Peace on Earth

by Maia Ross

  Nathan walks us down a wide corridor, around the corner and to his office. When we get there, he closes the door behind him with a snick. “So…how can I help you?”

  I make myself comfortable in one of the bank’s chairs. I have all the time in the world. If I can solve Bailey’s problem that’ll be a day well spent. I run through the list of things I have to do this afternoon: confirm my dinner numbers with the Club, talk to the piano tuner, make sure—

  “Please,” Nathan says, gesturing for Bailey to sit.

  Bailey and Nathan exchange some pleasantries; Nathan stuttering a bit. He’s a little older, a little awkward socially, but he seems like a good boy. And he’s red as a poinsettia right now, his overly long bangs almost hiding it but not quite. He’s painfully thin and tall, his hair the lightest possible brown, his eyes slightly darker. And he’s wearing alarmingly tight pants. He catches my eye and then looks down, shuffles some papers on his desk. “So, what seems to be the problem?”

  The knot of suspicion I always carry around in my stomach suddenly flares to life. Why is Nathan so shifty-eyed? I know how to ferret out a liar, it’s in my training. Considering my family, it’s also in my DNA.

  I lean forward in my chair and squint at him. He chuckles nervously and doesn’t meet my eyes.

  Bailey reaches into her purse and then stops. Embarrassment flits across her face and I feel sorry for her, suddenly. I remember being that young and thinking every new problem was the end of the world, worrying about what people thought of me. Mother always told me the gift of life was to be your own person, to not dwell on others’ opinions of you. As with so many things—probably not the no-killing-at-Christmastime edict—she was right.

  Bailey looks like she’s steeling herself and finally pulls the letter out. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Nathan, but…” She trails off helplessly.

  He reaches over and plucks the letter from her shaking hand. I tilt my head to the side and watch while he scans it, his brow wrinkled in concentration. He nods, reads some more, nods again. When he raises his head, his face is already arranged in an expression that makes something dark bloom in my innards, somewhere adjacent to my spleen. I do not like that feeling.

  Is Nathan hiding something?

  He pauses, clears his throat. “Well, Bailey, I know why you were not offered credit with our institution at this time.”

  She nods eagerly and I can see she’s trying not to cry. Her parents have money to burn, money for a Benz, vacations in St. Maarten, first-class tickets, first-class everything. There must be more going on in that home than I thought there was.

  “Your credit rating isn’t…” He adjusts his tie. “I’m going to be honest, Bailey, your credit rating is terrible.”

  “What?” she and I say at the same time. “How is that possible?” she adds.

  He shakes his head. “Your…well, your debt ratio is too high.”

  “What?” She shakes her head. “That can’t be. I have zero debt. I’m in school on scholarships and the money I earn from the café. And all the money I’ve saved for my whole entire life.” Her bottom lip is trembling now. Oh, dear. I really do hate young, vulnerable people with trembling lips. Especially at Christmas.

  “I don’t know what to say…” He turns the monitor around so we can take a look. “You’re over thirty thousand dollars in debt. A credit card from us and a payday loan.”

  On-screen, the number is stark: $32,507.25.

  Bailey gasps. Then starts to wheeze.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. The poor thing is shaking like she’s on a spin cycle. “Did you…”

  “No!” Bailey gasps. “I’ve never had a credit card or a payday anything in my life.”

  Nathan’s mouth curls inward. “So none of this…?”

  She shakes her head. She’s trying to calm herself down, but her shoulders keep hitching up in despair.

  “What could have happened?” I ask.

  “Well.” Nathan pulls the monitor back around, which seems to calm Bailey down a bit. “Someone else must have taken all this out in your name.”

  “How would they have done something like that? When they came into the bank, wouldn’t it have been obvious it wasn’t Bailey?” I ask.

  “It was done online,” Nathan says apologetically.

  “Can…can they do that?” Bailey whispers.

  Nathan nods. “Sadly, yes. I’m sorry, Bailey…I think your identity has been stolen.”

