The Recipe Cops

by Keith Weaver

  “We’ve decided to have a corn and sausage roast. It’s to take place here tomorrow, and Julia is up to her elbows in the preparations.” On a whim, Sanford extended the offer for them to come. “I could easily come into town, pick you up, and take you back on Sunday. We have more than enough beds here.”

  “Very kind Jim. But I think we’ll have to decline. I doubt very much that Gillian would be up to something like that, and I have to say that Philip is also firing on fewer than all cylinders.”

  They talked about things in general before Sanford broached the difficult matter he really had called about.

  “I guess we do have to collect her things”, Philip said slowly, and the pain that came across the phone to Sanford almost broke his heart. Sanford suggested what he had in mind, and Philip agreed reluctantly.

  “Very well then, Philip. I’ll see you on Monday morning about eight o’clock.”

  “Won’t you have to leave very early for that?”

  “I always rise early anyway, Philip. It’s no inconvenience for me. And the earlier we arrive at the police station, the less likelihood there is that we’ll be stuck behind a large gang of people.”

  Philip agreed, the arrangements were made, Sanford asked if there was anything he could bring them, to which the answer was “No thank you”, and they ended the call.

  After he had hung up, Sanford sat a long time, thinking about things. Sanford had come to terms with the situation. Sort of. At least that’s what he told himself, but there was more than a little truth to this. Each of the events in the long series that ultimately resulted in the seismic shattering of his once-loving relationship with Helen had taken its turn in converting the tenderness they knew first to individual wounds, then to generalized flayed agony, and ultimately to protective armour. The armour was a calcined shell covering his emotions. Even now, unless Sanford was vigilant, individual scenes could be activated and replay themselves inside his head. Helen’s repeated and flagrant betrayals, the many discussions that Sanford had tried to initiate with her but that had always resulted in Helen exploding into very hurtful screaming matches. Then there was the slow formal torture of the divorce process, even though it was short-lived, and especially his partial loss and feared permanent loss of Julia. Those demons were all still lying in wait. Now the sad and sordid tragedy of Helen’s long decline had descended into a police investigation.

  Sanford shook his head. This was familiar ground, and what the hell could be the point in tilling it yet again? Somehow, there had to be a line drawn beneath it all so that he and Julia truly could head off in a new direction.

  But where to draw the line? Good question. In trying to separate out, segregate, permanently sequester the corrosive side of Helen’s recent persona, how much of Sanford’s own life over the past year had to be put under the microscope? But he resolved not to go down that path yet another time.

  Sanford turned to the puzzle of his own past, pulled out the notes from the previous night, and began going through them. There was quite a bit of material that had to be digested. And the more he thought about this, the more he was willing to admit that he needed help in getting both the background and the answers he wanted. Sanford opened the notebook containing the list of contacts he had built up during years of work, and picked up his cellphone again.

  After half an hour of telephoning, he had three very guarded references to one name: Daniel Conway. The references were guarded, because Sanford had been asking for help in a murky area. He wanted somebody to take a pulse in a particular part of the underworld. These conversations had given him pause, and he sat back to think things through. Exactly what was he looking for?

  If Conway took the bait, this would certainly be his first question as well, so he, Sanford, needed to have a clear and satisfactory answer.

  Cutting right to the bone, Sanford was pretty sure that he wanted to understand three things.

  First, what history is available out there on Harold Sanford? Who is or was he? What has he done, or what do people think that he has done?

  Second, what is the current word on Charles Jeffers? Who is he and what does he do? What is his background? What has he been involved in recently?

  Third, is there any information or any suspicion of a link between Harold Sanford and Charles Jeffers? If there is such a link, is anything known about the context? Sanford knew that pursuing Jeffers was a dead end, but it wasn’t something he could betray any knowledge of, and in any case he wanted to know what people thought about him.

  Sanford wrote down these questions, refined the wording somewhat, thought about what any answers might mean for him, and thought about how he would explain his interest when Conway asked, as he would, no doubt.

  After staring at his notes for a quarter-hour, Sanford bit the bullet.

  “Conway.”

  “Daniel Conway?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Jim Sanford. I would like to talk to you about some information you might be able to get for me.”

  “Very well. Can you tell me how you got my name and contact information?”

  Sanford explained a bit about himself and his background, the contacts he had made over his working life, and the three references he had used to find Conway.

  “We will need to meet, Mr. Sanford.”

  “Fine”, Sanford responded. “Tell me where and when.”

  The arrangements were made, and Sanford was somewhat surprised when the location suggested was the executive bar at a high-end Toronto hotel. They arranged a meet for two thirty the following Monday. This was conveniently on the same day Sanford had agreed to pick up Philip, and take him to retrieve Helen’s things from the police. Sanford would have to see if he could make arrangements with Anne to look after Julia for almost the full day. “Cleanup” after the corn and sausage roast would be a done deal by then, or at least mostly so, and he was fairly sure that an offer of help, in the event of unexpected loose ends, would be an acceptable hook to hang this request on.

  “Just a few items of information please, Mr. Sanford.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Does this have to do with a divorce?”

