“I’d forgotten that people always come with offerings,” Susan said. “We’ll never get through this lot. You’ll have to take some back with you, Polly.” She halved one of the sandwiches, made the dogs sit, then handed the pieces over. I’d finally given up asking my aunt not to spoil them. I wasn’t about to give her grand-nieces or nephews, after all. The dogs knew better than to try the begging routine with me.
“Maybe I should have a meeting of my own,” I said. “I’d never have to buy groceries again.”
“If you want to live on sugar-laden squares and white-bread sandwiches, go for it,” she said. “You go in and introduce yourself. We’re still waiting for a couple of people. I’ll be there in a moment. Oh, wait. You can take this with you.” She handed me a tray of coffee-things, which I manoeuvred through the door into George’s living room. The dogs stayed in the kitchen with the goddess of food.
Sitting beside George on the sofa was Pete Somebody, who ran Pizza Madness, next door to the Gazette office. I’d bought a slice from him often enough to know who he was, though we didn’t exactly run in the same social circles. I’d seen him coming out of Kelso’s, Laingford’s West End girlie-bar, enough times to figure him for a regular. He nodded at me, then turned back to George, whose ear he was obviously bending. George puffed on his pipe and slipped me a sly wink.
Two men were having an intense conversation by the window, their backs to the room. One was pear-shaped, dressed in baggy jeans and a black T-shirt with “Shutterbug” printed on the back. The owner of the camera-car, I guessed. His hair was blonde, flat-topped in a crew cut, and he gestured wildly with a lit cigarette. The other guy just had to be the Downtown Drug guy—not hard to pick out, as he was wearing a white pharmacist’s coat. Either he had come to the meeting directly from work, or he wore his badge of office all the time. I had a sudden, goofy mental picture of Mr. Drugstore climbing on top of his wife in bed, buck-naked under his white coat. Must have been the dope I’d smoked. He could have been a bachelor for all I knew, and the image wasn’t the kind that you’d go looking for, if you know what I mean.
“Why, hello, Polly,” a woman said as I put the coffee tray down on a side table. I turned to see a vision in pink bearing down on me from the hallway leading to the bathroom. She was about Susan’s age, dressed in what appeared to be a frilly bathrobe—all flounces, set off by a rope of pearls the size of marbles. She hugged me.
“Umm . . . hi,” I said. “How are you?”
“Who am I, you mean,” the woman said and gave a whoop of laughter. “You don’t know me from Adam, do you, dear? Never mind. I remember you when you were just a little thing. Your mother and I were great friends, and you used to come to my shop and play with the dried flowers while we had tea.”
“Oh,” I said, still completely at a loss. I was ten when my parents died, and I’ve managed to do some pretty heavy-duty forgetting since then.
“I’m Emma Tempest,” the woman said, putting me out of my misery. “I run ‘Emma’s Posies.’ Your mother was my ‘Glad Lady’.”
Another image rushed in on me like a freight train, me and my Mom in her old Mazda crammed full of fresh gladiolas as tall as I was, pink and yellow and orange, an Eden on wheels. We’d deliver them to the flower place where a nice smelling lady gave me little sugar cakes and sweet, milky nursery tea while Mom conducted business. “Well, if it isn’t the Glad Lady and her little flower girl,” she’d say.
“You’re Miss Tempest,” I said. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Call me Emma,” she said. “It’s nice to see you grown up, dear. Now I hope you’ll follow in your mother’s footsteps and help us nail these development rascals to the wall.” Follow in my mother’s footsteps and become a fanatical religious do-gooder who never talks to her daughter and ends up getting creamed by a drunk driver on a Kuskawa back road? Not likely.
Four
Free 8 x 10 colour print with every film developed at the Kountry Pantree state-of-the-art photo lab. Why settle for less?
—A flyer delivered to every mail box in Laingford
“Did you see the superstore article in this week’s Gazette?” said Stan Herman, wrinkling his baby face in distaste. Herman was the pillowy blond person in the black T-shirt. I had been right—he was the owner of Shutterbug, the photo shop. The strategy meeting of the League for Social Justice had begun, all of us sitting in a circle in George’s living room, balancing coffee cups and napkins full of genteel nibblies on our laps.
