans and deciding how to use it," I said, then wondered why I was defending mysel
f to them. It was my money, after all, not theirs.

  "What better way to use it than to improve the quality of life for everyone who lives here?" Gladys said. "Including yourself, I might add."

  "Hush, Gladys. You can't seriously think she'll stay here. She'll have a mansion in no time." Violet gave me a dirty look. "Selfish, only thinking of herself. These younger people, I just don't know. So horrible."

  "I'm not horrible! And I will look into buying the building. But it definitely can't happen for six--"

  "Don't overwork yourself on our behalf, dear," Violet said, with such venom in the last word I took an involuntary step back. "We should have known better than to imagine you might think of anyone but yourself. I haven't forgotten the incident with the Christmas tree." She sniffed. "All those needles in the hall. And you weren't even allowed to have a tree!"

  I'd moved in the day after that notice had been handed out so I hadn't known live trees weren't permitted. I had vacuumed up the needles myself and apologized to the long-suffering and hard-working superintendent Dwayne and even put a notice in the mailbox area explaining my accidental transgression at his suggestion, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I took a breath to apologize again, then bit back the words. It had been years ago. Instead, I said, "Well, I will look into it, regardless of what you think. I'll do it now, in fact. If you'll excuse me."

  Violet sniffed again as I eased the door closed, and I heard a further sniff as I locked it. A louder one, as if she'd pushed herself to make the biggest noise possible so I'd know she was offended.

  So much for no more strange people and their demands.

  Because I'd said I would, I called Tyler the lawyer to see whether he had any idea of how I could find out what the building would cost. His receptionist was cool at first, but when I gave her my name she immediately sounded like we were best friends, and I guessed Tyler had added me to his list of clients to be given special care.

  Half liking and half feeling strange about that since it wasn't remotely my usual experience, I explained my inquiry, and she said Tyler knew a real estate agent who specialized in large-scale residential and would investigate and let me know. I gave her my brand-new cell number, though it felt odd to give it to a stranger so soon after changing it, and she promised to call me as soon as she had news.