by L E Fraser
Your beauty and elegance renders me mute with insecurity. With reverence, I study you as you drape luxurious material across an unworthy woman. The garments you design are too lovely to share. No other woman can do justice to the flawlessness of your creations. No other woman compares to you. Your lustrous dark hair makes the goddess Hera weep in envy. I worship you and long for you to understand that my life belongs to you.
A few burgundy drops stain the bottom of the note. I scrape at it and sniff my fingernail. It doesn’t have an odour.
“Pomegranate juice,” Lorna says. “The note came with a pomegranate wrapped in gold tissue.” Her face flushes and she chuckles.
My stepfather is a fan of Greek mythology and I immediately grasp the reference. “Hera is the goddess of marriage and childbirth. She was often depicted holding a pomegranate,” I tell her.
“It symbolizes fertile blood. I looked it up.” She wraps her arm across her stomach.
In Greek mythology, it’s also the fruit of the dead, but I keep that nugget to myself.
“He says he watches while you work. Could it be a co-worker?” I ask.
“I work alone from my garage studio. I have to lease warehouse space and hire staff, but I’m waiting until after New York Fashion Week.” She pauses with a pensive expression. “It could be a vendor.”
“Are there windows in your studio?”
“Yes, and I seldom close the blinds.” She sighs.
“Is this the first contact he’s made?”
“Yes, but I’ve felt followed for weeks. Last night, I came home from dinner with friends and someone had closed my living room drapes. Nothing was missing and there was no sign of break-in, but I’m positive someone was in my house. There was a scent. It reminded me of incense.”
I hold out the sheet of stationary. “Is this the scent?”
She sniffs the paper and her eyes widen. “Yes.”
I’m sensing excitement in her voice and in the quick way her hands move. I think the attention flatters her, which scares me. Underestimating secret admirers who break into your home could have dire consequences.
“Could this be a relationship that turned sour?” I ask.
Lorna shakes her head. “I live to work and don’t have time to meet people. I’d love to be in a relationship. Life gets lonely, you know? Anyway, the police said they couldn’t do anything to identify the person.”
It isn’t a crime to deliver a pomegranate. The letter writer didn’t make a threat.
“What kind of help do you want?” I ask.
“I want a name, so I can talk to the man.”
She must witness surprise on my face because she rushes to add, “If I talk to him, I’m sure he’ll stop.”
My guess is she hopes her admirer is a successful, attractive man and they’ll live happily ever after. What a naïve attitude. The squirrel was inside her house when she wasn’t home. But I need a client and people are free to make their own choices in life.
Lorna cocks her head to the side and smiles. “Can you find him?”
“How about I visit your house and work space tomorrow? I’ll install cameras and see if we can identify him. If you get another letter or gift, don’t touch it.”
I stand, flip through a file drawer, and pass her some papers. “This is my standard contract with my fees. Look it over and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
She stands and hands me a card. “Here’s my address and phone number. I’ll be there all day.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
We part company on the sidewalk. Tonight is family dinner with my spiteful mother and perfect sister. Joyce is seven years older than I am. We have nothing in common except simmering resentment toward each other. My mother and I don’t get along either, but I adore my stepfather.
In spite of his staggering wealth, Harvey is an unpretentious man. He bawled at my father’s funeral, completely unconcerned about the cops in their dress uniforms standing stoic beside the open grave or the reporters vying for a photo op. This billionaire philanthropist stood hunched with grief as they lowered his best friend’s casket into the dark hole. He married my mother two years later but I don’t resent him. Mother is fond of Harvey and he worships her. They seem happy and it isn’t my right to judge.
As I start the car, it dawns on me that I don’t have time to go home and change. Late and dressed like a hobo. It’s going to be a long evening of insults cloaked in a pretext of concern.
* * *
MOTHER REFERS TO her lavish home on the Bridle Path as a palatial estate. That’s fair, since it’s an eight-bedroom, twenty-two-thousand-square-foot stone castle with auto-gated entries, an elevator, a movie theatre, an indoor pool, and three kitchens. The magic gate swings open and I drive down a tree-lined lane to a circular driveway. A ridiculous fountain graces the centre.
