Up in Smoke

by Ross Pennie

  Once they reached Simcoe proper, Matt turned left onto Norfolk Street. A few blocks later, he steered to the curb and stopped opposite a café. It had a crunchy-granola, fair-trade look.

  The penny dropped. “We’re not meeting her here, are we?”

  “Just picking up some fuel. Olivia’s pretty rough in the mornings. How do you take it?”

  “Black, thanks.”

  It took fifteen minutes for the aficionados at Zol’s infamous Detour Café to produce three hand-crafted coffees and a small bag of pastries. Did Zol wait this long every time he came in for a fix? Well, why not? Better caffeine than tobacco or Internet porn. And the walk from the health unit was good for him. Well, she hoped he was walking.

  She held the coffees in her lap as they continued south on Norfolk Street, turned right at James, and then a quick left onto John, which was little more than a lane opposite the fairgrounds. According to the billboard bordering the large grassy field, they’d missed the Norfolk County Fair and Horse Show by a couple of weeks.

  Matt killed the engine, took the coffees, and led her back the way they’d come. The streetscape looked tidier now that yesterday’s garbage bins and recycling boxes had been put away.

  “Hope you don’t mind a short walk. It’s just around the corner. No need to advertise our visit.”

  Olivia Colborne’s house was around two corners, in fact. On Norfolk Street. It looked like three floors of a haunted mansion on a movie set, standing well back from the road on a half-acre lot. Matt may have performed some mechanical magic inside, but Olivia had neglected the neo-Gothic exterior. The place was desperate for a repair job on its sagging eaves, a new coat of white around the windows, and anything to cover up the hideous purple on the massive front porch. And that would only be a start.

  It took awhile for Olivia to come to the front door, but she seemed glad to see Matt and pleasant enough behind a face that looked somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. Her eyes were red and puffy, there were wrinkles around her mouth, and she’d smeared her lips with a cherry-red gloss that was popular two or three years ago. Her long, wavy hair looked almost black, and naturally so, and she was tall even in her slippers. She’d braced herself for the meeting. A hint of Southern Comfort betrayed itself on her breath.

  They drank their coffees in the living room at the front of the house. Not bothering to fetch a plate for the pastries, Olivia smoked three cigarettes in rapid succession, lighting each with the glowing butt of the one before it. No wonder her voice sounded like a cement mixer and the wallpaper was covered in a dull grey residue. She favoured a premium brand of king-size filter tips, not for sale on any rez.

  When Olivia offered to show them Matt’s basement handiwork, Colleen caught his eye, then dipped her gaze and confided she felt a bit guilty contemplating extravagant renovations as her niece lay in Toronto General, in a liver coma. “She goes to Erie Collegiate,” Colleen added. “The one where that liver plague is picking off one cheerleader after another.”

  “Like my sister.” Matt said, his voice grave. “They’re both waiting for liver transplants.”

  Olivia rose to the bait, appearing genuinely stricken. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Your sister, Matt? Isn’t she a nurse or something?”

  “A paramedic,” Matt said. “Works her butt off on the front lines. Then this. My parents are with her now. My turn’s tonight.”

  When they’d finished their coffees, they trooped downstairs, and Colleen made a show of studying the home theatre in detail. Olivia went on about the layout, the decor, the plush seating. Colleen was far more impressed at the sharpness of the seventy-two-inch flat screen and the opera-house quality of the surround sound. Dennis Badger must be sharing the wealth. At least with his senior management.

  Colleen caught Matt’s eye again and said, “It’s all very nice, but I can’t help feeling guilty. My niece was going to apply to film school in Toronto. Of course, now our lives are on hold. And to think it might be caused by something as ordinary as smoking cigarettes.”

  “Yeah,” said Matt, gazing at his wingtips and shaking his head. “One of the doctors from the health unit told me that every one of the liver cases is a smoker. Doesn’t seem fair, but he’s blaming the cigarettes they make on the rez.”

  Olivia stiffened her back and narrowed her eyes. “Who said that?”

