Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  “So this was her second year with the family?”

  “Yeah, she should have been nearing the end of her mandatory two years,” the redhead continued. “Frankly, I’m amazed she hung in. Working for that bunch must have been hell.”

  “You mean the husband was difficult?” Amanda knew she was pushing her luck, so she tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. Just a woman enjoying a bit of salacious gossip.

  “Oh no, Ben was a sweetheart,” Venetia said. “Poor man. It was Janine….” She shook her head.

  Once again the redhead burst in. “Janine first, last, and always. She was given the world on a platter, but she thought she was owed the whole universe. And if she didn’t get it, boy, she could be nasty.”

  “Now Peggy, you’re going to scare off Amanda,” Venetia said. “We’re not all like that. It’s a nice, peaceful, friendly community.”

  “I can see that,” Amanda said. “We love it! But still, who knows what goes on in the privacy of those islands, eh? Jealousies, marriages on the rocks, secret affairs. Maybe it was Ben who was planning to run away with the nanny.”

  Venetia looked as if she’d been slapped. “That’s a leap.”

  Amanda covered her false step with a laugh. “I met Ben the other day. Seemed like a really nice guy, and talk about gorgeous! I bet he has lots of women chasing him.”

  Venetia drew her lips tight. “He was crazy about his kids, and Janine would have cut off his access —”

  “Not to mention his balls,” Peggy said.

  Venetia continued as if Peggy hadn’t spoken. “She’s got the money and the connections. He didn’t come from money, and he loves what it can buy. Loves the lake. He’s out on that boat all the time with his photography and watercolours. And he’s become quite an accomplished racing sailor.”

  Peggy leaned in, not to be outdone. “Janine now … she’s more likely to grow tired of him. He’s not enough of a party animal for her, so she’d be the one to stray.”

  Amanda digested this while she tried to figure out what to ask next. She’d already pried out far more than she’d hoped to. “I can see how having three little kids could cramp her style.”

  “Oh, hardly. That’s what the nanny was for. But now, the nanny was getting close to the end of her term, and she couldn’t wait to get away. She’d already started the process of getting her permanent resident status and bringing her husband and son over here.”

  Venetia looked at Peggy in surprise. “Who told you that?”

  Peggy flushed and looked at her toes. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She was in Walt’s office last week, asking. Ronny brought her —”

  Amanda hid her surprise, but before she could query further, Venetia cut in. “Then it makes no sense she’d run away now.”

  “Except Walt told her it might take two to four years to process because of government backlog. She was really upset. Two more years of working for Janine, and her own son will hardly know her!” At that moment something out on the water caught Peggy’s eye, and she frowned. “Oh, dear, look who’s coming.”

  All eyes followed hers. A lime-green kayak was making its way toward shore. “Poor lamb,” Venetia muttered. “She always gets forgotten in all the fuss, but she’s going to miss Ben most of all. She took a long time to let him into her heart, but he treated her better than all her blood relatives combined.”

  “He’s not her real father?” Amanda asked, counting on Peggy. A risky question, but she had no time for subtleties. Kaitlyn was clearly visible in the cockpit now, her hair blowing in a straggly tangle around her.

  True to form, Peggy snorted. “Janine got around. I’m not sure even she knows who that is. Or cares.”

  They fell silent as the girl docked her kayak and disembarked in one fluid move. As she approached, she shot Amanda a quick, puzzled glance before Venetia stepped forward and enveloped her in her arms.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. What an awful, awful thing.”

  Kaitlyn remained rigid, her eyes closed. “Can I stay with you, Aunt Venetia?” she murmured finally. “I can’t stand … I just can’t be around them right now.”

  Matthew Goderich was scurrying past all the rainbow displays of fabric in the fashion district of Queen Street West when Amanda phoned. It was a glorious spring day in Toronto, and the locals were flooding the streets, window shopping, sunning themselves on park benches, and sipping lattes at sidewalk tables. The younger, more energetic ones were jogging in the latest designer attire. In that fleeting interval between icy winter and hot, muggy summer, late May hit the perfect note.

  After years of reporting from war-torn and impoverished corners of the world, Matthew was relishing every moment of being back in Canada, with its blue skies, clean air, neatly tended parks, and polite people. He figured after spending years bringing the struggles of the developing world to the attention of the West, he’d earned a little luxury. He’d even found the perfect job; running Amanda’s country-wide Fun for Families charity still allowed him to keep his hand in the fight for global betterment, but from the comfort of his homeland. He loved raising awareness, money, and enthusiasm for the causes she chose, and despite having lived his whole life on a shoestring, he found he had a talent for raising money. He had networks of big donors all around the world, but he’d also discovered the value of social media crowdfunding. Amanda’s work touched the hearts of ordinary people who wanted to help even if they only had ten dollars to spare.

  Now he was on his way to a late lunch meeting with the president and CEO of a local IT start-up who had expressed support for women’s causes. He had deep pockets, but more importantly, he’d grown up in Georgian Bay.

  Horns were blaring and streetcars were screeching. A distant jackhammer made the din so loud that he almost didn’t answer his phone, but when he glanced at the name, he couldn’t resist. He hadn’t heard from Amanda in several days and was getting restless. It would also help his appeal for money if he could provide the CEO with specific details on her planned itinerary.