“I think we all read it, Stan,” Aunt Susan said, “but don’t forget that the publisher is one of the store’s financial backers, at least so we’ve been told. We can’t expect him to be entirely objective.”
“It’s not Whiteside that’s the problem,” Archie Watson said. He’d been the last to arrive, still red-faced and apoplectic after his chat with Cal Grigsby at the paper. “It’s that little hack who’s working for him. He talks a smooth line, but he’s biased as hell.” He glared around the room, challenging anyone to disagree with him. His gaze lighted on me and a dangerous spark flashed in his eye, identifying me perhaps as the witness to his show of temper in the Gazette office. I smiled blandly at him, and he looked away.
“I think Cal’s very nice, Archie,” Emma Tempest said. “Granted, he made you look foolish in his article, but if you will make inflammatory statements, you can’t blame the boy for using them. He has a job to do, same as you.”
I hadn’t seen the article they were talking about. I’d meant to look at the Gazette before coming to the meeting, but I got distracted by Kountry Kow. Now I was itching to read it. I love a good bit of dirt in the local rag.
“I think we should all agree not to talk to the press individually,” said Florence Levine, the small, birdlike woman who owned the Homerun Video Den. “If we have something to say about the development, we should issue press releases.”
“That’s a good idea,” Susan said. “If we present a united front, we’ll have more clout.”
“I think this whole thing is a waste of time,” said Mr. Drugstore, who had been introduced as Joseph Olszewski. He was an older man with a baggy, basset hound face and a voice like a foghorn. I still couldn’t shake my mental image of him in bed in his white coat, except now, my wicked brain had added a long, wagging tail to the picture. Can’t say why this was. I couldn’t look at him without an inclination to snicker. “The Kountry Pantree is a done deal,” Olszewski continued. “The building’s almost finished, and if you look in the classifieds, you’ll notice they’re already advertising for staff. I don’t see what we can possibly do to stop it now.”
“We need to know who the proponents are,” Susan said. “Polly can help us with that, I think.”
“Why’s she here, anyway?” said Pete Holicky, the Pizza man. “She’s working for the enemy, isn’t she?”
“She is?” Emma Tempest said, turning to me, her face sagging in disappointment.
“I’m doing a contract for them,” I said. “And I don’t really know why I’m here. Susan asked me.”
“Polly’s an independent freelancer,” Susan said. “She’s not a supporter, per se. Are you, Polly?” Ouch. On the spot. Time for my face to go red.
“Whether I support it or not is immaterial,” I said, carefully. “I agree with Mr. Olszewski, though. I don’t think there’s much you can do at this point.”
“Ah, but we have an ace in the hole,” Emma said. “Does she know, Susan?”
“No, she doesn’t, Emma,” Susan said, “and it’s best not to tell her. As you can see, she’s an open book.” This third-person “she” stuff really bugged me, and I didn’t appreciate having my blushing mug pointed out to these people I hardly knew. Next she would be telling them that I was dating a cop and could be relied on to pass along everybody’s dirty secrets to him. I blushed harder and glanced over at George, who wasn’t saying anything. He was looking at Susan with an expression of mild amusement. You’re laughing now, I thought at him. J
ust wait till she blabs to everybody that you sing opera in the shower, George, and see how you like it.
“You said I could help you, Susan,” I said coldly. “Just how, exactly?”
“You met with one of their committees recently, didn’t you?” she said, ignoring my tone.
“I did,” I said.
“Well, who was there? That will give us some idea of who we’re up against.” I felt like I was in a bad spy movie. Kidnap the enemy. Feed her mini-pizzas and coffee, then make her spill the goods, boss. If she don’t talk, make her eat a cupcake.
“You probably know already,” I said. “It’s no big secret. There was David Kane, of course. He’s the front line man. He’s too young to be putting up all the cash himself, though. I think his parents may be helping him.”