  Matt shrugged. “Don’t remember his name. Some specialist from Hamilton.”

  “Why is he blaming Native tobacco?” Olivia said.

  Matt should have been an actor. He had the looks and the natural grace. “Can’t say for sure. I guess because everyone whose gotten sick smokes it regularly. But around here, that’s pretty well standard behaviour, eh?” He scratched the back of his neck and put on the small-town boy look. “There they go, blaming us Indians again. But tobacco is tobacco, eh? No one said it’s supposed to be good for you. No matter where it comes from.”

  Unable to hide the pained looked on her face, Olivia took them back upstairs to the living room. She snatched her cigarettes from the coffee table and wasted no time in lighting up.

  Colleen tried to sound as breezy as possible. “Matt tells me you’re a mechanical engineer, a whiz at machinery.”

  Olivia shrugged. “Don’t know about the whiz part.”

  Colleen gestured to Olivia’s pack of premium smokes. “Is there a difference between the tobacco you’re smoking and the tobacco in the cigarettes from the reserve?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why is it that they smell so different? My niece says Native tobacco is harsher on the throat. ”

  Olivia looked away. “I guess it’s the type of tobacco. What we use in our factories is one hundred percent locally grown.”

  The woman had said factories. Plural. Olivia Colborne had let it slip. She was involved with the production of more than Dennis Badger’s nicely packaged, excise-duty-paid Hat-Trick brand, produced in a government-licensed facility. She managed the machinery in several factories. But the only other factories within commuting distance were located on the rez, both of them informal, and neither of them licensed. Olivia was working in the Rollies trade. As Colleen contemplated the complexities of the criminal network they were facing, she pulled out her knitting and hoped the face that went with it was a picture of innocence and sincerity.

  Today, she’d chosen the front panel of a winter sweater. A snowflake pattern in white, teal, and fuchsia that she’d been working on for ages. “I started this for my niece. And I’m going to keep going with it. No matter what.”

  Matt covered his confusion by helping himself to the last muffin. She’d forgotten to tell him about her knitting.

  Olivia said nothing.

  Colleen held up the panel and showed Olivia the design. “I’m quite pleased with this pattern. It’s from Canadian Living. I love that magazine. It covers everyday life in such fascinating detail.” She completed a row of moss stitch, then added, “Like peanut butter, for instance. Did you know it can be toxic to the liver? There was an article not long ago about mouldy peanuts from China causing — what was it? Cancer? Yes, that was it, some sort of cancer of the liver.” She shook her head as if to say it was a crazy world.

  Matt fidgeted with his empty cup and took his time on the muffin. Olivia shot him a look that said Okay, you two have had your look, now it’s time you got going. When he showed no sign of reacting, she dragged on her cigarette as if desperate for every molecule of nicotine it could possibly deliver.

  After another half row of stitches, and with as much treacly innocence as she could manage, Colleen ventured, “Come to think of it, we did have a rather wet summer. Was it bad for your business? I mean, does tobacco ever go mouldy?”

  Olivia’s bloodshot eyes flashed with revelation, which morphed into anxiety. Or was it terror? She looked down, stubbed the half-smoked cigarette in the already littered ashtray on the coffee table,
and grabbed her Bic. “No. Not the tobacco we use.”

  The word mouldy, had struck a nerve, there was no doubt about it. Knit one, purl one. Knit another, purl another. “Of course not.”

  Colleen looked at Matt and smiled. “You certainly do fine work, sir. But we’ve taken up enough of Ms. Colborne’s time. I think we should be going.” She stowed her knitting in her handbag and stood up. “If I could use the facilities for a moment.”

  Olivia looked uneasy and conflicted, as if she didn’t want her guests to see the rest of the house but knew she couldn’t refuse to let Colleen use the toilet. “Better use the one at the top of the stairs. Third door on the left.”

  Colleen closed the bathroom door loudly enough to be heard downstairs. She removed the plug from the hand basin and turned on the tap. Then she opened the door without making any noise and only wide enough for her to slip through it. It was an acquired skill, but she was good at it. She crept along the edge of the corridor, where the floorboards were less likely to creak, and found Olivia’s bedroom. What a mess. No wonder she didn’t want visitors up here.

