“Yes. We’re here in the kitchen,” said Maggie.
A tall man with startling blue eyes and long gray hair tied in a ponytail walked in, shrinking the size of the kitchen with his wave of energy. “Good afternoon! You must be exhausted after your long trip. Please, please, sit down. I’ll make some coffee and warm up some of the best banana nut bread you’ve ever eaten,” said Mr. DeVille.
“I’m happy to help,” said Maggie.
“Maybe another day. Let me make sure I have the names right, Maggie and Sam?”
“Yes, thanks. We are exhausted and coffee and food sound great.” said Sam.
“I bet, and please, call me Marc.”
“I detect an American accent,” said Maggie.
“That’s where I spent most of my life. My father moved us to Detroit back in the thirties and I lived there until after the war, then moved to California. After I lost my parents in the late fifties, I decided it was time to get to know my French-Canadian relatives. When my grandmother died last year, I was her only living heir and inherited The Maple Leaf. I thought, what the hell, I might as well see what it’s like to run a small pensione in Toronto. Twenty years of writing ads for cars and cleaning products was frying my brain. I pick up some freelance ad copy for pocket change, but mostly sit on my ass and watch TV commercials. How about you guys, what do you do?”
“We both just graduated from Wayne State. I’m starting a new job for Jingo Motors when we get back—interviewing and hiring. In September, Maggie takes on a few Freshman English classes at The University of Detroit.”
“Freshman English, as in ‘go shoot yourself?’ ” asked Marc.
“Pretty close,” laughed Maggie. “My first love is poetry but there’s a long line of ravenous artists ahead of me.”
“Poetry’s a tough market. No money but lots of competition. Go figure!” said Marc. Then turning to Sam, he said, “Jingo Motors? I don’t know them, but if they’re anything like the auto companies I worked with, well, watch your back. I’ve never met a bunch of executives who spent more time climbing over each other to reach the executive bathroom. Makes you wonder who the hell’s minding the store.”
“Jingo’s too new to have a reputation, but I gotta admire their good judgment in hiring me.”
“My husband has no shame,” laughed Maggie. “Visions of grandeur or some other pathological affliction. He’ll fit in.”
“I love it! People are so frigging serious these days. I know there’s a lot of shit going down in Detroit but, come on now, slavery ended after the Civil War. Right? Time for the niggers to quit whining and complaining, give up that non-war.”
“Banana nut bread hit the spot,” said Maggie as she downed her coffee and got up from the table. Even with her tan, Sam could see the blood rising.
“Yep, thanks Marc, we appreciate the welcome but need to unpack before we crash. It’s been a long day,” said Sam.
“Sure thing. We can talk later. You have the first-floor room, far end of the hall. The keys are on a hook next to the door. So there’s no surprise, we’ll be sharing the loo across from your room. I shower at night. Second floor is booked for the next few months, a young family from Windsor looking for a place to live. Two kids, noisy as hell, but konked out by seven.”
“Maggie, we’re not selling out. Marc’s a Neanderthal and bigot. Maybe both. The world’s full of both.”
“But that doesn’t mean we have to stay under his roof.”
Sam lowered his voice and said, “Mag, we’re here. We’ll be out scouring the city every day. We won’t even see him.”
Lowering her voice even more, Maggie said, “Really? I would not have been more shocked if Marc confessed to being a serial killer. The minute he walked in the kitchen I was impressed by his looks and energy. I thought hip, liberal, artistic guy from California. A potential friend! My intuition is totally off kilter, which means we are so fucked.”
“About what?”
Whispering, Maggie said, “It’s about being here to investigate the disappearance of my parents and the first person I meet is a serial killer who I immediately consider a potential friend.”
“Give me a break, Mag. He’s not a serial killer. With his ponytail and blue denim shirt I pegged him as a liberal. We were wrong. Just a warning for us to look beyond what we think we see.”
“Tervo, I get where you’re going, and I love you for it, but I’m not in the mood to be cheered up. I’d like to relax in my funk and point out that my suitcase made the trip just fine, thank you very much.”