  If Bailey was standing, I’m pretty sure she would have collapsed by now.

  “Do you want a glass of water or something?” Nathan asks.

  She nods. She looks like she’s trying very hard to keep the tears from coming. Like she’s trying to be a grownup. Something angry unfurls inside me. I don’t remember what it’s like to be that young—I don’t think I was ever that young, frankly—but everyone who’s reached my age knows what it’s like to feel lost.

  When Nathan leaves, she whispers to me. “Irma, I can’t…I can’t stay in school. No education, no future, no…life. No nothing. Game over. What am I going to do?” She grabs my hand—so tiny and cold—and I squeeze it to warm her up.

  I also know what it’s like to be scared, and she looks terrified. Her father might be rolling in dough, but if his new wife only wants to spend it on the child they have together, not the inconvenient one from his first marriage, then Bailey is sunk. Bailey’s mother was a lovely woman who doted on her husband and daughter. Were she alive, she would not be pleased to see what’s become of her high school sweetheart.

  Nathan returns, water in hand. Bailey gulps it down like she spent the last week disco dancing in the Sahara.

  “Nathan,” I say, “what are the charges on the credit card?”

  He types on his keyboard, a frown on his face. “The payday loan is not ours, obviously. But the credit card…” More clicking. “Cash advances,” he says finally. “It’s all cash advances.”

  “What am I going to do, Irma?” she whispers. After a pause, she starts rummaging in her bag.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “The time. My phone…it’s got to be here.” She lets out a heavy sigh and looks at the ceiling. “Except it’s not, because I always forget it in that box at the café.” She makes a frustrated noise.

  I pat her on the arm. “I forget mine all the time too.”

  “Is that the time?” Bailey is looking at the watch on my wrist. “I didn’t realize we’d taken so long. I have to get back. And we haven’t fixed anything.” Her voice is wispy when she continues, “Irma, I hate to ask, but do you think you could try to sort this out? I mean, you’re so good at helping people, every time something goes wrong you always figure it out, and…I really need help.”

  I put my hand on hers. I can feel her trembling, like a little bird. “Don’t worry,” I say. Financial institutions can be opaque and impossible to navigate, just like a sale at Filene’s Basement. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” That’s where the hoodlums are usually found, at the bottom.

  Bailey and I stand. We thank Nathan for his time and make our way to the closest exit. Which, of course, I mapped out years ago.

  Chapter Three

  I thank Nathan for his time, take Bailey back to work—Luna looks swamped, bless her heart—and walk to the music store, while I turn over Bailey’s problem in my head. Of course I will help her, how can I not? But who could have done such a thing? And how? Financial fraud, I’m sorry to say, was never my area of expertise. It’s hard not to screech my day to a halt to figure it all out, but I can’t let my Christmas party suffer. I try to calm myself down, try to have some faith that solving Bailey’s little mystery won’t be all that hard.

  “Hello,” I call out as I enter the music store. Mo Chang, the island’s piano tuner and all-around music guru, smiles in my direction. He’s mostly blind now, but he says he sees through his music. Beside him is Addison, his teenaged granddaughter.

  “Hello, Irma,” Mo says with a smile.
He’s round like an apple and his hair is down to a few tufts that float about his head like a dandelion gone to seed. He has a kind face and Coke-bottle glasses. He can see a bit, up close.

  Addison stands and flips her dyed-blue hair over her shoulder with disdain. She’s wearing a microscopic crop top and is stuffed into jeans that look like they’d fit a toddler. Her voice is raised and full of angst. “…like this girl,” she says, snapping her gum, continuing the conversation they were having when I entered. She does not look like she’s overflowing with the Christmas spirit.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I say politely but not truthfully.

  “Bailey,” she spouts, “Bailey Marshall. Rich girl, gets to do whatever she wants. Do I get to do what I want? No, I do not.”

  “Please calm down,” Mo says softly.

  I look at Addison. “I’m not sure why you think—”

  “Did you see the paper?” Addison cuts me off.

