Wendy pulled her self together almost instantly; just as quickly, Anderson recognized that she was a person who was used to taking charge of a situation and dealing with it. “Frank. there is absolutely no need for an apology. Emotions aside – and I have some – we are dealing with the real world here and like you said, decisions have to be made, and I’m the one who has to make them. And in this case, I need to talk with Marjorie for awhile, not because she is part of my business (which she isn’t) but because she’s my best friend.”
Marjorie glanced across at Anderson, and said to Wendy: “This sounds flaky, sis, but the timing is actually pretty good. Frank has an appointment at Tony Barker’s place this afternoon so he has to go right away anyway. That will give us a chance to talk.”
Wendy looked up in alarm: “There’s no way I want to wreck your afternoon, you two. But – Frank – would you come back and join us for supper later?”
Anderson got to his feet. “If that works for both of you, I’d love that. I need a couple of hours anyway – perhaps about 6:30?
“Perfect. I hope you like New York steak – so happens we have a package of three I picked up Monday in Maple Falls. Marj... take Frank to the dock and be nice to him for heaven’s sake, but then come back. I do need to talk to my little sis...”
Marjorie and Frank walked back across to the bay and out on the dock. The wind was, if anything, a little stronger but the launch sat happily leaning on her fenders. Anderson got onboard and started the engines, then came back out of the wheelhouse to take in the dock lines.
“I’ll let go the lines. Frank...” she walked over to him and took both of his hands in hers. “Frank, this is such an awkward thing for you, and I feel so badly that we’ve got you tangled in the Webster Web, so to speak. It’s not like you don’t have a lot of other stuff to worry about. Two things (as you are fond of saying): first, please please come back for supper, and second, if she does what I think she’s going to do (quit her client) can I fill Wendy in on all the other stuff that’s going on, so it all makes more sense to her? We could use her skills, I expect.”
“Of course... you be the judge of what and when. And you bet I’ll be back for supper!”Anderson leaned forward and delivered a very quick kiss on her forehead, turned, and disappeared into the wheelhouse.
***
It was a forty-five minute trip to Tony Barker’s place. The launch bucked and splashed its way into the headwind until things smoothed out a little in the lee of a gathering of islands south of the marshes where the lake empties into the Spirit River. Anderson radioed to the marina where he was, and that he would possibly not get back to his dock tonight but not to worry unless he called, and warned that mid-lake was pretty rough for the small fishing boats they rented, except maybe along the northwest shore. He then used his cellphone to call Arnold, also saying the he might not be back at the dock tonight and not to worry and that he was on his way to the Barker place to see if he would help find three grand to sponsor the Horowitz event. He also filled in Arnold on the conversation – likely to be continued in the evening – with Marjorie’s sister.
Arnold had news too. Sergeant John had dropped by midway through the afternoon to say that he had taken a drive up the county road that served mostly as the Robertson Mines access. He told Arnold that – if we were looking for big new black SUVs, there were several up there; not SUVs exactly but full-sized pickups, new and black, with colour-coordinated and factory-supplied tops over the truck-boxes. He said they had small white numbers stencilled on the left side of the tailgate and were almost certainly associated with Robertson as there were a couple in the company yard. And, there were a few others parked in the worker accommodations area where the trailers and cabins were scattered about. He had stopped to talk to a couple of people and showed them Anita’s photo, but no one, apparently, knew her. Sergeant John said he found the whole situation curious, at least.
“Could we get together tomorrow morning?” Arnold asked.
“Of course. Do you want to meet at the Zoo for coffee, or do you want to come by my place so we can talk?”
“Your place at ten-thirty sounds good. Quieter. Have a nice visit with your sweetie!”
“Shut-up!”
Arnold had chuckled and hung up. A few minutes later, Anderson had cut the throttle back on the launch as he passed between two closely-placed islands and approached a third with a red-roofed, green-sided boathouse which opened to a slip between two old but well-maintained rock-filled wooden docks. He gave the traditional two short horn signals, flipped the fenders over the side and manoeuvred the launch alongside the upwind dock, using reverse to almost stop. As the boat slid past a mooring cleat, he flipped a spring-line over it and went back to the wheel to put the controls to forward with the engine idling, keeping the boat snugged temporarily against the dock.
The first sign of life was a large and boisterous golden lab, which was barking menacingly until Anderson shouted “Oh shut up, Ben!” The barking changed instantly to an excited whine and Ben bounded over for a pat and a scratch behind the ears. Anderson had spent the best part of three weeks with Tony and Jean (and Ben) this season, re-doing the foundations under the Barker’s very attractive but very old summer home. Three generations of Jean’s family had spent all their summers in that house, and it had a feeling of dignity and quiet wealth. No new money here. And it was an almost universal tradition among the island cottagers that people arriving by boat would signal their arrival, and wait at the dock until the host showed up. Presumably this prevented surprise interruptions of outdoor – but private – clothing-optional activities.