  And if he were honest with himself, he was also curious, and not a little jealous, to know how she was getting along with her spit-polished Mountie.

  Ducking into a side street and blocking his other ear, he answered. “How’s the trip going? I hope the weather is co­operating. We had the mother of all thunderstorms yesterday.”

  “So did we.” Amanda’s voice sounded distant. Tinny. “And the trip is … well, it’s taken a detour.”

  He waited.

  “I’m with Chris in Pointe au Baril,” she said. “But there’s been a death — possible murder — on one of the islands.”

  His fear spiked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. We’re fine. But it’s a long story, and I need your help.”

  He listened while she described rescuing a nanny from the lake, only to have her disappear with the tour guide, leaving Amanda stranded on a remote island. Overcoming his outrage, he refrained from interrupting, his years as a journalist having taught him to give people time for the story to emerge.

  “The police seem to have decided that Ronny and the nanny are guilty and are trying to flee the country. Perhaps already have. But I’m not so sure.”

  He rolled his eyes. How like Amanda to charge in singlehandedly to defend the innocent. “It sounds like the police have this well in hand, Amanda,” he said. “They do have a shitload of resources and intel at their disposal.”

  “But sometimes, as we know, they are wrong,” she countered. “I’ve been talking to people, and there are plenty of reasons she would flee besides being guilty. She’s a foreign national here on a temporary visa. She has run afoul of influential, old-money Toronto wealth. She has no one to back up her side of the story.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, I don’t actually know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s what I want your help with.”

  He sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do you have
connections in the Philippines?”

  He riffled through his memory. “Possibly. Why?”

  “See what you can dig up on her. I’m not naive, Matthew. I know she may be guilty, and I also know she may be using Ronny. Apparently, she consulted a lawyer about getting her husband and son over here once she gets permanent residence status. I want to know if that’s true. Specifically if there even is a husband and son. I assume he’d be in the Philippines.”

  He pressed his finger into his ear. Had he heard her correctly? Did she expect him to track down some guy halfway around the world in a country of nearly a hundred million people?

  “Matthew?”

  “I’m here. I’m just wondering how the hell …? It’s a needle in a haystack. Less than a needle. A speck of dust.”

  “That’s your specialty. It will be like the good old days. You used to be able to find out anything!”

  “I was younger then.”

  She laughed. “Don’t go all stodgy on me. Use your contacts. Use your charm.”

  He was silent a moment as he tried to think up more arguments. “You got a name for this alleged husband? And a place of residence?”

  “Not for him, but the nanny’s name is Danielle Torres. Try Manila and work your way down.”

  “How old is this Danielle Torres?”

  “I’d guess mid to late twenties. She has a son, and she’s been here almost two years.”

  “Do you know how many Filipino nannies there are in Canada?”

  “I know. Thousands.”

  “About twenty-five thousand, actually.”

  Amanda groaned. “But she would have come over in the summer of 2016. That narrows it down.”

  “And is she properly certified?”

  “I have no idea, but I suspect the Saint Clairs would demand the best.” She paused. “I know it’s a needle in a haystack —”

  “Speck of dust.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “And I will try to get more details on her for you, but I don’t know how much nosier I can be.”

  “You? Nosy? Never!”

  She laughed again. How he loved to hear her laugh, a sound so rare in recent years. “Okay, I’ll be nosier if you promise to do the same.”

  When he hung up, he shook his head in frustration. Why did he always end up promising her the moon? He knew why, of course, but that made him feel even more the fool. He was never going to compete against the man with the halo.

  Reaching the little bakery café five minutes late, he was relieved to see that his potential donor had not yet arrived. After ordering an espresso to keep his brain cells cranked up, he chose a table on the side patio and scrolled through his contacts in Southeast Asia. Some had been made years ago, and he had no idea whether they were still valid. People in the diplomatic, trade, and media fields rarely stayed put for long.

  But he did uncover three promising leads; an aging, burned out British journalist friend who had retired to Hong Kong with his Asian wife, and two local media hacks in Manila. He glanced at his watch. Both Manila and Hong Kong were twelve hours ahead of Toronto, which meant it was the middle of the night there. Not the best time to be calling out of the blue to ask about specks of dust in haystacks.

  He drummed his fingers on the table, not happy at the prospect of waiting at least six hours before he could initiate the search. Amanda might be getting herself into trouble again, unable to resist the urge to solve someone else’s problem. Of his three contacts, the one least likely to hang up on him was his fellow journalist in Hong Kong. In the fine balance of favours they’d traded over the years, Dave Walters owed him. And he knew Amanda. He might even care.

  By the miracle of mobile technology, the call went through on his first try, and within seconds he heard the round vowels and swallowed consonants of North England. “This better be good, whoever you are.”

  Matthew could hear music and laughter in the background. He had not dragged his old friend out of bed. “Dave, it’s Matthew Goderich.”

  The voice rose above the clamour. “Who?”

  “Matthew Goderich!”

  “The fuck you are.”

  “Yours truly. It’s been a while.”