“By all means, enjoy your funk and oh so sweet revenge. You deserve it. I, for one, will forever remember today as the day you drove a bull crazy and took me to the moon and back. Marguerite Tervo, matador and astronaut.”
13
Haute Bourgeoisie
There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen.
—Vladimir Ilich Lenin
AUGUST 1968—A large carafe of dark roast coffee sat on a low flame next to a basket of blueberry muffins in a red and white striped dishcloth on the butcher-block table. A note from Marc read: Enjoy!
“We can do this, Maggie. We’re paying for it,” said Sam.
Maggie inhaled the seductive bouquet of roasted coffee and blueberry muffins—aromas that defied definition. Like trying to describe the color orange. Maggie buried her face in her hands and said, “Okay, enough. I’ve been scented into submission. I’m about to prostitute my integrity for real coffee and fresh blueberry muffins.”
Two of the tables in the sunroom were set with flowers in wine bottles, bowls of fresh strawberries and pitchers of orange juice. Compared to their usual fare, this small pensione was a five-diamond hotel.
Wiping a stray blueberry off the plate with his finger, Sam asked, “Where to first?”
“Jacques’ office. I want to let him know we’re in town. A ghost from his past who wants to stop by and learn more about her parents? Does that ring true?”
“It is true. Why wouldn’t he buy it?”
“You’re right, he’ll buy it. He’s probably some old dodderer who won’t remember me.”
“Maggie, his friends disappeared or he helped them disappear. He knows about you and Issie. He might be doddering, but I’m sure he remembers you.”
“Oh crap, how will he reach us if he’s not in? Should I ask Marc if we can use his phone number?”
“If Jacques isn’t in, we can ask his secretary to set up an appointment for tomorrow. If she won’t, then we let her know we’ll stop by tomorrow to see if he can meet with us.”
“Let’s ‘walk the dog.’ If she’s French, we play by her rules. If she’s a Brit, we can intimidate her.”
“Why am I not surprised to learn the French aren’t easily intimidated?”
“Because, mon ami, you are married to a matador.”
With the AAA maps they marked out a route from the pensione to Jacques’ office. The mixed neighborhoods along the five-mile drive reminded Maggie of her years at boarding school. The Amadeus School for Girls attracted the rich, famous and impoverished. Its goal was to strengthen education through diversity. Maggie once told Clyde it was her Petri dish for studying the isms—racism, sexism, classism, nationalism.
“This city feels like home to me. I can’t believe it’s been more than six years since I graduated. It’s like no time has passed.”
“Mag, you’re beginning to sound like my mother.”
“Please, no, anything but that!” Maggie cried. “Kidding. It’s not that I don’t love your mother, I do. It’s just that I want to be your wife, which means I can’t be your mother.”
“It’s okay, Maggie. Mom has strong opinions about everything and I know it bugs you. But it’s more about insecurity than conceit.”
Maggie gave Sam’s shirt cuff a tug and said, “Mr. Tervo, one of my non-negotiable requirements was a man who loves his mother.”
“And, the other requirements?’
“Sense of
humor, sense of self and compassion for others. Oh, did I mention being a hunk and good in the sack and pasture?” laughed Maggie.
Sam’s trademark blush translated his feelings faster than his words. “Maggie, I think I faked you out on the sense-of-self piece. Humor is a convenient hiding place.”
“You think? Sam, you haven’t said anything about the city.”
“I know this is a dumb-jock thing to say, but because the Maple Leafs are one of the Red Wing’s biggest rivals, not to mention my secret crush on Gordie Howe, I was determined not to like Toronto. But I do. Very eclectic and un-zoned, it’s got a small-town-kind-of feel. Like Detroit, the neighborhoods give it shape and character. I’m in no way comparing the Detroit River to Lake Ontario, but the shoreline and vibes of this city remind me of home.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Alex Delvecchio maybe, but Gordie Howe?”