“That’d be the distillery Kanes in Toronto?” Holicky said.
“Yup. Big bucks there,” Susan said. “Who else, Polly?”
“Well, this was just a focus group to come up with a mascot for the store. The others aren’t necessarily backers, you know.”
“A mascot?” Archie Watson said. “You mean like a logo or something?”
“No, a sort of mascot character, like the Zellers teddy bear.”
“Huh. A big fat pig would be appropriate,” Watson said. “A stinking, greedy . . .”
“Archie, let it go,” Susan said. “So who was in the focus group, Polly?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” I said, feeling that at least a token resistance was called for. I was working for them, after all, and while they hadn’t sworn me to secrecy or anything, I felt like I was ratting them out. It was obvious that the group was bent on taking some kind of action against them.
“You said yourself it’s not top secret information, dear,” Emma Tempest said, reading my mind.
“I know that. This just makes me uncomfortable,” I said.
“Told you she was working for the enemy,” Holicky said. “You watch. She’ll go right back to them and say who was here and what went on tonight, and they’ll get us back.”
“This is not international espionage, Peter,” Susan said. “There’s no need to be melodramatic.”
“This is how such things begin, though,” Olszewski the druggist said. “Secret meetings, strategy, informers. Before you know it, there’ll be a pogrom.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “If it means that much to you, the Elliots and Duke Pitblado were there too. Okay? Everybody happy now?”
“The Elliots. I might have known,” said the photo shop guy, Herman. “They come to this town and take over a century-old inn and turn it into Disneyland. Of course they’d be behind it.” Winston and Serena Elliot had bought the Mooseview Inn more than ten years ago. They’d upgraded the original building, built condos on the property and put in a golf course, but you could hardly call it Disneyland. If they hadn’t bought the old place, which had been falling apart, it would have collapsed into the Kuskawa River.
“I knew Duke Pitblado negotiated the land deal, but I’m surprised that he’s involved,” Emma said. Duke was a local real estate broker. He lived in a palatial home in the East End, overlooking Settlers’ Lake.
“I’d’a thought he was too busy making babies,” Holicky said. Duke had married a woman half his age, who had been in a perpetual state of pregnancy since her wedding. It was sort of a town joke—not a very nice one.
“Well, there’s local money behind it, just as I thought,” Susan said, satisfied. “With the Elliots and Pitblado on board, David Kane wouldn’t have had any trouble getting past any zoning restrictions at Town Hall.”
“But the land belonged to the town to begin with, didn’t it?” Florence Levine the video lady said.
“Yes, it did, but I think we’d better save that discussion for later,” Susan said, casting a significant glance in my direction.
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Pas devant les domestiques, is that it? Worried I might go scuttling off to the committee and tell them you’re planning to sue them for corrupt practices?”
“What did she say? I don’t speak Frog,” Holicky said.
“Pas devant les domestiques—not in front of the servants,” Susan said. “Polly, please don’t be offended. It’s just caution on our part, that’s all.”
“Well, you folks just carry on, then,” I said, getting up and putting my empty cup on the floor. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t clear away the dishes. It’s my night off, you know. I’ll just go back to my sharecropper’s shack and play the banjo for a while.”
I flounced out.
In the kitchen, Luggy had his paws up on the table and was carefully licking the icing off the cupcakes. He’d knocked one off the plate and onto the floor for Rosie, who held it between her paws and nibbled at it delicately, like a lady. When Lug-nut saw me, he got down immediately and stood wagging his tail, looking only vaguely guilty. I didn’t have the energy to scold him. The cupcakes were perfectly intact, except for being icing-free, and the League for Social Justice might not notice and eat them anyway, which gave me a curious sense of satisfaction.
“You’ll be bouncing off the walls with all that sugar in you,” I said. My eye caught the phone on the wall by the kitchen door, and I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to call Becker. Perfect timing, I thought. I’ll get on the phone, and Susan will come in and assume that I’m calling someone about their stupid meeting. I dialled Becker’s number, and a child answered.