  “It has that. Where the hell are you?”

  “Back in Canada. How’ve you been keeping?”

  There was a pause, and the background noise receded as if Dave had moved to another room. Matthew heard the click of a door closing. He tried to ease into his request with a bit of small talk, but Dave cut him off. “What’s up, Goderich? I’ve got people here. Can we do this memory lane tour another time?”

  “Right. Absolutely. Listen, I’ve got a favour to ask.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Matthew waited. He knew Dave’s curiosity would get the better of him. It only took five seconds.

  “Wha’?” Dave asked.

  “This is the short version. I’m trying to track down the whereabouts of a Filipino man, probably living in Manila, who is married to a temporary foreign worker over here in Canada.” As he articulated the request, he realized how absurd it was. He didn’t even have the man’s name, let alone his date of birth or address, and in Metro Manila alone, there were over twelve million people.

  “What’s the longer version? Why?”

  Matthew provided a sketchy outline of the nanny’s involvement in a possible murder, as well as the husband’s possible role. “I want to know if he’s trying to get into Canada.”

  “And you want this for a story?”

  “No, I’m just verifying the nanny’s story.” He hesitated. “Amanda Doucette has gotten herself mixed up with this nanny, and you know Amanda.”

  Dave chuckled. “I do. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s doing much better.” Matthew spotted a man striding across the street toward him, dressed in casual jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. He looked barely thirty, but he radiated power. “Look, I won’t keep you now. The nanny’s name is Danielle Torres. She’s been working in Canada for almost two years, so she may have got her work visa in Manila in the summer of 2016. Her husband’s name may be Torres as well. And there may be a young son with him too.”

  “Lots of maybes, Goderich.”

  “I know. Just see if you can dig up anything on him. Even a phone number. I can take it from there.”

  “I can’t promise anything. It might take a while too.”

  “I’ll owe you.”

  “Uh-huh. When do I collect?”

  “You know my door’s always open.” Matthew laughed as he hung up just in time to greet his lunch companion. The fact that he’d almost never had a door to call his own was a small joke between them.

  Fortunately, Ian Macintyre was a busy man with no small degree of ADHD, so within an hour they had finished their meals and Matthew had secured a hefty donation to the Fun for Families initiative. Just as Ian was pulling his credit card out of his wallet, Matthew took a shot in the dark.

  “Amanda’s there right now mapping out the trip. Unfortunately, there was a possible murder up there —”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “You probably didn’t know the dead man. They were cottagers up near Pointe au Baril. I know you’re from Parry Sound —”

  Ian laughed. “Yeah, the other side of the tracks. No, I didn’t know him, but of course I knew the Saint Clairs. Everyone did. They’ve been fixtures up there for nearly a hundred years. Duncan Saint Clair died two years ago, but he was very involved in the community, as were earlier generations. He used to bankroll boat races, hunting parties, and fishing derbies. You name it, he was in the thick of it.”

  “A popular guy?”

  “It’s amazing what a pile of money will buy. But I don’t see that continuing with his daughters running the show. The old man understood about giving back to the community. Hired locals, funded activities in the area. The daughters used that island as a party venue and little else. I worked a summer party there once while I was putting myself through university, and I tell you, you
couldn’t pay me enough to go back! But —” he shrugged “— who knows, maybe Janine’s grown up. Duncan Saint Clair must have seen something in her.”

  The waiter materialized with the card machine, ending Matthew’s chance to extract more gossip, and afterward Ian leaped to his feet. Matthew stayed behind, nursing another espresso while he considered his next move. He didn’t expect to hear from Dave Walters until the next day, but in the meantime, he could do some informal sleuthing of his own.

  So he opened his laptop, ordered another espresso, and hooked up to the café’s Wi-Fi. A quick Google search yielded the address of Janine and Benson Humphries; where else but in an exclusive enclave in the heart of Toronto. Neighbours loved to gossip, and in genteel, well-heeled Rosedale, he suspected they might have a lot to say about the scandals of Janine Saint Clair.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Before he ventured into the field, Matthew knew he needed to arm himself with as much background detail as possible about his subjects, so he entered the name “Benson Humphries” into another Google search. He scanned the hits, noting that although the major news media had reported extensively on his death and the police investigation, there was no mention of homicide or even cause of death. The coroner had ruled the death suspicious, but the lid was tighter than a drum on the details.

  Dr. Henry Benson Humphries was a neurologist on staff at one of the big downtown Toronto hospitals as well as the University of Toronto Medical School. Judging from his list of publications and presentations, he was a well-respected rising star in his field. He was thirty-six years old, born in Saskatoon the son of local schoolteachers, but he’d been educated first at the U of T Medical School and later at the prestigious Johns Hopkins Medical School in the United States.

  Matthew ploughed through all the professional accolades and achievements in search of personal insight into the man beyond his modest roots, but it was only when he Googled Janine Saint Clair that he learned more about their private life. The Saint Clairs were identified as one of Toronto’s pre-eminent old-money families. Janine had attended an exclusive girls’ private school and later Queen’s University, but she had never held a job in any normal sense of the word. She was on the boards of numerous foundations and charities and was frequently the spokesperson for worthy social causes.