“Who is this husband?” I asked Valerie.
She looked apologetically at Tonia who stared fixedly at a spot on the carpet. I gathered this was not exactly Tonia’s favorite topic of conversation. “His name is Baxter Buchanan. He’s a ... politician. A member of the legislative assembly—an MLA.”
So? Why was she so frightened of him? He wasn’t Satan, after all. “I don’t get it. What would happen if he found out?” I asked Valerie. “It doesn’t sound like you have a terrific marriage anyhow.”
She looked embarrassed. “I haven’t. But Baxter is so damned possessive. And passionate. He just can’t accept that I want to leave him. God, I’ve been wanting to leave for years! It’s just been in the past eighteen months or so, since my career has taken off, and since I met Tonia, that I’ve been determined to go. But he won’t listen.”
“So, let him listen to your lawyer,” I suggested.
“Not right now,” Valerie said firmly. “I’m in contract negotiations at the studio. My ratings are high. I don’t need any problems.”
“And Baxter would do that—make trouble for you at the studio?”
“Oh, yes,” Valerie said fervently. “And more.”
“More? What more?”
Valerie shook her head. “You’ll just think I’m being melodramatic.”
“Try me.”
“He’s told me that he’ll never let me go,” she said shamefacedly. “That he’d never let anyone else have me. Never.” She shuddered. “He’s insanely jealous. I can’t imagine what he’d do if he found out that I wanted to leave him.”
“I can’t imagine either,” I told her truthfully. “But things like this happen every day. You’re not serving a life sentence, you know. C’mon, Val, what would he do? Curse and swear? Trash the house? Beat on you?”
She shook her head. Obviously any further speculation on the subject was verboten. At least for tonight.
“Okay,” I told her. “Baxter Buchanan won’t find out about the letters from me, so you don’t have anything to worry about. Now let’s discuss what we’re going to do to get them back.”
Val brightened a little at this.
“We have a couple of days until the money is due. In fact, almost a week. Let’s make good use of them. I want to see where you both work. Who you come in contact with. That sort of thing.”
“I have a class at eleven tomorrow morning,” Tonia offered. “Theories of Conflict Resolution. Then I have a graduate seminar at one o’clock, and office hours from two to five.”
“Okay. I’ll meet Tonia in class at eleven, then come by the studio tomorrow afternoon after two to see you, Valerie.”
Tonia frowned. “Is this really necessary? The students in my eleven o’clock class are mostly women, and well, they’re kids.”
“Yeah, it is necessary,” I said. “Women too—even young ones—have been known to be criminals. And my job would sure be a lot easier if you let me do it my way.”
Tonia bristled and made a sort of snorting sound. Valerie closed her eyes.
“And before tomorrow, there’s some homework you two can do for me. Write out a list of your friends, acquaintances, relatives, enemies, cleaning ladies, gardeners, mechanics, hairdressers—anyone you see often. I’ll need addresses and phone numbers, too.” I stood up. That should keep them busy until at least midnight. “Until tomorrow then,” I said. “Where do I meet you, Tonia?”
She glared. “Nootka Hall.”
“See you then,” I told her.
Soaking in a hot bath, a glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream at hand, I thought over the mess Valerie and Tonia found themselves in. Although it seemed to me that Val was in a much bigger mess than Tonia. Her fear of the possessive Baxter was almost palpable. That, combined with the guilt she felt at her affair with Tonia, was enough to drive anyone a little crazy. Under the circumstances, she was holding up pretty well. I wasn’t clear on what Tonia’s attitude was, but I had a feeling she was going to be much more sensible about this than Val.
I dozed for a few minutes, then turned my mind to the burglary itself. From what Tonia had said, it hadn’t seemed to be a very professional job. Burglars usually make one hell of a mess, and leave no drawer unturned, so to speak. And maybe that was the biggest thing we had going for us. If the culprits were amateurs at burglary, maybe they were amateurs at blackmail. Maybe they could be scared off. But with thousands of dollars at stake?
