by Maia Ross
The hostess leads us to a corner table, my very favourite spot, bless her heart. Roger steps back and lets me take the seat where my back is to the wall and I can see all the exits, like the gentleman he is. I do a quick visual scan of the room. There are a few young people having a meal together, their noses stuck in their phones. Two parents trying to wrangle three small children turn desperate faces to me. I try to give them a sympathetic look, but they’re both too frazzled to notice. I know them all; no threats.
“How are you, Irma?” Roger asks warmly.
“I’m splendid, thank you.” I take a few minutes to update him on how I’ve been doing, my plans for Christmas. He’ll come, of course, him and his husband, Newton. The waitress stops by—Larissa, a smiley-faced middle-aged woman tucked into the Club uniform: white shirt, black skirt—to take our orders. I opt for a glass of red wine. They make an excellent seared tuna here that will pair nicely with it, and they’ll make my meal with as little fat as possible. Roger is a steak man, a good old-fashioned man’s man. They pour him a bourbon that’ll come in one of the cut glass highball snifters they’ve been using since the club opened in 1888. I do so enjoy traditions; they help us all see our place in the world.
Our appetizers come: crab cakes for Roger, a winter salad for me with walnuts and a champagne vinaigrette. We talk about nothing controversial. No politics, nothing controversial, not at the Club, Mother always said.
At the table of young people, one of their phones explodes into song. Every once in a while, I worry if that’s how I’m going to die: heart attack after one more bloody cell phone goes off like a claymore. On the one hand, if you’re in mortal danger, it’s nice to have a phone. On the other hand, they’ve ruined modern civilization.
“It’s nice to see you,” he says once our entrées have been served and my heart rate has returned to normal, and he says it in a tone that means something.
My fish is nestled on a bed of vegetables, each perfectly sculpted and displayed like artwork. The bar is more casual than the dining room, but they don’t slouch on the food here, thank goodness.
I pick up my fork. The fish is perfectly cooked. One of my biggest failures in life is my complete and utter inability to cook anything. Toast and tea, that’s really all I can do. Thank goodness for the Club.
“I was sorry to bother you at work,” I say even though we both know I’m not.
“It’s no problem,” he says easily. He picks up his steak knife, his Omega watch catching the light. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help you out.” A smile. He cuts into his steak—a bone-in rib steak, bloody—with relish.
“Bailey Marshall is really in a bind, Roger,” I say quietly. I put my fork down.
There’s a pause: cut, chew, swallow. He washes it all down with his drink, the gold edging on his highball tumbler reflecting the light. I once knocked a man into a coma with a glass just like that. He was bad, of course. They all were.
“She has a—” He holds up his hands when he sees I’m about to interject. “I know I don’t have to remind you that all of this is confidential, Irma. It’s so difficult in this day and age to keep things confidential.”
I give him a wry smile and pick up my fork again.
He nods back at me, looking satisfied. “Bailey has a trust fund from her mother.”
My stomach tightens suddenly and thoroughly, even though I thought I’d had all of that trained out of me. Bother. “Does she know about it?”
“I’m unsure about that level of detail,” he says, before looking up from his steak, which is now half obliterated. His smile is getting loopier. Strong drinks and good steak will do that to a man. “I can find out. But I do know it’s frozen and can’t be accessed, although that’s all I could find out this afternoon. The system was down because they were doing some sort of maintenance. You know how it is this time of year, no one is around the office, so the IT guys go a little crazy.”
“If you can find out more that would be appreciated.” Suspicion lodges itself inside me. For me, suspicion has always felt a bit like heartburn, a malady I refuse to suffer through. So it bothers me, that niggling little suspicious feeling. Why didn’t Nathan mention the trust this afternoon?
“Not a problem.” He makes a push to finish the steak, one forkful after another of red meat and butter. I dread to think about what his arteries look like.
Irritation washes over me and I try to regroup. “Nathan seems to be doing well,” I say casually. “He was so helpful this afternoon.” I’ve finished half my fish and move my attention to the veggies, glistening with only a hint of butter—a soupçon, the chef told me once—just the way I like it. I’ll take the fish home, eat it for lunch tomorrow, if I don’t burn the house down by using the microwave. Which is indeed a very real possibility.
Roger’s left eyebrow heads to his hairline. “He’s a fine young man.”