Tony came down the path to the boathouse, fully-dressed as always. Tony was an accountant, a very wealthy accountant, and a very dignified wealthy accountant. He was also an honourable and friendly man, who specialized in corporate ethics, the subject of two books he had written. The most recent one – published last winter – focused on corporations and the environment, a subject about which he was passionate and had chatted at length about as he hung around helping with the foundations. None of this had been lost on Anderson when he suggested to Arnold that he would approach this man about sponsorships for the public meeting.
“Hi Frank! It’s good to see you...” as they shook hands and Tony picked up the bow line to tie down the launch. “I have a nice new bottle of very old scotch that I’ve been waiting to open. Let’s go up to the house.”
“Sounds very good to me!” Anderson cleated down the stern mooring, put the transmission in neutral, shut down the engines and followed Barker’s tall lean figure up the well-groomed path.
Jean welcomed Anderson at the door and embarrassed him with a friendly hug. She was the bubbly one of the pair, a lively sixty-five-ish lady with greying hair tied back in a ponytail. “We’ve talked lots about you, and the wonderful job you did to set the old place up for another hundred years.”
Anderson smiled at her and said he was looking forward to seeing how the new concrete held out over the first winter. “I’m damn certain we did it right, but time always tells!”
Barker had produced an elegant squat bottle with a block-printed multi-coloured label and a couple of glasses. “Let’s take this out on the porch... can’t bear to sit inside even if it’s a little windy. How was the trip from the village?”
“A bit bumpy – I came across the lake from the Webster place on that island near MacLean Point, so it was a little bumpier than coming from town. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Small Craft Warning out, but I haven’t checked the radio for a couple of hours.
“I heard that the wind is supposed to be gone this evening and that rain is moving in for a couple of days. Anyway, Frank, how can I help you? I knew when you called that something must be up.”
Anderson paused. “Well, I’m not really sure where to begin. This has to do with some of your specialties, actually: corporate ethics, environment, government regulation, public participation and governance... lots of good stuff!”
“Good grief, man,” Barker chuckled, “that sounds like me wondering where to start my next book! Can you narrow down where to begin a bit more closely than that?”
“Yeah, eeny meeny miny mo! I’ll start with the environment. I expect you have heard of the Protected Shorelines Program, a federally-funded research and conservation program. A local committee – of which I am a member – applied for a Program for Awan Lake a few years ago, and it has been pretty successful, I guess, certainly in the sense that people are more aware that the lake is a special place for the community, and that water is an important resource that needs caring for. And, we’ve been able to hire a couple of grad students each summer to do some research and help run the project. The project has been pretty low-key so far, but we are hearing voices – particularly from Dave Bradshaw – you know, the guy with that little cottage along the mainland shore north of here who’s a prof at Ryerson – he is concerned about a proposed expansion over at Robertson Mines. I guess their refinery process uses a great deal of water, which is then contaminated and discharged who-knows-where.”
Anderson hesitated a brief moment, and received a quick nod to continue from his host: “Anyway, Bradshaw suggested to the committee at a special meeting last week that we should hold a public meeting, and that we should bring in a certain Dr. Sebastian Horowitz as the speaker.”
“Hah!” Barker interrupted. “Bradshaw is aiming high. Horowitz is a very high-profile speaker, and yes, he’s passionate about water. He is also a bit of a scoundrel, but he’s on the side of the angels in this regard. Does Bradshaw think he can get him down here from his roost on Vancouver Island?”
“Apparently Horowitz offered directly to Bradshaw that he would come here if we could reimburse him for flights and accommodation. There was some reluctance from the locals present, who for any of number of reasons also think he is... a scoundrel, to use your word. Some of them were less polite. But, obviously the idea of contaminating the lake doesn’t please anyone, and they agreed we could put up with a couple of days of chaos in our quiet little village if it would draw public attention to the issue.”
Barker’s wife had joined them, sipping on a mug of tea while the men sipped on their scotch. She was obviously deeply interested is what Anderson had been talking about.
Anderson continued: “This, Tony, is where I need to cut to the chase, so to speak. I told the committee that I would visit you to see if you know of a company or agency that might sponsor the three grand we figure we need. The PSP group, we have just been told in no uncertain terms, cannot undertake advocacy, let alone sponsor it from federal funds.”
Barker was quick to respond: “I am almost certain my publisher would do that.”
“Tony, it was not my intention to put you on the spot. I was only wondering if you could point me at some organization where you might be able to put in a recommendation on our behalf.”
“As I said, I am almost certain my publisher would do that. Why don’t we ask her: Jean, would you plunk down three thousand bucks to hear Dr. Horowitz without having to drive to the ‘wet coast’ and get on that ferry again?”
“I most certainly would, gentlemen,” said Jean. “Consider it done, with pleasure, as long as you’ll get us a good seat!”
Anderson was stunned. He had dreaded this afternoon, mostly because he hated fundraising and saw himself as the world’s number one lousy salesman. “Geesh. I don’t know what to say, except, of course, thank-you. Thank-you from me, for making this moment so easy, and on behalf of the committee for coming to their support.”
“I can write you a cheque right now, if that’ll help?”