My brother-in-law answers the door. “Step lightly,” Leo whispers in my ear. “They’re up to something.”
Leo is six feet, five inches of sculptured muscle. He shaves his head to hide a receding hairline but it suits him. His family owns Russo’s Construction. My sister married well. Not because of the money or because of Leo’s smouldering Italian looks, but because my brother-in-law is a wonderful person and adores his wife.
He drops my leather jacket onto a giant cherry wood table in the foyer. It sits like a black slug beside a priceless Ming vase overflowing with fresh orchids.
“Joyce is cooking,” he says woefully.
My stomach growls in protest. My sister is a food Nazi. Meat, butter, cheese, gluten—anything with flavour—is off limits. We’re in for a yummy dinner of cardboard-tasting delights.
I follow him into the lounge and Harvey gets up to engulf me in a bear hug. My stepfather isn’t an attractive man. He’s short and stout with wispy grey fringe circling his bald crown. Fingerprints smudge his thick glasses and the heavy black frames are crooked on his bulbous nose. His wife must have dressed him tonight because the tailored suit hides his sloping shoulders.
I trot over to my mother, Grace, who perches on the edge of a fragile Elizabethan chair with her ankles crossed and her back ramrod straight. Four months ago, doctors diagnosed Mother with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. I tried to make peace with her, but her icy demeanour and disapproving opinion of me hasn’t softened. I’m close to the end of my rope with her, but I cling to an iota of hope that she’ll eventually accept me.
“Hi, Mother,” I say cheerfully. “You look great.”
“Samantha, you’re an hour late and I see you dressed for the occasion.” Her lips pucker and she avoids my lame attempt to kiss her cheek.
“I didn’t realize it was a fancy dinner.” It always is but I don’t do fancy.
“Want a drink?” Leo offers.
“White wine,” I answer gratefully. “Your hair looks nice,” I say to Mother.
This is a safe compliment because a renowned hair stylist comes to the house once a week. She can’t accuse me of flattering her over something I failed to notice last time I saw her. This week, her hair is black—her natural shade. It suits her better than the platinum she tried last month. Mother’s complexion is pale and her eyes are dark, almost black. She’s barely five feet and slim. The lighter shade aged her, whereas the black chin-length style makes her appear younger. Her clothing and makeup are impeccable. She’s a beautiful woman and my sister inherited her English rose genes. My ginger hair and freckles come from our Irish father.
Joyce emerges from somewhere within the cavernous house. At five-ten, she towers seven inches over my head. She leans down to hug me in a disingenuous show of affection.
“I’ve made cream of mushroom soup to start and lemon herb sole. Hope you’re hungry.”
How she executed the soup without butter or cream is a mystery, but the fish is hopeful.
“I’m starved.”
“Let’s have a drink. I want to hear all your news.” She tucks her long black hair behind her shell-shaped ear and tugs me to a sofa.
“So how’s the new office?” she asks with a bright smile. “I’m so excited for you.”
I try to keep my jaw from hitting my chest. “Oh, thanks. A cop referred a client already.”
“Word of mouth is vital,” Harvey says. “But you can do this on your own.”
“She wouldn’t have to do anything had she defended her honour and remained with the police.” Mother takes a sip of her sherry.
Under normal circumstances, Mother’s little minion would cackle and egg her on. Not tonight. Something is up with my older sister.
Joyce’s hand dives under the sofa and she pulls out a gift-wrapped box. “Ta-da! It’s for you.” She plops the present onto my lap. “To celebrate your new business.”
“Uh, that’s so nice.” I try a smile on for size but it feels like a grimace stretched across my face.
The gift sits on my lap like a ticking bomb. Joyce thinks I wasted a master’s degree in psychology. She was unhappy when I joined the police force and horrified by the scandal that resulted in my resignation. When I told her I was opening a PI firm, she was so upset that I feared she was having a heart attack.