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but knew where she’d find it. Women were embarrassingly predictable when it came to hiding things.

  She went straight to the drawer, and there it was. Olivia’s Achilles heel. It made the poor woman far more vulnerable than her addictions to nicotine and Southern Comfort.

  And Colleen knew how she was going to use it.

  CHAPTER 26

  As Zol expected, they had the place to themselves. The Nitty Gritty Café catered to Concession Street’s weekday lunch and after-work crowds, so it was never busy on Sunday afternoons. Especially in weather like this. The rain pelting the windows and the mist climbing the Escarpment wiped out all traces of the lake, the steel mills, and the lower city. Not a bad spot for a team meeting, nicely cocooned from prying eyes.

  It had been misty at noon on Jenkins Road when Zol dropped Max at the farm. Kitti and Gaspar had Scrabble, Clue, and Monopoly out and ready to play. Mum insisted she’d always loved Clue and was up for a game. Zol told himself a computer-free afternoon would be good for Max, who’d keep Mum and Dad amused with his lively company. All they’d have to do was feed him until Zol collected him after supper. Max would be driven everywhere now, and Ermalinda had strict instructions not to open the door to any visitors. They’d agreed that Zol would take him to school in the mornings and Colleen would collect him in the afternoons.

  Art Greenwood had sounded terribly disappointed this morning when Zol called to say they couldn’t make it to Camelot Lodge today for brunch. The gang would be having coffee and dessert by the fire about now, and Phyllis would be having them in stitches over a recent escapade in her ’72 Lincoln. He hated cancelling on Art and Betty. Every moment spent with them was precious.

  Something flashed at the front of the Nitty Gritty. It was Colleen, striding through the entrance and struggling with her umbrella. As he watched, he knew she’d never get it collapsed. Though she was a whiz with the electronic gadgets of her PI trade, she was hopeless with simple tools like umbrellas and corkscrews. That’s what came, he supposed, of growing up with a houseful of servants who did everything for you. Marcus took charge of her wayward umbrella and stowed it in the stand with the others, then helped her out of her soggy coat. She gave him her hat, a fisherman’s large-brimmed thing only she could make look chic. When she unwound her ponytail, it was bone dry. She beamed appreciatively as Marcus took her order for something undoubtedly warm and soothing, then joined them in the back corner of the café, sinking into the empty chair between Natasha and Hamish.

  She flashed Zol a serious look that said she had something important to tell him. Something she didn’t want to share with the others. His pulse shot up until he checked his phone for a text or a missed call. Nothing from the farm. Whatever was on her mind didn’t involve Max. Hell, he hated being this jumpy.

  Maybe she’d managed to squeeze something important out of Olivia Colborne. Last evening, she’d told him the trip to Olivia’s house had unearthed some serious suspicions and a nefarious little something Colleen was hoping would persuade Olivia to cooperate. The matter sounded so close to extortion that he stopped the conversation there. Anything further would be TMI, too much information. It was tricky having a private investigator working as a consultant for the health unit. Especially when he was making love with her several times a week.

  He threw her a look that said he’d be all ears later and told the team, “We might as well get started. Natasha, you first.”

  “The liver outbreak continues to . . .” Natasha hesitated, as if looking for the right words. “To gradually expand. But it continues to involve only the two populations — students at Erie Collegiate and Norfolk Fire and Rescue Services.”

  “How many are we up to?” Hamish asked.

  “Fifteen. Seven first responders and eight from the school.”

  “Eight?” Hamish said. “Last I heard it was six.”

  “That was Thursday,” Natasha told him. “But then on Friday, the principal, Mr. Vorst, took sick. And a member of the boys’ basketball team. They’re both still at Simcoe General. I think they’re talking about transferring Mr. Vorst to Toronto.”

  “Can you tell us about the three firefighters who called in sick on Friday?” Zol said.

