Pickin Clover

by Bobby Hutchinson

  “Nope. I guess she’s still mad at me for telling her the place looks like the city dump.”

  “It does, but you were kind of hard on her.”

  Norah tore pieces off the roll and lined them up in a row on her plate. “Losing your temper doesn’t get you anywhere with Mom, you should know that by now. It just makes her mad, and then she gets more stubborn than ever.”

  Polly put her spoon down and gave her sister a look. “Me, hard on her? Try that the other way around. That woman doesn’t give a moment’s thought to anyone but herself. She never did. And you can’t deny that yard of hers is a pigsty, to say nothing of the house. Have you gone into her bedroom lately?” Polly shuddered. “Cartons piled halfway to the ceiling, clothes everywhere. And the basement, vegetables going rotten, old furniture, all those boxes of old magazines. God. All I was doing was suggesting she let us hire somebody to clean it up. Is that so bad?”

  “I know. I know what mom’s like. Let’s not argue about it, okay?” Norah gave Polly a placating smile. “I just go insane sometimes and actually think we could all get together and have a nice meal, the way normal families do.”

  Polly shook her head. “Not in this lifetime. Not with our mother. She’s anything but normal.”

  “And what’s normal anyway, right?” Norah couldn’t stand discord; Polly knew that.

  “Right.” Polly relented. After all, it was her sister’s birthday. They shouldn’t rehash old grievances over a celebratory lunch. “Certainly nobody I know even comes close.” But even as she tossed off the flippant words, Polly knew they weren’t true.

  At dusk, after the stores had closed and there was nothing to do and nowhere to go but home, she searched for normal families as she drove slowly down quiet streets, up back alleys.

  In summer they were gathered around barbecues, swimming in backyard pools, tossing balls in parks, walking aimlessly with a dog on a leash, a baby in a backpack, an older kid on a tricycle. In winter they sat around a fireplace, making popcorn, watching rented videos.

  They were everywhere—mothers, fathers, children, happy families doing everyday things. And the worst of all for Polly was that she remembered exactly how it felt to have a normal family of her own.

  Stay focused on the present. Wasn’t that what Frannie had always recommended? Polly faked a grin and said, “So what’s happening on the relationship front, Sis? Any action I should know about?”

  Norah smiled and shook her head. “None. I haven’t been out on a date in months.”

  Polly felt familiar irritation flare at Norah’s passiveness. If it were her, if she were single and lonely, as she suspected Norah was, she’d darned well find a way to meet someone. Vancouver was a big city; there had to be attractive, available men out there.

  “No cute single guys at the hospital?” It seemed to Polly a logical place for meeting men.

  “Obstetrics isn’t exactly the best place to meet single guys. The patients are all female, remember,” Norah pointed out with a grimace. “And besides, it’s not very romantic to date someone who spends his entire working life examining vaginas. Who wants to date someone who knows more about your private parts than you do yourself?”

  Polly had to laugh. Norah could be funny sometimes. “Maybe you oughta try a younger version of those dances Mom goes to. She never seems to have any shortage of guys hanging around.” Polly’s tone was acerbic.

  “I guess I missed out on whatever genes Mom has that makes her irresistible to men.” Norah concentrated on her salad. “And at her age, it’s innocent, there’s probably no sex involved. I read a report in a medical journal that said about seventy percent of men over the age of sixty are impotent for one reason or another.”

  “Impotent I couldn’t care less about,” Polly said. “There's always Viagra. It’s just too bad none of them are clean freaks who’d tidy up that yard of hers.”

  Norah gave her a pained look, and Polly held up her hands, palms out, and said, “Sorry, sorry, not another word about Mom’s place, I promise.”

  It was an easy vow to keep, because the waiters arrived just then with the chocolate layer cake Polly had special ordered when she’d made their reservation.

  Candles ablaze on the cake, the staff grouped around the table and sang “Happy Birthday,” and although Norah was embarrassed by the attention they attracted from the other patrons, Polly sensed that her sister was pleased.

  They ate slabs of cake with ice cream, and it was after three by the time Polly waved a cheery goodbye to Norah outside the restaurant. There was a parking violation tucked under the windshield wiper of her car. Unperturbed, Polly extracted it and shoved it in the glove compartment, along with the other two she’d recently accumulated. She must remember to give them to Michael. His business manager, Raymond Stokes, took care of such things.

  Before she started the car Polly sat for a moment, deliberating over where to go for the rest of the afternoon. She extracted her cell phone from her handbag and dialed home for messages.

  Modern Accents had called, saying the china she’d special ordered had arrived; this pleased her. Next there were several hang-ups, and several messages asking that Michael call his bank manager, which Polly ignored. Then the machine beeped again, and her mother’s loud, irritated voice came on the line.

  “Polly, you know how I hate talking on these things...you’re never home anymore. Anyway, I’m calling because I want you and Michael to come to supper tonight. It’s Norah’s birthday, you know. Come at five. I like to eat early. And call me so I know you heard this, okay?”

  Polly’s mouth thinned with anger and exasperation and she drummed her manicured fingers on the steering wheel. So Isabelle had decided at the last minute that she’d invite them, had she? And trust her mother to just assume they didn’t have a thing to do except race over there, slavering with delight.

