by Vicki Delany
“Want a bodyguard?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. It’s broad daylight and I’m not going to be venturing down any dark alleys. Our friends in blue are parked at the bottom of the road. I’ll tell them where I’m headed; they’ll keep an eye on the houses. I’ll be home in time to meet with Singh before our interview with Inspector Gadget. Shirley okay?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy. Is she ever?”
“Probably not. Better she’d done like you and left this damned family long ago.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Say what? Damned? You offended?”
“Of course I’m not offended. But we’re not damned. Or cursed or struck by misfortune or any such superstitious nonsense. Don’t say that.”
He smiled again and bent to kiss me on the cheek. “Right as always. I’ll let you know what happens later. If you have a hankering for champagne and paté and French cheese, you know where to find it. Say hi to Shirley.”
Shirley was in the shed, silently watching Dad work, her thin face strained and troubled, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced. Dad bent over the lathe, guiding the wood with strong, steady hands. His pleasure in the wood and the work made him look as if he’d discarded thirty weary years.
When I walked in, he straightened his back, turned off the machine, and tossed us a huge smile, full of false teeth. “Both my girls here at the same time. Isn’t that nice? Is lunch ready?”
“I can’t stay, Dad,” Shirley said. “Have to get back to work. I popped in for a couple of minutes to check that you’re okay.” She headed for the door of the shed. The stiffness was back in her shoulders, the disapproving scowl clamped onto her face, the eyes cold and brittle once again.
“I’ll make you a sandwich, Dad,” I said. “Come inside in about five minutes.”
The lathe roared back to life.
My sister and I walked through the house and out to her car in silence. “It was nice talking to you,” I said.
She didn’t reply, merely opened the car door and plunked heavily into her seat. The door slammed in my face. I knocked lightly on the window, and she grudgingly rolled it halfway down, turning the key in the ignition at the same time.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t I drop by your house after dinner? We can finish talking about Mom.”
“We’re going out.”
“Oh, all right. Have it your way. But we have to talk sometime. With everything else that has been going on, I haven’t called Maggie about the housekeeper position. And Aileen has way too much on her mind.”
“So?”
“So, if we haven’t found someone once I’m gone, it’ll be up to you, Shirley.”
“Isn’t it always?”
This was one for the people at the Guinness Book of Records. Caring sister to big-time martyr in five minutes.
“Have it your way,” I sighed, stepping away from the open window. “But think a bit about what I said about Jimmy, eh? Think about what a number Grandpa did on him.”
She rolled the window up with more enthusiasm than the occasion required and pulled away without so much as a wave.
I had been all set to tell Shirley about the diaries. Now I wasn’t so sure. Mom didn’t present her only son in a flattering light. Jimmy was struggling to get over his history, with Aileen’s help. Would Shirley ever be able to pierce though the miasma of past anger to see what was happening today? She’d be a good deal happier if she could.
Not my problem, I reminded myself. I’d be back in Vancouver by this time next week.
Chicken noodle soup out of a can accompanied by tuna sandwiches served as our lunch. Dad ate without talking and quickly returned to the workshop, eager to get back to work. Reminding Shirley about the great housekeeper hunt had served to remind me as well. Perhaps I should forget the whole thing. Shirley wore her family duties like a weighty cloak of atonement. She wouldn’t let Dad suffer.
If we hadn’t been through that all-too-brief moment of intimacy sitting curled up together on the steps of the front porch, overlooking the waters of the blue lake, out to the islands and the green and brown woods beyond, I might well have left the job to her. But I’d seen the hurt in her eyes, heard how she still suffered for the past, and felt her thin bones trying to be strong beneath my embrace. I poured the majority of my chicken noodle soup down the sink, tossed the remainders of my sandwich to Sampson, and went in search of my keys.
A single police car sat on the shoulder of the main road, facing the branch that cut off to the McKenzie houses. I tossed what I hoped was a cheerful wave. Two blank young faces watched me.
The restaurant was almost full, but the end of the lunch hour was approaching. Most of the tables were occupied by dirty plates and remnants of meals waiting to be cleared or patrons hurriedly finishing their coffee and pie before heading back to work. Maggie bustled about, collecting empty plates, carrying bills, and scooping up money. I perched on a stool at the counter and pretended to read the plastic menu.
“The soup today is split pea and the sandwich is roast beef on a bun with fries and gravy,” the waitress, not Maggie, told me with a disinterested sigh. She was short, with thin, greasy hair allowed to grow too long and bad skin covered with too much cheap makeup. And far too young to be carrying such a bulging stomach out in front of her. She reminded me of the trees in the woods behind our house, proud in the display of their new buds. The girl caught me looking at her belly and lifted her left hand so I could see the plain, cheap wedding band she wore. As if, at her age, pregnant and working in this dump, it would make much of a difference that she was married.
“Coffee please, just coffee.” She started to walk away. “And a piece of apple pie with ice cream. Please.”
The coffee arrived almost immediately, fresh and delicious. The diner was emptying out. I could smell the pie before it arrived: warm with vanilla ice cream melting around the edges. At the first bite I was swimming in a heavenly bath of cinnamon, warm apples, cool vanilla, and flaky pastry.