Jacques Ruivivar’s company, Zeno Development, was housed in an old stamping plant not far from the lake, near King Street, in an area called Liberty. A three-story, red brick building, it boasted industrial-sized metal windows and iron staircases. Downstairs the showroom housed some of the original stamping machines. Old metal shelving and storage bins held objets d’art, including items dredged up from the bottom of Lake Ontario—rusted anchors, slivered oars, wagon wheels, fossils and shells. A reception area and waiting room occupied the center of the room in front of the staircase. Along one wall, there were three small conference rooms. The two outside facing walls invited the wan urban sun and a long view of Toronto’s cityscape through its giant windows.
Maggie and Sam decided on business dress to avoid the stigma of tourists or grave robbers. (Sam’s joke to help Maggie stay calm.) Maggie was wearing Aunt Jo’s sleeveless black linen shift with a string of pearls and black flats. Sam was dressed in his gray gabardine interview suit with a French-cuffed white tab-collar shirt, his dad’s old silver and copper cufflinks and a steel blue tie.
Seated behind a curved six-foot-long white maple desk, the receptionist looked like a manikin with her short, black blunt-cut geometric hair, classic features and flawless make up. A nameplate read Emma Stell. Like a scene from Edgar Allan Poe’s gothic fiction The Tell-Tale Heart, Maggie imagined her own ‘dismembered heart pounding below the floorboards’ with such force she was sure the receptionist could hear it.
“Good morning, may I help you?” asked Emma.
“Yes, please. My name is Marguerite Soulier Tervo. I’m the daughter of Raymond and Anna Soulier who went missing about twenty years ago. Jacques Ruivivar was a good friend of my parents. It would mean a lot if he could meet with me while I’m here in Toronto.”
Maggie watched the receptionist to see if she reacted to the Soulier name, or the pounding of her heart, and was both disappointed and pleased she did not. She kept reminding herself not to run, to breathe, to act sane.
“Please, have a seat, Mrs. Tervo. I’ll see if I can reach Mr. Ruivivar’s secretary,” said Emma.
Maggie sat down next to Sam and said, “Emma’s French. We play by her rules. She’s calling Jacques’ secretary.”
Despite her attempts to remain calm, both Maggie’s knees were bouncing up and down. After they’d flipped through a number of architectural magazines, then Look, Life and The Atlantic Monthly, Emma finally called them back to her desk.
“I just spoke to Mr. Ruivivar’s secretary and she asked me to send you up. Her name is Catherine Caron. If you take the stairs, her office is on the third floor to your right. If you want to take the elevator, I’ll give you other directions.”
“The stairs are fine. Thank you!” said Maggie.
Maggie’s legs were shaking when she reached the second-floor landing. The views of Lake Ontario were spectacular and she and Sam took a moment to calm their nerves. Unlike Sam, Maggie’s style was less subtle. She shook her arms and jumped up and down like a boxer entering a ring. Stretching to touch her toes, then the floor, Maggie held that pose for well over a minute.
“Come on, Mag. We’re almost there.”
It was hard to tell how many people worked in the building, as there was no foot traffic. None. When they made the landing on the third floor, a lovely woman in her fifties was waiting for them.
“Good morning. My name’s Catherine and I’m Mr. Ruivivar’s secretary, calendar keeper and body guard,” she laughed. “Of course, it’s very easy to make these things up when you have a boss who is rarely in town and almost never at the office. I do, however, recognize your name Marguerite and my guess is that Mr. Ruivivar will be very excited to know you’re in town. May I get you a coffee while I track him down?”
Maggie felt her nerves give up the battle. Her heart rate slowed and air entered her lungs without effort. “Yes, thank you. Coffee sounds wonderful,” said Maggie.
Sam was grinning from ear to ear. Maggie thought he never looked so handsome and comfortable in his interview suit. “I second that motion, coffee would be great.”
Catherine seated them in a small anteroom inside a suite of offices. When she returned, she had a tray of sweetbreads, fruit, nuts, crackers and cheese. “Just in case this takes longer than we think. Mr. Ruivivar may be in transit somewhere, but if that’s the case, I’ll at least find someone who can give us his itinerary,” said Catherine.
Sam winked at Maggie and touched her knee. She smiled. They understood it would be better not to talk.