The more I thought about the blackmailer’s note and his conversation tonight, the more I became convinced of something—whoever was behind this really had his heart in it. He was enjoying himself. The money was secondary. And that made him both easier and harder to deal with. Easier because he probably wasn’t a professional, and might not have covered his tracks very well. And harder because he wasn’t likely to listen to reason. Fanatics seldom do. And how many bad guys were involved in this, anyhow? The voice on the phone had identified himself as “we.” I had to take him at his word. So there were at least two fanatical burglars/blackmailers. Oh goody.
I finished the Bailey’s, took some more aspirins, towelled myself dry, and went to bed. Just as I was dozing off, a small furry body burrowed its way under the covers and down to my feet.
“Mrrank,” he said politely.
It was nice to be needed. Even for my body heat. “Yeah,” I said to Repo, stroking him with my foot, “goodnight to you, too.”
Tuesday
Chapter Four
The phone rang at exactly seven-fifteen the next morning. “Yes?” I inquired grumpily. Morning is not my favorite time of day. My lips don’t even know they belong to me until after one cup of coffee.
“Ah, the hard-working consultant is up,” a cheery masculine voice said. “We heard you come in late last night, and figured your clients must be taking advantage of you again. Why don’t you come up for breakfast?”
“Aaargh,” I said, clearing my throat, which felt as though Repo had been using it for a scratching post. “I don’t think so. I feel like hell—I’m getting a cold. I think I’ll just malinger here awhile.”
“A cold?” Malcolm inquired with great interest, and I was immediately sorry I’d mentioned it. “Yvonne will make something to take care of that. Come on, Caitlin. What have you got to lose except your cold, hmm?”
I sighed. Oh, what the hell. I was awake. And besides, Repo had already deserted me. “Okay,” I said. “But you’ll have to take me as I am. I have to go to the University later, and I don’t intend to get dressed until then.”
“We’ll put the tea on,” Malcolm said.
I staggered upright, shoved my feet into my old Nikes, and lumbered to the bathroom. The mirror showed that I was indeed a mess: my grey sweat pants and my washed-out blue sweatshirt were old, faded, and mismatched; my hair looked like a thatched hut; and my red-rimmed eyes would have landed me a part in any Dracula movie. I ran my tongue over my furry teeth, and shuddered. God, imagine going through life as a tongue. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water on my face, and ran a comb through my hair.
Upstairs, Repo was happily purring in a pool of butterscotch sunshine in Malcolm’s kitchen window. Malcolm, whistling In An English Country Garden, was busy in the greenhouse nipping or pinching or committing other acts of botanical violence. Yvonne was measuring out tea at the counter. The apartment smelled of cinnamon and mint, and exuded an aura of peace. I sighed.
“Morning, Caitlin,” she said, examining me closely. “You look terrible. Too much coffee and red meat.”
I groaned. It was too early in the morning for a debate on the merits of good clean living. I suspected that my case was hopeless, anyhow.
“Here,” Yvonne said, handing me a mug of something hot and steaming. I took a tentative swallow. It was vaguely minty, with a not unpleasant oily undertaste. Experience had taught me not to inquire about the composition of Yvonne’s concoctions. They worked.
Both Malcolm and Yvonne were blond, blue-eyed, and healthy. Their complexions glowed. Their tee
th were white. They were never sick. So, on the off chance that there just might be some merit to all this natural living claptrap, I consented to letting them feed me whenever they were so inclined. Never let it be said that I don’t have an open mind. And the arrangement seemed to suit everyone—they sensed a convert, and I scarcely ever had to cook. I finished the concoction and set the mug down on the table.
“How’s business?” I asked.
Yvonne smiled happily. “Better and better. You know, Caitlin, we’ll be able to repay your three thousand well before the note’s due. In a month, I think. Putting the little restaurant in the back of the store was the best thing we ever did. You were a genius to think of it.” She set a plate of blueberry and grain pancakes in front of me. “A physical wreck, but a genius.”
“Where’s your breakfast?” I inquired. “And what’s Malcolm doing in there? Have the plants finally pinched back?”