“Hmm. That’s a whole other thing. You will recall a few minutes ago I said the PSP committee can’t be involved with this. So Arnold Jamieson, the committee chairman, has gone and asked the few remaining members of the village Board of Trade if they would put on the event, and when we last talked that was looking positive but I need to make sure they even still have a bank account. I will let you know as soon as I know, if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” nodded Jean.
Anderson continued: “My apologies for the confusion. We went to Ottawa Monday morning for an ‘emergency’ meeting with Environment, whose minions had apparently learned on Friday morning about our Thursday evening meeting. The gentleman in Gatineau made it very clear that we could not do this through the committee. I have to say we found it very interesting that the government had learned about our plans within ten hours, and most of those hours were when normal people sleep!”
“I can see, Mr. Anderson, that you are going to have to read my husband’s latest book,” Jean laughed. “It won’t comfort you at all, but at least you’ll no longer be taken by surprise. This kind of stuff goes on all the time.”
Anderson politely declined a second scotch, saying he had promised to get back to the Webster place in time for dinner.
“The Webster place – that’s such a tiny little island!” said Barker. “Are they getting you to do some work over there?”
“Well, no, it’s more of a social call; Marjorie Webster helped us out with some stuff a few days ago, and I agreed to have dinner with her and her sister Wendy.”
“I understand Wendy is a pretty high-profile public relations consultant. Apparently she teamed up with her father, and kept going after he died. Very successfully, I believe.”
Barker’s wife continued the thread: “That’s what I hear, too, and her sister Marjorie is an accomplished but little-known multi-media artist, mostly a painter. I have met her at an exhibition, and she is a sweetheart to talk to.”
“Thank you very much for your help,” Anderson continued. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know next steps.” Turning directly to Jean, he said, “Yes, she is,” and headed out the door and down the path to the boathouse and his launch. The Lady Barker smiled at him as he left.
***
The launch rolled slightly in the following waves. As the afternoon was fading, so was the wind, so by the time he got back to the little island the waves were smoothing out and there was just a slight silvery grey swell as the sun started to sink below a cloud bank growing in the west. Anderson called Arnold again to tell him about the sponsorship and that he needed the organization’s full name for the cheque, assuming the old Board of Trade still had a bank account. His friend was impressed and thankful, and they agreed Arnold should call Dave Bradshaw and let him know the sponsorship was in the bag, but not to tell him the source at the moment because Anderson didn’t know exactly how the Barkers wanted it listed.
He then called Marjorie to let her know he was about twenty-five minutes out from their island, and he pushed the launch a little faster because he realized he was a bit later than he had hoped. It would be seven-thirty before he got there.
08:00 JULY 19
Anderson was up, had enjoyed a quick breakfast with Marjorie and her sister and was heading back to the village on a cool, rainy but calm morning,, and Awan Lake was living up to its name this morning, Anderson reflected (“Awan” is the Ojibwe word for “foggy”).
The previous evening had been interesting – and surprisingly relaxing. By the time he had returned from the Barker’s island, a new bottle of wine was open and poured and the barbeque was hot. The two sisters were in good spirits, as if all the trauma of the earlier afternoon had never happened. They had been busy solving the problem (a bit dramatically, Anderson thought): Wendy had written and sent an email letter to Robertson Mines withdrawing from her contract with them, stating a conflict of interest. There had been a flurry of calls on her cellphone, but she politely and skillfully held her ground... it was over, no details necessary.
Dinner had included new potatoes from the farmers’ market in Spirit River, dressed with chives from what Wendy jokingly called the world’s smallest spice garden (the island was basically a rocky outcrop surrounded by water, and just to grow the chives and a couple of other spices they had to import two bags of topsoil from the Co-
op in the village). And the steaks were delicious. While they ate and sipped wine, Anderson and Marjorie had filled Wendy in on the events of the last week. She had listened carefully, and volunteered to help out with promoting the Horowitz event. She had also told them that while her own professional ethics would prevent her from talking directly about what she had been told by her former client, this was the beginning of a new day, and from now forward, everything she could find out about Robertson Mines and possible government influence was fair game.
They had chatted until late in the evening, and Wendy had taken herself off to bed. Anderson stretched himself out on the large sofa in the tiny living room-kitchen, and was just drifting off to sleep when he was joined by a very cuddly-looking Marjorie with a blanket and a pillow. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I often fall asleep here myself.” She had given him a quick kiss on the cheek, snuggled up close and dropped off to sleep.
***
Anderson smiled to himself as he throttled back to enter the harbour. He reflected that yesterday had been full of surprises, and that Marjorie was the most surprising of all. Once at the dock and tied up, he shut down the main engine and genset and used the yard-stick to dip the fuel tank: it read half a tank, so he walked up the road, checked the house and shop, grabbed his truck keys and drove to the Spirit River Co-op to fill his slip-tank with diesel and two litres of diesel-spec synthetic oil. He visited with the attendant for a few minutes, talking about the rain and fog, and observing a large new pickup which had stopped in for fuel. It was a crewcab, black, with a black cap. And it had numbers stencilled in white on the tailgate.
Sunset at [20 47] Page 12