By the time Maggie and Sam returned to The Maple Leaf it was after nine. Rather than risk running into Marc, they decided to shower in the morning. After a day of sightseeing, it was nice to stretch out in bed.
“This is unbelievable. Here we are, day one in Toronto, and Jacques Ruivivar has already agreed to meet with us tomorrow. Did I tell you I almost peed my pants?” said Maggie.
“Off the charts amazing. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Catherine knows you. Are you sure you didn’t meet her when you were a child?”
“Maybe. There’s something about her that rings a bell. Probably because she’s French Canadian, I don’t know. During my six years at Amadeus we might have seen each other in town. Something. Do you think Marc knows we’re avoiding him?”
“Do you care?”
“I think I do. Isn’t that nuts? Why would I care whether he likes me or not?
“Beats me. He’s not anyone I want to spend time with.”
“Will you scratch my back?”
“Turn over, Mrs. Tervo.”
Maggie turned on her side and began to purr as Sam scratched her back. She felt the glacier of accumulated guilt, insecurity, dread, inaction begin to melt. Tears fell.
“The curse?”
“No, some perverted form of happiness. It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath for the past twenty years because I so want to know the truth and I so want to keep the fantasy I created. Today, I finally took down the stage sets, fired the cast and crew. No more pretending. The truth scares the crap out of me but the liberation I feel is happiness. Freedom is happiness.”
“Let’s cuddle, Maggiesan. I want to see how you feel without the stage props and characters.” Sam pulled Maggie close and placed his hand on her stomach. Before they fell asleep he said, “Hmm, it does seem a little less crowded.”
Catherine was waiting for them when they entered the lobby at noon. Emma was not at her desk and Maggie recalled that some Toronto businesses kept to the European tradition of closing three hours for a mid-day break.
“Good afternoon, Maggie, Sam. Nice to see you again!”
“Nice to see you,” said Maggie.
“Lunch is in the upstairs dining room. I’ll take you up on the elevator. Believe me, it’s a much easier trip to that side of the third floor,” said Catherine.
Several doors and hallways later, they reached the elevator. According to Catherine, the elevator measured ten feet by fifteen feet, large enough to carry ten-foot shipping containers with a thirty-thousand-pound payload.
“I was beginning to think we sh
ould have dropped breadcrumbs to find our way back,” laughed Maggie.
“I used a map the first six months I worked here. Very circuitous! Not sure why, but all kinds of tales about pirates, drugs and weapons. Très mystérieux,” said Catherine, “It’s one of the reasons I love to work in old buildings—with their secret cubbies, attics and cellars.”
The elevator required a different code to operate the gates at each floor. On the third floor, Catherine had a hard time getting the code to work. Finally, there was a loud click and warning bell as the gate opened.
After three more hallways and several turns, they walked into a dining room facing the lake. Wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor windows framed two walls. Maggie experienced the kind of ‘whoosh’ she always felt on ski lifts, acrophobia chased by vertigo. She turned to look at the table and inside wall.
Three places had been set at a large square table for four. Catherine introduced them to Charles who took their drink order, two black coffees. After yesterday, they decided fresh roasted coffee was their new addiction and they’d splurge on a French press and coffee beans before they returned home.
Catherine pulled out a chair and said, “Please, have a seat. Mr. Ruivivar will be here soon. If you need anything, or need to reach me, ask Charles. I’ll be in my office, but since you didn’t drop breadcrumbs, it will be easier for me to find you. Bon appétite!”
“Holy crap, I’m so nervous I can hardly stand myself. Can you tell?” asked Maggie.
“You look beautiful and a little nervous. It’s okay. My guess is he’ll be nervous.”
Maggie caught her breath and stared at the man approaching the table. He looked familiar but she couldn’t say why. At six two, with broad shoulders and intense green eyes, he was virile looking in spite of gray streaks through his dark hair. An insignia ring on his right hand caught the sun and triggered a meteoric flash of memory. Maggie’s vertigo returned.
“Marguerite Soulier, you are your mother incarnate. I would know you anywhere. May I give you a hug?” said Mr. Ruivivar.
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 11