“We’ve already eaten,” she told me. “We just wanted to make sure that you did. Malcolm will be in in a minute. We’ll all have some tea together before we go off to the store.”
“Mmhmm,” I said enigmatically, wolfing down my pancakes. I had no intentions of telling Yvonne about the delicious fare that the local McDonald’s serves. Of which I had been intending to partake on my way to the campus. It would be like admitting to Van Gogh that you liked cartoons. “Delicious,” I said truthfully.
Yvonne beamed, and got up to make tea.
“Well, well,” Malcolm said from behind me. “The ailing Caitlin Reece. We may save you yet.” He planted a quick kiss on my cheek.
“Don’t bet on it, buster,” I told him. “I’m past redemption. Yvonne keeps trying, but...” I shrugged. “It’s my rotten lifestyle that’s at the root of it all. And my unregeneracy.”
“Yeah, right,” Malcolm said. “If it weren’t for you, we might still be struggling to make ends meet. Whatever you do for a living, we’re grateful.”
Malcolm and Yvonne think I’m a business consultant. And in some ways, they’re right. I’ve never seen the point of explaining to them what I really do. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair, waiting. Malcolm and Yvonne weren’t the type to ask for a loan—I’d had to offer to finance their business expansion in the first place. They’re hard workers, and had located their health food store in a choice location. All they needed was a little help to really make the business profitable. Now that they had begun to be wildly successful, it embarrassed them. Worse yet, they were financial idiots. But they’d mentioned money twice. I wondered what was up.
“Caitlin,” Malcolm began, “we don’t know much about money.”
I tried my best not to smile.
He looked over at Yvonne for moral support. She nodded. “Um, well, there’s this man. He comes into the store quite often. He seems like a nice person. And he seems to share a lot of our ideals,” Malcolm said.
I sighed. “So what does he want you to invest in?”
Malcolm goggled. Yvonne came over with the teapot and sat down.
“I told you we should ask her!” she said to Malcolm. “We didn’t want to bother you,” she told me apologetically, “but we really could use your advice. It’s a sort of fund,” Yvonne began. She looked at me in wonder. “But how did you know?”
I shook my head. Better not to tell them. “Just a good guess. So tell me about the fund.” I looked at them in alarm. “You haven’t given this guy any money yet, have you?”
“No.” Malcolm looked over at Yvonne. “Not yet.”
“Thank God. The fund, Malcolm. Tell me.”
“Oh yeah. Well, he said it’s a pool of investors like us—mostly people in small businesses. People who have strong moral positions. You know that we don’t stock cosmetics that are tested on animals, and so on. Well, he takes people’s money and finds ethical investments for them. Investments that we wouldn’t necessarily know about.”
I shook my head. Babes in the woods. “Did he leave any literature?”
“Well, no,” Malcolm admitted. “But he showed us a list of companies, and explained to us what they did. It sounded fine.”
“But I said we should talk to you first,” Yvonne told me. “You see, we plan to pay off your note next month, and then we’d have that payment free. We want to do something good for ourselves with it.”
I nodded, barely restraining myself from telling this earnest, blue-eyed pair of dopes that they’d almost fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the con man’s book. “I’m glad you came to me,” I said calmly. “I might just know someone who can check out the fund. And the guy who runs it, too. Did he leave a card?”
Yvonne nodded, and took it out of a pocket of her sweater. I put it down beside my tea mug. “His name’s Oliver Renbo,” she said. “The fund is called the Rainbow Fund.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I told them. “Don’t worry.”
They smiled at each other, immensely relieved, and Yvonne poured tea.
“When does this guy usually come into the store?” I asked, sipping the aromatic brew.
“Just after two. After the markets are closed, he says. After he’s gotten the day’s quotes.”
The markets, my eye. The closest he probably ever came to the financial markets was to wrap his garbage in the business section of the Victoria Times Colonist. I could hardly wait to talk to this fund manager. But first things first. I finished my tea, and stood up.
“I’ll let you know about this as soon as I can,” I told them. “In the meantime, hold on to your checkbook.”
They smiled sheepishly and nodded.