I ate my pie with enthusiasm, but sipped the coffee, trying to stretch out my visit. Maggie collected money, wiped down tables, and laid them once again. Finally she had to pass my stool, where I lay in wait, a determined hunter in a duck blind.
“Hi, Maggie,” I said cheerfully. “Remember me, Rebecca McKenzie? I came in the other day with my dad?”
She stopped, too polite to shove her way past. Thank heaven for good manners. I have found that you can always take advantage of people by preying on their sense of propriety.
“I remember. How’s Bob doing?”
“Not too good,” I sighed mightily. “It’s hard for him, trying to manage all on his own. Actually I’m glad I ran into you. When we talked earlier you indicated that you might be interested in the housekeeper job we’re offering. It’s still open.”
She looked around, nervous, twitching. “I have a job, Miss McKenzie.”
“Oh, right.” I lowered my voice, fellow conspirators we. “If you’re still interested, that would be great. Why don’t you come up to the house when you get off work and we can talk about it?”
“I don’t know… Folks are saying…”
“Saying what?”
“There’s talk. About your brother.”
“So? I’m not asking you to work for my brother. You know my dad, right?”
She nodded.
“You know he’s a good man, right?”
“Yes.”
“My brother’s a good man, too. But that doesn’t matter. If you think you would like to work for my dad, that’s great. No one’s asking you to work for Jimmy.”
“Maggie. Tables need setting.” A man came out of the kitchen, a stained white apron stretched across his ample stomach.
I raised my voice. “I’ll have another piece of that apple pie. With ice cream.”
Maggie went to get the dessert, and the bossy fellow returned to his kitchen. The pregnant girl shuffled about the room, pouring coffee for a single man
at the other end of the counter and taking the order of a couple newly arrived.
Maggie returned with my pie.
“Actually, Maggie,” I said, cutting the pastry with my fork. “To be fair, I should tell you that I stopped by because someone else is interested in taking the job. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t still thinking about it before I offer it to her.” The oldest, dumbest, cheapest trick in the book.
I should have been ashamed of myself.
But I wasn’t. Not in the slightest. It’s been known to work on corporate investors.
“Lunch shift is almost over,” Maggie said. “I have a couple hours off before dinner starts.”
“Good. It’s a warm day. Why don’t we sit down by the river and have a nice talk? You know the park on Riverside Street?”
“Yes.”
“What time do you get off?”
Maggie glanced at the clock commemorating someone’s visit to Sudbury. “Soon’s tables are clean. Ten minutes? Fifteen?”
“See you then.” She returned to her chores and I leisurely finished my pie, rather pleased with myself. Hiring a housekeeper or floating a ten-million-dollar loan. The principle’s the same.
I offered Maggie Kzenic the job on the spot. There weren’t a whole lot of eligible candidates eagerly lining up to take the position. She explained that she would have to talk to Peter, the owner of the restaurant. She was sort of hoping, she told me, that she would be able to stay on to work the dinner shift. She was finding the morning-to-night workday too hard, problems with aging knees made long hours on her feet a misery, and she had told Peter that she wanted to cut her hours down, but she couldn’t really afford to do so. The job with my dad would be perfect for her. We arranged that she would come in four days a week: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. She would get Dad a late breakfast/lunch, do a bit of light housework, have his dinner ready, put it into the oven to keep warm, and be off to her next job by 4:30. I told her that judging by the amount of local home cooking stored in the big chest freezer in the cellar, it would be a long time before she would have to cook. On Fridays she would leave the fridge with enough supplies for the weekend and make up sandwiches and salads or casseroles to be heated in the microwave for his meals.
It occurred to me that after the incident with the bacon in the frying pan the other day, I might ask Jimmy if it was possible for Maggie to disable the stove somehow before she finished for the day.
“I’m going back to Vancouver on Saturday. I’ll tell Aileen what we’ve discussed, and from then on you can deal with her.”
She shifted on the uncomfortable picnic bench.
“Is that okay?”
Maggie looked out across the park. Two Canada geese were poking in the brown grass. Not much nourishment, this time of year. In my childhood they all flew south for the winter, great black V formations passing across the clear, blue sky, splitting the rapidly cooling autumn air with their honking chorus, encouraging their friends to keep up. These days, many didn’t get any further than Toronto, and there they stayed all through the winter, fed by enthusiastic children with paper bags stuffed full of stale white bread.
“Miss McKenzie?”
“Rebecca, please.”
“I’d prefer to deal with your sister, Shirley Smithers.”
“Oh.”
“Not that I have anything against Aileen, you understand. She’s a nice lady, Aileen is. But with all that’s going on…” Her voice trailed off.
“Aileen’s closer. But if that’s what you want, I’ll mention it to Shirley. My brother didn’t do it. He didn’t kill Jennifer Taylor.”
“Well, to tell you honest, I don’t know. But folks are saying…”
“Lots of people around here don’t seem to have anything better to do than gossip. And others don’t have the intellect to realize vicious garbage when they hear it.”