“Becker residence.”
“Umm, is Mark there, please?” I said.
“Sure. May I tell him who’s calling?” the child asked, efficiently.
“It’s Polly Deacon,” I said.
“One moment and I’ll see if he’s free,” the child said. “Dad! A lady called Polly Deacon on line one!” he called. Becker picked up.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’ve hired an executive assistant from the child labour pool.”
Becker chuckled. “It’s my son,” he said. “He wants to be a business tycoon when he grows up. He’s staying with me for a while.”
Becker hadn’t talked about his son or his ex-wife much, only enough to tell me that the boy lived with his mother and spent the occasional weekend with his dad. He’d kept me out of that part of his life, and I hadn’t pushed it, not being terribly child-oriented. From what I gathered, his relationship with his ex was more or less amicable, and he never started a sentence with “my wife used to . . .” I had expected at some point to be introduced to the kid. I guessed that this was it.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he said.
“I have a meeting at about six, but apart from that, it’s just another lazy Saturday,” I said.
“Want to go hiking? I’d like you to meet Bryan, and he’s been asking about you.”
“He has?”
“Yeah. He says things like, ‘So, Dad. You seeing anybody? Got a girlfriend?’ Stuff like that. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not.” Hooray, I thought. I’ve finally achieved girlfriend status.
“I was thinking we’d take the Oxblood Rapids trail—you know, the one with the falls? I’ll bring the food,” he said.
“You’ve actually got time off? How long?”
“A week.”
“In the middle of the summer?”
“I booked it a while ago,” he said. “Catherine’s going on a training course in Calgary, so I’m doing the Dad thing.” I was a little surprised that Becker hadn’t bothered to mention it. A whole week off in the summer for a Kuskawa cop was a big thing. Maybe he thought I’d be jealous of his son or something. It’s not as if we were living in each other’s pockets. We went out for dinner or a movie about once every two weeks or so, that was all. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called his home number. He usually called from his cell phone or from the cop shop. “So you up for it?” he said.
“Of course. It sounds like fun,” I said, although I had a sudden urge to run away, fast. Meet my kid. E
ngage. Yikes. What if the child hated me? What if he resented my relationship with his Dad and cast me in the role of the evil stepmother? What, oh God, what if he really liked me and wanted me to marry his Dad?
“Do you mind if I bring the dogs?”
“I was counting on it.”
“Great. Can I bring anything else?”
“Nope. I got it covered. We’ll come and get you around eleven-thirty, that sound okay?”
“I’ll see you then,” I said. As I had predicted, Susan came into the kitchen and stopped when she saw me on the phone. Becker had hung up, but I continued to speak into the mouthpiece. “. . . and I think they may be stockpiling weapons, Dave,” I said. “Could be they’re planning to blow up the building. I’d be calling the cops before it’s too late. Right. See ya.” I put the phone back, smiled sweetly at Aunt Susan and headed out into the night.
Five
We have everything you’ll need
for dogs and cats—from treats to feed.
Your furry friends will wag their tails
to see our Kountry Pantree sales!
—A jingle on MEGA FM, Laingford’s radio station
BUSINESSMAN CLAIMS NEW STORE ON BURIAL GROUND
by Calvin Grigsby, Staff reporter
Laingford businessman Archibald Watson believes that the Kountry Pantree superstore, currently being constructed at the corner of Main Street and Hwy 24, is desecrating an ancient native burial ground.
Watson, who was born and grew up in the area, told the Gazette last week that Indian artifacts had been found in the meadow overlooking Lake Kimowan. The site, soon to open as a $2.4 million shopping complex, is, according to Watson, sacred land.
“My brother found a couple of bones there once, and I found an Indian arrowhead,” he said last week. “We should get the Ministry of Indian Affairs or maybe the Heritage people to look into it.”
Watson, whose family immigrated to Canada from England in 1867, said that the Indian contribution to early life in Laingford should be recognized and preserved, not desecrated with a shopping mall.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 53