“Open it.” Joyce pokes me in the side.
I remove the beaded ribbon and silver paper and stare at the box containing a Bushnell night vision monocular. We live in Toronto. When am I going to need night vision?
“It’s water resistant and I charged the battery before I wrapped it.” Joyce beams.
“It’s great—thank you.” I remove the lightweight scope and show it around the room. “What a nice thing to do.” I lean over and peck my sister’s cheek.
After everyone has oohed over the spiffy gift, I tuck it back into the box and we sit in uncomfortable silence.
“I want to swing by the loft and check on the renovations,” Harvey says.
Mother rolls her eyes. She doesn’t approve of Harvey funding the work. Before I could refuse his generosity, he’d already assigned a contractor.
“I’d love your advice,” I say.
Out of the blue, Joyce announces, “Leo and I are starting a family.”
“That’s wonderful. When are you due?”
“Well… let’s just say we’re hoping to have a baby.” She winks and giggles. “I know you’ll be supportive.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.” We aren’t close and there’s nothing my sister needs from me, including my affection.
Joyce clears her throat. “I want to talk about the cottage.”
I’ve been dreading this day for five years. My socially ambitious sister wants me to give her the cottage that our father bequeathed to me. She doesn’t want the cottage. She wants the land. In 1949, our great-grandfather bought six acres of waterfront property on Lake Muskoka. Today, Muskoka is Canada’s version of the Hamptons—a summer playground for the rich. Dad was a visionary and saw it coming. He knew that I’d never sell the land or demolish the original cottage. Dad had trusted me with his two most precious possessions: his vintage Grand Am Colonnade coupe and his beloved cottage.
“You can use it anytime,” I say. “So how many kids do you want?”
“It’s not like you’ll ever go back,” Joyce says, ignoring my question. “That’s where you met Liam.” Her jaw stiffens.
I will not allow my spiteful sister to throw my criminal ex-lover in my face. Refusing to take the bait, I repeat in a neutral tone, “You can use it anytime. Are you staying in your house or buying something bigger?”
“You can’t afford to keep up the cottage,” she says to me. “I bet it’s fallen to ruin in the past five years.”
She has forgotten that our great-grandfather established a trust to enable his descendants to maintain the property and pay the taxes. I’ve always suspected that Dad kept the trust a secret. In addition to her looks, Joyce inherited Mother’s love of money.
“Let’s talk facts,” my sister declares with a nasty sneer.
“That would be a refreshing change.” I kick myself for engaging but it’s too late now.
Her eyes narrow. Things are about to get ugly. My sister has a propensity for cruelty when she doesn’t get her way.
“Why would you ever go to the cottage? Have you no self-respect? You slept with Dad’s partner—a corrupt cop twice your age. Dad couldn’t turn evidence over to Internal Affairs because of you. You disgraced him and ruined his career.”
Trying to defend myself is pointless. Every hateful word is true. Besides, Joyce is on a roll with a captive audience, and nothing short of an earthquake is going to stop her.
“Where is Liam now, hmm? Still with Hell’s Angels?” She snickers.
“Joyce and I have discussed this at some length,” Mother says. “I expect you to give the cottage to your sister. Your father intended to remove you from the will after your abortion.”
She’s lying but tears burn behind my eyes. I get up and walk to the liquor trolley to pour more wine.
“You were such a terrible disappointment, seventeen and pregnant by a corrupt police detective,” Mother continues. “You forced your father to compromise his values to protect you from a deranged motorcycle gang. And now Toronto Police Service has fired you. Once again, you’ve soiled your father’s memory in the eyes of his esteemed colleagues.” Mother glares out the window and dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Daddy would want his grandchildren to have the cottage.” Joyce sniffles along with Mother.
Leo moves to stand beside me in a show of unity. “Sam said we can use the cottage. Let it go.”