  Well, Isabelle could just think again. Polly turned the key and the motor roared to life. Michael was in Seattle, and she was going to pretend she hadn’t gotten the message in time. She’d already celebrated Norah’s birthday; she wouldn’t be letting her sister down.

  To hell with Isabelle.

  Darting from lane to lane in the heavy afternoon traffic, Polly headed over to Pacific Center to pick up the china. Then, she decided, she’d go and sit in a quiet cafe somewhere and drink Perrier water and limejuice for an hour or so. By the time she got home her mother’s invitation would be ancient history.

  It was late afternoon when Michael parked in the circular driveway in front of the house; he’d be leaving again in a few moments so there was no point putting the car in the garage. He wanted to check on several of his hospital patients, then drop by the office for the list of the house calls Valerie would have lined up for him for this evening.

  He slid out of the car and stretched cramped muscles, breathing in the smell of bark mulch and newly turned earth from the flowerbeds. The gardeners had come by today, Michael noted.

  The rosebushes were pruned and bedding-out plants were arranged in careful patterns in the flowerbeds and along the slate path leading to the front door.

  Inside, sunlight streamed through the skylight in the living room, and the smell of lemon oil and pine cleaner signaled that the cleaning service had also come by recently.

  “Polly?” Michael’s voice echoed through the large, airy rooms and up the wide stairwell, even though he knew she was out. Her car wasn’t in the driveway, and the house had a different feeling when Polly was in, as if her energy charged the very air.

  He made his way into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A pitcher of orange juice sat on the top shelf. He poured himself a glass, programmed the answering machine to replay today’s messages and drank the juice as he listened. He was surprised when the third urgent request from Arthur Berina, his bank manager, contained the man’s home number.

  What was up with Berina? Why wasn’t he contacting Raymond if something financial had been overlooked?

  The next message,
from Polly’s mother, indicated to Michael where his wife probably was. He glanced at the clock, and decided he could at least make an appearance at Isabelle’s before he was due at the meeting that night.

  Also, with luck, he could reach Berina before he left the bank for the day. He punched in Berina’s number and exchanged pleasantries with the clerk who answered. Her father was one of Michael’s patients. In a moment Berina came on the line.

  “Michael, thank you for returning my calls.” Berina’s voice was strained. “There’s a problem with your accounts, which I’m certain is easily remedied. I’ll just call things up on my computer so I can be accurate here. Ah, there we are. Are you aware that both your business and your personal checking accounts are overdrawn?”

  Michael scowled. He wasn’t, and Berina was making him feel like a kid called up in front of the principal. This was exactly why he had a business manager. Raymond must have screwed up somehow.

  “Today your direct debit deductions took both accounts well beyond your overdraft limit,” Berina added. “I authorized the payments, of course, but I’d appreciate it if you would cover them at your earliest convenience.”

  Now Michael was shocked and puzzled as well as annoyed. “You’re quite certain both accounts are overdrawn?”

  “Absolutely certain. I have the balance sheet here in front of me.” Alarm sifted through Michael as Berina read off staggering amounts. He frowned, trying to figure out how such a thing could possibly have happened. Raymond was meticulous; he’d never made a mistake like this before.

  “But I deposited several generous checks to each account only a week ago,” he said after a moment’s thought. “The deposits must have somehow gotten screwed up.”

  “I have a record here of two deposits, one to your business account and one to your personal account.” The manager read off the dates and the amounts; both seemed correct. “However, two debits went through that same afternoon, for more than the deposits.”

  Michael knew he hadn’t authorized Raymond to withdraw such large amounts. “Look, Arthur, I’m terribly sorry about this. As you know, my business manager, Raymond Stokes, handles my financial affairs. I’m going to call him right now and find out what’s going on. Certainly either he or I will be in first thing tomorrow to straighten this out.”

  A long, pregnant silence followed, and Michael waited impatiently, wondering what on earth Arthur expected him to do beyond that.

  “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Michael,” Arthur finally said dolefully. “I was afraid of this when I found your accounts were overdrawn. I was notified by the R.C.M.P. just this afternoon that Stokes has disappeared, along with sizable amounts of his clients’ money. It appears two other clients of ours also used him as their business manager. There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Michael shook his head in shock and denial. “That can’t be right, Arthur. It must be a different Stokes. I’ve known Raymond for years. He’s absolutely honest. He’s been my business manager for five years. It has to be a different man.”

  “I’ve got the information from the police right here in front of me,” Berina said. “It was actually Mrs. Stokes who notified the police. She thought her husband was away on a business trip, but after a few days she realized that all the money in their personal accounts was missing.”

  He read off Raymond’s business address and phone number. With a sinking feeling inside, Michael recognized them; they were Raymond’s.

  “When the police checked Stokes’s office, they found it stripped,” Berina reported. “Apparently his partner, Ms. Coombs, is missing, too. The police suspect they left together. Several of his clients realized that their accounts were empty, and that’s when it became obvious people’s money and some of their investments were gone along with Mr. Stokes and Ms. Coombs. I hope this isn’t going to affect you too seriously, Michael.”