“Feel any better?” Yvonne asked, walking me to the door.
I swallowed. Amazingly, there was no sore throat. “I can’t believe it,” I told her. “I feel almost human.”
She hugged me. “I don’t know what we’d do without you,” she said.
I disentangled myself and hurried downstairs with a lump in my throat.
As I would be making an appearance in the groves of academe, I decided to wear my freshly dry-cleaned brown slacks, a cheery yellow cotton shirt and vest, and my fawn camel hair blazer. Besides, the blazer had the advantage of hanging nicely over my gun. Like my American Express card, I never leave home without it. Over the years I’ve made quite a few people very angry with me, and I don’t want to be caught off guard when the pigeons come home to roost, so to speak.
But don’t misunderstand me—there are at least half a dozen things I’d rather try before shooting. As the Chinese proverb goes: “Of the thirty-six ways of avoiding danger, running away is best.” I couldn’t agree more. I don’t kid myself for a minute that I could stand up and slug it out with some two-hundred pound man, even though I know all the right places to attack. One lucky punch and it would be all over for me. Have you ever been hit by a two-hundred pound man? I was, once, and I thought I’d been knocked into the next county. My ears rang for a week. Now I don’t let the bad guys get that close. If I can’t scare them off, and I can’t run away, I have that irresistible voice of reason, the .357 Magnum. Smith and Wesson are very persuasive. Tonia would be horrified, I mused. Tough.
I found a place for my MG in the visitor’s lot and walked along under the oaks and evergreens to Nootka Hall. April is a fickle month on the coast, and the watery sun seemed undecided today. Well, I could forgive it. I didn’t feel too decisive myself. My throat didn’t hurt, but my eyes felt hot and scratchy. Colds are such a pain in the butt. I’d rather be down and out for a day or two—real, genuine, prostrate-in-my-bed sick—than this miserable business of not being sick enough to go to bed, but not being well enough to function properly.
The lecture theatre was empty when I went in. Tonia was at the front, fussing with some papers. Today she wore jeans, a forest green wool sweater, and a navy suede jacket. Her gleaming black hair was parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. She wore no makeup, but with that fine complexion, who would bother?
“Morning,” I said, taking a seat at the back. She glanced
up from her notes and gave me a hostile look.
“Morning,” she answered coldly. She took a sheaf of papers out of her briefcase and held them out to me. “Here are the names you wanted. It took us half the night to make the list,” she said aggrievedly.
I hopped up, retrieved the papers, and returned to my seat. “Thanks,” I told her. She ignored me.
As the lecture theatre filled, I looked around for the two characters I’d seen last night in the Buick wagon, but of course they weren’t there. That would have been too easy. As Tonia had mentioned, the students were mostly women (the course was given under the aegis of the Women’s Studies Department), although there were more men than I would have guessed. In fact, of the thirty-seven students in the class, I counted six men. And none of the students could exactly be called “kids.”
The women were an interesting cross-section of the women’s community, I observed. Flannel shirts and corduroy pants were much in evidence. I thought I recognized several of the women from my infrequent visits to the local women’s coffee house or bookstore, but I couldn’t be sure. Then there were the leftover flower children—long cotton skirts of some Indian design, several layers of hand-knit sweaters, hair long and flowing, or in braids, dreamy expressions. One wispy creature passed me in a cloud of Patchouli perfume, and I was immediately transported back to the late sixties and my own undergraduate days. I felt ancient. I looked around and identified several other aged crones like myself, and felt immensely better. One nattily dressed oldster seemed to be well into her fifties, I decided. Why, compared to her, I was a mere slip of a girl. I tried not to look smug.
Tonia looked up from her notes and the buzz of chatter ceased.
“Today I want to talk about the technique of nonviolent action,” Tonia said.
I perked up. Nonviolent action—wasn’t that a contraction in terms?
“Most people believe that military combat is the only effective way to wage social and political conflict. I disagree. Nonviolent action provides another approach. However, both the techniques of nonviolent action and the term itself have been the subject of many misconceptions.”
The Always Anonymous Beast Page 4