I didn’t have to look at her face to know that I’d made a mistake. I do have a big mouth. One thing I learned early in the business world: It’s not a bright idea to insult someone you’re trying to get to do something for you. My words stumbled all over themselves in an attempt to make repairs.
“It’s been hard the last few days. Hearing what people are saying about my brother. Most people don’t have all the facts. They’re judging him on his past behavior and that’s not fair, is it?”
“I remember Jim when he was a young one,” Maggie said. “In all this town there wasn’t one person talked about more than Little Jim McKenzie. He was a great one for the girls, your brother.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“There’s somethin’ you should probably know. Gossip, scuttlebutt moves fast in this town. And most of it’s worth nothin’ more than the air it’s breathed into.”
“But?”
“But, some folk are saying that the cops won’t do nothin’ to charge Jim McKenzie. So they’ll have to do for themselves what the cops won’t.”
“You heard this?”
“Last night, before closin’.”
“There was trouble at Jimmy’s place this morning. Fortunately it came to nothing. The police are watching the house now. Will you tell me if you hear any more? Please?”
“My brother’s in the OPP, stationed over in Thunder Bay. He’s a good cop, real proud of what he does.” Maggie picked at a bit of dried food clinging to the front of her dress. “He wouldn’t take a bribe, look away from a child’s killing. No way. The police here wouldn’t either.
“Men get to talking when they’re enjoying their food. I’ll keep my ears open. Let you know if I hear anything worth hearin’.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
We parted with a smile. She had to go home and take a nap before the next shift. How perfectly awful must that be? I work hard, but that’s different, very different. I’m not on my feet all day. I sit in a nice office, in an expensive chair, and often stop simply to think and look out over the multi-million-dollar view. I love every minute of my job, but even so, I wouldn’t want to head back to it a few hours after finishing. Not day after day.
For Maggie the idea of putting in a day helping my father at his house and then going in for a shift at the restaurant seemed like an improvement.
The things Maggie told me, about what she overheard in the restaurant, disturbed me. I walked to my car with a lot to think about. Who did Maggie overhear talking about taking matters into their own hands? The Taylors? It was highly unlikely that the family would be having dinner at a restaurant the day after their daughter’s body had been pulled out of the swamp. Jack and Pete? If they had planned trouble last night, they would have consumed more than a few drinks to work up the courage and shown up at Jimmy’s after closing time. Not like them to go home and sleep on it.
Suppose the townspeople made a concentrated effort to go after Jimmy? Most of the men in this town were reasonably law-abiding, but the Taylors were a respected family, long-time residents, owners of Fawcett’s Hardware Store. Might people follow them? Possible. Particularly on a Saturday night after the bars closed. And my good friends Jack and Pete didn’t appear to need any backup in order to make mischief. The idea of the single patrol car sitting at the side of the road seemed rather pathetic. As the saying goes: just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
In Ontario the bars close at two a.m. Sampson and I would be sitting up late these next few nights.
And after I left?
By then everything would be resolved.
I have always been an incorrigible optimist.
Chapter 41
The Diary of Janet McKenzie. October 3, 1961
Of all the unimaginable things. Shirley today announced that she and Al Smithers want to get married. I can’t bear that boy. He is so supercilious and smug. I told her and told her that he was no good and I forbade her to date him. But would she listen to me? Of course not. The fool girl is all of sixteen years old. Younger even than I was when I met her father. And look at
what a mistake that turned out to be.
She hasn’t said anything, not yet. But I’ve known for several weeks that she is in the family way. What mother wouldn’t know? I am going to be a grandmother. A thought too horrible to contemplate.
It will not happen to my Rebecca. It will not. If I have to move heaven and earth, I will make sure that Rebecca has a chance in this world.
November 24, 1963
In court today. Again. I am about ready to consider myself obliged to invite the judge over for dinner, I know him so well. They caught Jim drinking this time. And him only fifteen. You would think that his family would be ashamed. To have a son in and out of court like he was the revolving door I saw in Toronto back in ’46. But Mr. M. just laughs and slaps the boy on the back and says, “A chip off the old block.” Poor Mrs. M. knows so little of what is happening these days; she just smiles and packs the boy a lunch of dry bread and a slice of moldy cheese to take with him.
Bob is concerned enough to tell me that he would go to court if he could get the time off work. Of course he can’t.
A small fine, and my boy is out the court house door. All of fifteen years old and walking down the main street like the cock-of-the-walk. He is a good-looking boy, and I say that not as his mother, because I think life would go better for him if he had a bit of humility. He is short, like his… father… and ashamed of it, so he works hard to build up his body and strut as if he doesn’t care. He is still a good bit shorter than I. Boys his age have a few more growing years yet, but I have seen him eyeing me and then the men in his family and I know that he is worried. Oh, that we lived in a perfect world. Where such things don’t matter. And no one will judge my son by the length of his body. But we don’t live there, and I can still hear the mocking voice of my husband’s own father laughing at him for marrying a woman taller than he. My mother-in-law doesn’t even touch five feet. All the better to allow her five-foot-four husband to grind her into the ground.