  Berina paused expectantly, but Michael didn’t respond. He felt as if he’d taken a hard punch in the gut.

  “I suggest you call this Constable Roper I spoke with today.” Berina gave the number, and Michael scribbled it on the pad beside the telephone. Then he slowly replaced the handset, trying to stay calm to determine how serious the situation was, but knowing already that it could be financially disastrous.

  Over the years as his medical practice had become larger and his business affairs more complex, he’d gradually turned over control of almost all his financial dealings to Raymond. Raymond’s office paid all his monthly bills, both personal and business related. They managed his investments, calculated his income tax, kept track of his expenses. He wouldn’t know for certain until tomorrow, but certainly Raymond had access to far more than his checking accounts. Michael swore, and icy foreboding ran down his spine. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and strode blindly through the gleaming, artistically decorated rooms of his house, cursing his own stupidity at giving such control to someone else.

  Mentally he went over what he could remember of his investment portfolio. There were mutual funds, stocks and various diversified investments Raymond had recommended over the years. The man would have had to forge Michael’s signature to cash them in, but that wouldn’t have posed a problem. Michael had authorized Raymond to sign Michael’s name numerous times, when some niggling piece of paper needed his signature immediately and Michael had been too busy to break away.

  Feeling sick, Michael acknowledged he’d been trusting and increasingly careless, believing Raymond to be an honest man.

  Michael’s practice earned him a generous income, but expenses were correspondingly high. The house was mortgaged fairly heavily; he and Polly had moved to this upscale neighborhood only four years before from the modest bungalow they’d lived in since early in their marriage. They’d done extensive, very expensive, renovations, rewiring, adding the pool in the back and a studio for Polly’s art, putting in another full bathroom on the main floor. The changes had necessitated a hefty second mortgage.

  Also, he’d bought new office furniture and several pieces of expensive medical equipment in the past year. And he’d given Polly the new car for her birthday last November. Plus there was the steady stream of household bills, the staggering amounts Polly charged to her cards every month.

  She’d become a profligate shopper some months after Susannah died, and Michael had never discouraged her; if it brought her some measure of happiness, it was worth it, he reasoned. It was one positive thing he could do for her, he’d told himself bitterly, and he could afford it. After all, he’d safeguarded their future well with wise investments.

  Now it was probable those investments were gone. A terrible sense of loneliness and failure overwhelmed him. He went to the phone and dialed Isabelle’s number.

  When his mother-in-law answered, Michael greeted her and then asked for Polly.

  “Why, she’s not here, Michael. And I must say, she didn’t even bother calling to say the two of you couldn’t make it. I had the table all set and everything,” Isabelle said in an aggrieved tone. “The very least she could have done was let me know that the two of you were too busy to come to her own sister’s birthday dinner.”

  Michael tightened his hand on the receiver, but his voice remained calm and pleasant. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. We’re not very organized. Polly’s not home and I’ve just arrived back from Seattle. I heard your invitation on the machine just now and assumed Polly was with you, but if she’s not it’s because she didn’t get the message. I apologize for both of us.”

  His mother-in-law went on for several moments about Polly’s never being home and the fact that she’d cooked all afternoon. Finally Michael interrupted.

  “Could you let me speak to Norah for a moment, please? I want to wish her a happy birthday.”

  He actually didn’t want to talk to anyone but Polly, but it seemed the fastest way out of this mess. Isabelle would say the same things in fifteen different ways for the next twenty minutes if he
allowed it.

  He greeted his sister-in-law and passed on his wishes for a wonderful birthday, apologizing again for not getting home in time for the dinner.

  “That’s okay, Michael, I knew you were out of town because I saw Polly earlier today. We had a nice lunch,” Norah volunteered. She raised her voice a little, making sure Isabelle would overhear. “I told Mom that when I saw Polly this afternoon she didn’t know anything about the invitation to come over here.”

  Sweet Norah, Michael thought wearily. She was always trying to make peace between her mother and her sister.

  “Do you have any idea where Polly was headed after lunch, Norah?”

  “I really don’t. She didn’t say.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll be home any minute now. Thanks, and happy birthday again.” When Michael hung up, he glanced at the clock. He’d better hurry if he was going to be on time for that meeting. He took the stairs two at a time.

  In the ensuite bathroom, he peeled off his shirt and paused for a moment, inhaling the faint but distinctive scent of Polly’s light perfume. It clung to the towels she’d used, the blouse and tights she’d casually tossed on the top of the hamper, the white velour housecoat hanging on the back of the door. He took a fistful of the fabric in his hand and brought it to his nose.

  Polly. He’d have to tell Polly about the loss of their money and, if worse came to worst, the fact that their investments were gone, as well.

  His heart sank. Susannah was gone, and now it looked as if their financial future was in jeopardy.

  The sessions with Frannie Sullivan had helped Polly. She’d seen Frannie regularly for the first six months, but then she’d stopped going. She’d said it was because she was feeling stronger, but Michael knew all too well she was still emotionally fragile. It was just at the time she’d stopped seeing Frannie that Polly had started spending money recklessly