Joyce sidles over to Mother. My sister needs soldiers when she attacks. “I bet she sold it,” she says. “She had a drug problem, remember?”
I have never taken drugs and the accusation outrages me.
“You’re delusional.” To my horror, I hear my voice rising. “Talking with you is like driving in a rain storm without windshield wipers.”
I march across the room to get the hell out of the nuthouse. At least I won’t have to choke down my sister’s vegan soup and pretend it’s tasty.
“Samantha, walk out that door and you won’t be welcomed back,” Mother states evenly.
“What a calamity,” I say and keep on stepping.
Joyce follows me to the foyer and grabs my arm. “Daddy should have left that cottage to me and Leo.”
“He left it to me.” I wrench my arm out of her grasp and stomp down the front steps. “Until you find a way to reverse time and change that fact, deal with it.”
My sister hurls the box with the night vision scope at my head. Fumbling, I catch it before it smashes on the stone driveway.
“You did not just throw that at me! Grow up.” I yank open the car door and toss the box into the backseat.
Joyce’s raised voice pierces the quiet night, accusing me of a bevy of wrongdoing. From the corner of my eye, I see a man on the lawn. I turn to get a better look at him. It must be one of Mother’s many gardeners. I don’t know why he’s raking in the dark, but it embarrasses me that he’s witnessing his employer’s grown daughters quarrelling like children.
My sister concludes her rant by shouting, “I never want to see you again!”
The door slams before I can tell her how magnificent that sounds.
CHAPTER SIX
Sam
ACROSS THE STREET from the office, Sam hopped off the streetcar and trotted to an outside entrance beside the bakery that led to the upstairs offices. She skulked down the hall and crept to her office door. Eavesdropping wasn’t beneath her, but spying on Reece was. She wasn’t even sure why she was doing it.
She nudged the door and peeked inside. Eli was alone, hunched over the desk, scrutinizing a stack of papers. His fancy laptop was on the desk, a scanner was to his left, and a thick red file folder was to his right. The tip of Eli’s tongue poked from the corner of his mout
h as he read with intense concentration. She had only used red for one case. Her breath caught in the back of her throat and her cheeks flushed with anger.
Son of a bitch!
She threw open the door and it slammed against the side of the file cabinet.
Eli jerked. Papers fell to the floor and he pushed back his chair with a grunt. “Oh my God, you scared the shit out of me.” He uttered a nervous laugh and bent to retrieve the papers.
Marching into the office, she snatched them out of his hand. “What are you doing?”
Confusion flowed across his features, and he rubbed the scar on his eyebrow. “I am scanning your files into a database.”
“You were reading the Incubus file,” she retorted. “Why?”
“I have to catalogue the documents. I will demonstrate how the database works.” He rotated his computer screen to face her.
“I don’t care. Explain what you’re doing reading confidential material.”
His lips thinned and the white scar across his cheek was garish against his flushed skin. “I cannot allocate keywords without reading the document.” He spoke the words in a careful, clipped fashion and avoided her eyes. His fingers plucked an elastic bracelet around his left wrist.
Sam removed her mittens and unwound her scarf. “We need to talk.” She sat across from him and studied his face. “You weren’t born in London, Ontario.”
“I never said I was.” The corner of his eye with the scarred brow twitched imperceptibly, and he repetitively snapped the elastic bracelet against his wrist.
If he weren’t hiding something, he wouldn’t be so nervous. Sam intended to get to the truth. “There isn’t a Canadian birth record for Elijah Watson born in October 1991,” she said. “You lied.”
He glanced out the window and his jaw tightened. “I use my foster parents’ last name. After my folks died, I ended up in the system. Want to hear the gruesome details of living in the system when you are eight?” He leaned to one side, yanked out his wallet, and tossed it on the desk between them. “A PI licence is government issued.” He was yelling now. “You have to show two pieces of identification to get it.” He spread his hands wide and cackled shrilly. “This is whacked. Why would I bullshit to get a minimum-wage-paying job in this hell-hole of an office?”