  “No.”

  “Is a police investigation involved?”

  Sanford thought about this for a second. “Yes, but the information I’m looking for has nothing to do with the investigation. As far as I’m aware.”

  “As far as you’re aware. Please understand, Mr. Sanford, that I will not undertake work that could threaten or undermine a police investigation. Please come to our meeting prepared to discuss this in detail.”

  “I will, and thank you for agreeing to meet”. The line had already gone dead.

  Nineteen

  On Saturday, the day of the big roast, Julia was out of bed and dressed by six thirty and twanging from excitement. The three of them – Anne, Julia, and Sanford – had developed a schedule, since they were essentially the hosts, and Julia had got fully into the spirit of the thing, even if her lack of practical experience left her dangling, at any one instant, from several incomplete tasks. But all the important items had been completed: all the various meats were prepared and ready to slap on the barbecue, the monster potato salad growled in anticipation from within its huge flowered porcelain dish, the soft drinks and white wine were chilled in Joe’s almost commercial-sized back kitchen fridge, the potato chip, peanut, and nacho nibbles were ready to be tipped into bowls, and the various dips were made and waiting to be uncovered. The barbecue had been cleaned, the seating was all arranged, and a large compartmented tray containing utensils, napkins, condiments, and packaged wet wipes was ready to go. They had decided that the corn would be steamed inside Anne’s house, rather than barbecued, to help take the barbecue itself off the critical path, and the timing was set for husking the corn and placing it, in batches, into the steaming tray already in place on Anne’s stove. Everybody invited had confirmed they were coming.

  “All we need to do now is take it easy u
ntil we reach the first item on the schedule”, Sanford said.

  Julia was having trouble with this. Sitting still when there was so much excitement ahead was an area where she lacked practice.

  By three o’clock, the first guests began arriving, bang on schedule. Sanford had put two hamburg patties and two sausages on the barbecue just to get the right smells in the air. By then, Julia was struggling to keep up. The potato chips, peanuts, and nachos had been placed on the picnic tables, and people began helping themselves. One of Julia’s jobs was to go around checking on when these snacks needed topping up, but she kept being interrupted by her friends and their parents, all of whom wanted her to stop and talk. She was learning the host’s role of juggling the tasks of making polite conversation and ensuring that food and drink kept appearing at the right place and the right time. She was rescued from this dilemma by Sanford.

  “Okay sweetie, you don’t need to worry about the chips and peanuts anymore. We’ve started laying out the plates of barbecued meat, and people can help themselves from here on.”

  It was clear that Julia had made the switch from host to participant when one of her new friends came up to her, mouth stuffed full of hamburger, and Julia wandered off with the girl, chattering happily, to find herself something to eat.

  Sanford operated the barbecue, and when a consignment of meat was cooked he would carry the tray of it to the central serving table and then spend ten minutes chatting and working his way around the small crowd, before he had to return to the barbecue to look after the next batch. By five o’clock, people were picking at the last bits of chicken and sausage, helping themselves to just a little more potato salad, and exclaiming at how full they were. The gathering was restructuring from amorphous feeding frenzy to small and relaxed social groups. Sanford loaded his plate in hamburger, sausage, chicken, and a generous pile of salad, grabbed two bottles of wine, and wandered around the garden filling glasses and conversing. This carried on for another half-hour, until Anne and Julia emerged victoriously from the kitchen bearing two large single-layer cakes. A communal moan of “I’m too full to eat another bite” along with “but I must try that cake” made it certain that the gathering would carry on until at least seven o’clock on its second wind.

  During all the excitement, nobody noticed the nondescript grey Hyundai Sonata that cruised past four times that afternoon.

  Twenty

  Sanford turned up at Gillian and Philip’s modest but beautifully kept house just after seven thirty on Monday morning. It was a sunny day, and the time and effort Gillian had spent coaxing her garden to do just what she wanted were showing the familiar and spectacular results that Sanford had known and admired for years. Roses and clematis climbed and bloomed elegantly across the front and side of the house. The red and yellow hibiscus that Gillian took in every year to what she called her “winter garden” were as large, blousy, and self-confident as if they were in their native southern states. Beds of annuals and perennials were scattered across the uniform green of the front lawn, bursting in health as usual. Along the winding path leading to the front door, small delicate huddles of pansies, portulacas, and alyssums smiled up at Sanford as he passed them.

  Philip answered the door immediately.

  “Good morning, Jim. You’re prompt as usual.”

  “Morning, Philip. No point in wasting the day, especially one like today.”

  Philip looked up at the brilliant blue sky without enthusiasm, seemed like he was about to say something in response, but then just invited Sanford inside.

  “Gillian is still sleeping. I don’t want to waken her, so could we leave right away?”

  “Certainly. Maybe I’ll have the chance to say hello to her when I bring you back.”