  I smile. If there’s one thing the people on this island like it’s tradition, which is why Addison is holding a real live newsprinted paper and shaking it at me.

  She hands it over. On the front page is an article about Marshall Industries, the family business Bailey’s father is tangentially connected to. There are a bunch of pictures of extended family members and a snapshot of Bailey’s family awkwardly standing together. At the edge of the article is a photo of Bailey behind the wheel of a little red MG, although you can’t tell it’s red from the black and white picture. I know what colour it is, because that’s my car and I took that picture last summer when I was teaching her to drive a stick shift. The article is about how Marshall Industries has posted record profits this year.

  Interesting.

  “It’s just not fair! I deserve what she has.” Addison storms out in a huff, slamming the door.

  Both Mo and I watch her leave.

  He sighs heavily, a dispirited look washing over him. I take a seat beside him, dust shaking itself loose from the chair as I do.

  “Kids today,” he says with a shrug.

  “That’s my car in the picture, not Bailey’s,” I say.

  I’m rewarded with a sad smile. “Addison spends too much of her time on the Internet. She’s obsessed with those ‘influencer’ people. Anyway, enough of that. When do you want the piano done?” he says, his voice low and throaty like it’s always been. He’s a wonderful singer.

  “The day of the party is fine,” I say. It’s a family tradition to sing at all our Christmas parties and my piano currently sounds like a dying walrus. Which I’ve actually heard, if you can believe it. Ghastly business. “How are you feeling these days?”

  He shrugs. “Can’t complain.”

  I glance over at the door.

  “She’s having a rough time,” he says apologetically. “Her father is too busy for her and she feels adrift.”

  “She needs some exercise to get out all that aggression,” I say. “Some cardio would do that girl a world of good.”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “So I’ll see you on the twenty-first?”

  “Yup, thank you, Irma,” he says. “I’m looking forward to the party.”

  I stand up and put my hand on his and give a little squeeze. “Me too. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  He waves me off and I leave, closing the door much more quietly than Addison, before snapping the toes of my boots into my bindings. The sun is shining, and it’s still warm out, perfect cross-country skiing weather.

  I have to swing by the Club to verify my guest list numbers with the caterer and meet up with Roger for dinner, but Bailey’s house is right on the way. I’d like to have a word—or twenty—with her parents. I have a gut feeling they’re involved somehow in Bailey’s credit snafu, and I’ve learned to trust my gut. I can’t remember exactly what piece of gossip I’ve heard over the last year or so, but I do remember someone mentioning that her parents were nowhere as well to do as they’re letting on. But the newspaper article about the company makes money problems seem unlikely.

  My skis shush quietly over the snow as I make my way to the gated community where Bailey’s parents live. I don’t personally approve of such places—why would you intentionally lock yourself into a prison?—but nobody asked my permission to build, although I’m hoping they’ll realize the error of their ways at some point. At the security station, Lionel Usher is holding sway. I give him a jaunty wave and slip through the barrier. Of course nothing can really keep me out, Lionel knows this. He’s retired law enforcement.

  I point my skis towards Bailey’s home and make my way up the driveway. Their house is designed in a coastal style, wrapped in blue-grey shingles and white trim with windows tall enough to stand in. If it weren’t here on this island it could easily belong in Nantucket or the Hamptons. The wreath on the mahogany door is decorated with stuffed reindeers, which I have to grudgingly admit look adorable, even though beavers would be a better choice.

  Their housekeeper, Harriet, is dragging something to the garbage cans at the side of the house. Harriet has worked in a number of island homes over the years and has been an excellent source of intel for me, ever since I helped track down the man who was stalking her daughter some years ago. We make an excellent team.

  “Irma, how are you?” She smiles widely at me. Her hair is streaked with grey now, which reminds me that my own hair has also lost its brunette hue. I colour it silver these days.

  “I’m well, thank you, dear.”

  “I’m so looking forward to your party,” she says. “Is there anything I can bring? Are you going to have an ice sculpture again this year? Will you have those little cookies?”