  “Only one has liver disease.”

  “And the others?” Hamish said. “What was wrong with them?” He craned his neck and inched Natasha’s notebook toward him. Something about this case had captivated Hamish more than any other they’d worked on together. Maybe it was the murder of his coworker. Or was Dennis Badger putting the screws to him as well?

  Natasha stirred her latte, then retrieved her notebook. She wasn’t going to let herself be rushed. “Dr. Hitchin, who saw them in Simcoe Emerg, called it contagious anxiety.”

  “Hmm. Any more deaths?” Hamish asked, still trying to read her notes.

  Natasha bit her lower lip. “One. A firefighter. Died yesterday, in the transplant unit at Toronto General.”

  “How many’s that?” Hamish said.

  “All together, three.”

  “And . . . and Donna Holt?” Colleen seemed afraid to be asking.

  “I understand she’s holding her own, but her only hope is that a liver becomes available very soon.”

  “Anything else for us, Natasha?” Zol asked.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Some interesting biopsy results. There’s a doctor Zeiter in Simcoe who has an interest in liver disease.”

  Zol had spoken with him briefly on Wednesday, before he had any results.

  “He deals mostly with alcoholics who’ve developed cirrhosis,” Natasha continued, “and injection drug users with hepatitis C. He arranged biopsies for our first eight cases.”

  Hamish opened his mouth, but closed it and sat on his hands when Zol shot him a look that told him to let Natasha finish.

  “All the livers show the same thing,” she said. “I’ll read you one of the path reports.” She glanced at her notes and quoted, “The basic liver architecture is preserved, but there is widespread centrilobular necrosis of hepatocytes and complete absence of any inflammatory infiltrate.”

  “May we have the plain-English translation?” Colleen asked.

  “The pattern of liver damage visible under the microscope is typical of chemical poisoning,” said Natasha. “The toxic substance could be any of a variety of chemicals including chloroform and carbon tetrachloride.”

  “So there’s no infection?” Zol asked. “No virus, no strange parasite?”

  Natasha shook her head. “The pathologist sounds definite in his report. These livers have been poisoned, not infected.”

  Hamish looked sceptical. “What would a bunch of high school students and firefighters be doing with old-fashioned chemicals no one uses anymore?”

&nbs
p; “How does this fit with the hybrid virus thing in the lip and finger lesions?” Zol asked. “You recovered those matchstick particles from a couple of the jaundiced firefighters? Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

  Hamish straightened in his chair. “You know I don’t believe in coincidences. I spent half of yesterday and most of today in Wilf Dickinson’s lab. And guess what we found?” He looked around the table, but didn’t get any takers, just anxious faces. “More matchstick particles.” He turned to Colleen. “The tobacco you and I purchased at the smoke shops is riddled with them.”

  “Similar to the thingies in the Mongolian case you told us about on Thursday?” Colleen asked.

  Hamish looked triumphant. “Wilf’s been glued to his electron microscope since Friday morning. Even missed an orchestra practice. He found the particles in at least one sample of everything I gave him from the smoke shop. Rollies, reject Rollies, and Hat-Tricks. Plains and menthols. King-size and regular. Even the mock American-style Trackers.”

  “Could it be an artifact?” Zol asked. “You know, something you’d see in tobacco everywhere, even in off-rez premium brands?”

  “That’s what Wilf thought,” Hamish said. “So I bought packs of Players, Belmont, Export A, and du Maurier.” A triumphant twinkle flashed in his eyes. “All were negatory on matchstick particles.”

  It wasn’t an exhaustive study, of course. And there was no proof that the particles were causing more than nuisance blisters in people smoking contraband cigarettes. It could almost be called perverted justice. But at least they were getting closer to the sort of “concrete evidence” he’d need if he was going to confront the Badger again.

  “What about the toxin angle?” Zol said. “Any ideas, team?”

  “The couldn’t be sniffing solvents, could they?” Colleen said.

  “Firefighters sniffing solvents?” Hamish said. “Really, Colleen, I don’t think so.”