  “Yes. Maybe …”

  Philip looked like he had aged ten years in a tenth that time. Several years ago, Philip would have been out in the garden in shorts and T-shirt, bronzed from his work at pruning, weeding, and deadheading, and flashing a smile from a leathery tanned face that beamed vibrant health, interest, and engagement. Now, he moved uncertainly, his steps were shorter and showed the anxiety and exaggerated care of the elderly and infirm, his gaze wandered about at random, and his hands seemed to drift through the air, tentatively, indecisively. It was clear that an important bright light had been extinguished from his life, and not for the first time Sanford wished he knew what he might do to ignite another one just as strong.

  Philip picked up sunglasses and a rather dashing sun hat. “Shall we go?” he said.

  The trip to the police station was not long, and Sanford did manage to prod Philip into talking a bit about his garden, what he was doing in general, what he was reading, and the cooking club he and a dozen neighbours had taken such pleasure in for more than twenty years. A little of the old Philip showed through, but this was pinched off almost instantly when Sanford said “Here we are”, as he pulled into the large empty car park as close to the door as he could.

  “I don’t think I can face seeing Helen’s things”, Philip said, in a heart-rendingly plaintive tone.

  “If you would prefer”, Sanford replied, “I’ll take her things back to my place and look through them. I have a good idea of what you might like to keep, and I can deal with all the rest. Let’s just go in and sign for the things; I’ll put them in the trunk, and then I’ll take you home again.”

  Philip nodded without any animation, and almost as if he were acting under duress.

  Five minutes later, they were back at the car. Helen’s things had all been placed in one large plastic bag, and through the thick plastic’s distortions it was hard to make out any individual items. Sanford dropped the bag into the trunk, closed the lid, and drove Philip back to his home.

  When they arrived, Gillian was out front watering the flower beds, something that Sanford thought was a healthy sign.

  “Hello Jim”, she said as he climbed out of his car and went around to see whether Philip needed help. She laid down the hose as they walked toward the house, and asked if Sanford would like a cup of coffee. “We usually have one about this time either in the winter garden or on the patio in the sun.”

  Sanford said he would love a cup of coffee. They all entered the house, where Philip dropped his sunglasses and hat and led Sanford toward the patio, while Gillian peeled off to the kitchen to make the coffee.

  Being offered coffee seemed, to Sanford, a surprisingly social initiative for this grief-stricken couple, and it suddenly occurred to him that the diversion of having someone else to talk to made a difference. It was brought home to Sanford, once more, how much these two people had come to mean to him. He knew that Gillian and Philip were deeply shocked, embarrassed, mortified in fact, at Helen’s behaviour over the previous eighteen months, and Sanford was aware that they were relying on him for support. They all knew that Julia played a big role in this, but at an adult level both Gillian and Philip gave the impression of being grateful that Sanford was someone strong they could lean on. As they sipped their coffee, Sanford carried most of the conversational load, which ranged widely, having the apparent effect of relaxing them both, and even drawing out the odd tentative smile. The need to have them come to Stanley Falls, sometime soon, pressed itself on Sanford’s mind, and he made a note to get them to agree on dates for a visit as soon as possible.

  Eventually, Sanford left, but not before entreating them both to call him any time if they wanted to talk, or just as a change in routine. He reminded them how important they were to both Julia and him, he embraced them both warmly at the door, and Gillian accompanied him as he moved away to his car.

  Quietly passing Sanford an envelope, out of Philip’s sight, Gillian said “Could you look after this for us Jim? I can’t do it and it would be too much for poor Philip.”

  “Certainly Gillian”, Sanford said as he took the envelope. Gillian kissed him, then made her way back to the house. When he had driven a block from his parents-in-law’s house, Sanford pulled over to the side o
f the street, and opened the envelope.

  Helen’s will.

  Her only real asset was her condo, and Sanford realized that it would fall to him to package up Helen’s personal things, arrange for the furniture to be picked up and sent to auction, have the condo cleaned and painted, and then make arrangements for it to be put on the market.

  Sanford then drove to his own condo and parked in his underground space. He checked his mail, rode to the fifth floor, and spent a few minutes opening windows to air the place. He then got a bucket of water from the kitchen and watered the thirsty flowers ranged around the sides of the terrace. The great volumes of space into which he looked upward and outward from the terrace were saturated in brilliant summer light, and warm zephyrs of mid-morning plucked at his shirt and hair. The sentiment “it’s a great day to be alive” presented itself suddenly and firmly in his consciousness, even though the incongruity between this and the pathetic bag of his ex-wife’s “effects” could hardly have been greater.

  After a long look out over the city, which was bustling and vibrantly alive, Sanford quickly went through the contents of the plastic bag they had retrieved from the police station, found nothing unexpected, decided that most of it would go to a clothes drop box, and then settled in to prepare for the meeting he would have with Conway in a little less than four hours.

  The hotel’s executive bar was an understated and subdued enclave that spoke of privilege and discretion. It was clear why Conway had chosen it. From any one of the tables, corners, or nooks, all of them complete with massive maroon leather wing chairs, it was impossible to overhear a conversation from even the nearest table in the room. The lighting was sufficiently strong for old, wealthy eyes to read even the finest print. Music played softly enough that it was easily overridden by quiet conversation. Although the space had probably seen tons of Cuban cigars go up in smoke, there was no trace of tobacco staleness in the air.