  I try to extricate myself from my skis with a bit more panache than earlier and manage to do so without dislocating a hip, which I’ll count as a complete success. Other than the terrible crime that’s been committed against Bailey and my Snookie sighting, I really am having a wonderful day. Mother always believed in the power of optimism and I must say that it really rubbed off on me as I was growing up.

  I smile at her. “Just bring yourself, Harriet.” It’s possible I went too far with the ice sculpture last year—a nativity scene that melted all over my antique sideboard, although the shepherds really did look lovely. “Are the Marshalls in?”

  She nods and walks back with me, opening the door. The house is warm and the delicious smell of coffee cake is in the air, Harriet’s specialty.

  “Can I get you some tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She nods and makes her way to the study on the main floor while I’m taking my ski boots off. There’s a faint murmuring, and then Douglas, Bailey’s father, emerges from the study. He’s an academic, teaches at Queen’s University, and has the stereotypical look of a professor. His smudged glasses are slightly askew, his taupe cardigan has patches on the elbows, and I’d bet there’s a pipe somewhere in his study, not that he smokes.

  “Well, hello, Irma, what a nice surprise,” he says. He even seems to mean it, the skin around his eyes wrinkling happily as he smiles.

  “Douglas,” I say. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home.”

  “It’s no bother at all,” he says vaguely. He has a sheaf of papers in his hands, probably something he’s grading. “Let’s have some tea in the great room.”

  I smile and nod, even though I feel like great room is just…what do they call it these days? Humblebragging? It just seems so ostentatious. In my day, we—I try to bring myself back to the moment. Nobody likes a woman who lives in the past and I simply must stop using phrases like these days and in my day. Today is still my day, as far as I’m concerned, although I must admit I’m not so sure about tomorrow.

  I follow him to his great room, where Jaydyn is sitting on the floor, surrounded by wrapping paper and presents. The room is two stories high, decorated in a vampishly ostentatious manner, and the tree is enormous. Possibly even bigger than mine. I can feel my smile turning into a frown. Not that I’m a competitive person, but I do enj
oy having the largest tree on the island. It’s the way it’s always been.

  “Why hello, Irma,” Jaydyn says. She’s wrapping a child-sized toy car, big enough to seat two toddlers, battery-powered with a working steering wheel. Last summer, one of the other island children went on a joy ride in their little car across the ninth hole at the Club. Took three staff members to bring her down.

  “Jaydyn,” I say sweetly. Harriet brings the tea and sets it down on the coffee table. Jaydyn scowls at it when she thinks I’m not looking, and turns back to her task. Um hmmm.

  Douglas pours some tea, even though it’s barely steeped, and I thank him. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Irma?”

  I place my teacup in the saucer then set it down on the couch. “Well, it’s a bit awkward, I’m sure you’ll forgive me. But we haven’t received your payment for your New Year’s Eve gala tickets at the Club.” I have a few small responsibilities at the Club, mostly because of my parents’ involvement with the board when they were alive. Not that I’m acting on behalf of the club right this minute, since the Marshalls’ payment has been received and cashed. But conjuring up red tape is often so very useful when one wants to find out other things.

  Jaydyn looks at her husband as if he smells like day-old fish. He’s looking down at the papers in his lap, his pen scribbling red in the margins.

  “Douglas,” Jaydyn snaps, chewing on the end of his name. She’s an attractive woman, clad in designer yoga pants that go for $500 a pop at the local studio, her hair artfully cut and coloured, a hearty dose of Botox wiping her forehead clear of age and expression. She’s probably thirty-three to Douglas’ fifty-four. I don’t judge. My third husband was sixteen years younger than me.

  I look at the wrapping paper while they glower at each other. It looks hand-painted. Artisanal. I know because I buy the same type at the art store in town: fat elves and prancing reindeers. The bows she’s using look handmade as well. I see electronics, dolls, pink as far as the eye can see. A veritable treasure trove of little-girl presents.

  “Which of those are for Bailey?” I ask, gesturing with my teacup.