“Ah.” I impale a carrot on my fork. “Perhaps I’m mistaken…” Roger shoots me a wry look. He knows I don’t make a lot of mistakes. “But now that I think about it, he did seem a little…” I spear a pudgy little parsnip and wait. I want to see if Roger will jump in and try to fill in the details.
A few minutes tick by, ripe with expectation. But other than to square off with his mashed potatoes, Roger doesn’t budge. Bankers tend to be tight-lipped, generally. Bother.
I smile, let him see he won the point. “Squirrely.”
Roger tilts his head. He’s started working on his potatoes now, mashed with enough butter and cream to feed the whole village. “Squirrely?” His voice is casual, like he’s never heard me say this word before, even though I say it literally every time we see each other. Not that I’m paranoid at all.
I lean closer. “I don’t think I need to remind you, Roger, that if I think someone’s being squirrely, they’re being squirrely. Evasive, secretive, misleading.” I pop a slice of Japanese radish into my mouth. Then I utter the one word Roger hates the most, when it’s referring to bankers, at least. “Dishonest.”
He has the good sense to look offended.
“It seems to me, Roger, that you have to have some data about what’s happened to Bailey. An application was put forward through your bank—a fraudulent credit application that’s ruined your client’s credit rating. There has to be some sort of explanation as to who did it and how.” He looks like he’s about to say something. “There has to be,” I repeat, more firmly. The credit union is very circumspect about its internal doings, but it’s built on relationships. If you want a normal banking experience, why not just go to one of the big banks?
Roger pats his mouth with his napkin. It’s fine linen, starched, ironed, and perfectly folded. If he leaves to visit the restroom, a staff member will pop out of the shadows like a ninja to fold it back into a crisp rectangle. I still get teased about the time I karate-chopped a busboy who was coming in for a re-fold. In my defence, I thought he was trying to kill me.
Roger’s potatoes are gone and his plate is squeaky clean apart from the steak’s bone. He’s going to want dessert now. I put my silverware down at 4 o’clock, the fork’s tines aimed down at the plate. Within seconds, our places are cleared and a dessert menu is handed to Roger.
“Some fresh fruit, Mrs. Abercrombie?” the server whispers into my ear. Across the room, one of the little tykes screams, louder than a gunshot.
“Thank you, yes, dear.”
The tablecloth is brushed clean and once the coast is clear, Roger leans forward. He taps his hand on the table. “Two things, Irma.”
My heartbeat revs up and I lean forward as well, trying to look as casual as possible, considering how excited I am. Mother was right, of course; heartache for a loved one at Christmas means heartache for all. And if Roger knows something, I’ll be able to fix Bailey’s problem and save Christmas.
“One: I pulled the fraudulent credit application that was sent in under Bailey’s name.” He takes a healthy swallow of his drink.
“And who proces
sed it?”
“Nathan.”
“Oh my.” I do wonder why he didn’t mention this little tidbit, either.
He nods, takes another glug. “Normally people’s identities are stolen by strangers. So I thought it would be a dead end. But…” He swirls what’s left of his top shelf drink around in the glass. He’s drinking more than usual, and for a minute I wonder if I should worry about it.
“What?” I finally prompt.
“The address on the bogus application was a post office box.” Another swallow, and the drink is emptied. He looks at me. “A post office box on the island.”
Chapter Five
A thrill runs through me. It’s local, I can fix it, and still have time to finish everything for my party. Christmas is saved!
“Really,” I breathe.
He nods.
“Why didn’t Nathan flag it?” Maybe that means Nathan is the one who’s trying to steal her identity. Maybe he’s on the fast track to becoming an embezzler in his spare time. Maybe this is some kind of scam he’s cooked up so he can move some of his clients’ wealth into his own pockets. Between his behaviour at the bank earlier and the fact that he processed an application for Bailey with what he knew wasn’t her address, I’m not overly impressed with young Mr. Nathan right now.
Roger folds his hands together on the table in front of him. A fresh drink is deposited deftly, right beside his left hand, because Roger is a lefty.
“We’ll be looking into that,” he says firmly. “It’s definitely against procedure.” A shrug. “He’s a young person, Irma, with a great work ethic and lots of potential. He made a mistake.”
“I understand.” And I do. So much paperwork, so many demands. My fourth husband was a banker who complained nonstop. “What’s the…punishment for stealing someone’s identity, anyway?”
Ice cubes clink in his glass while he swirls his drink. “You don’t know?”
A shrug. “Not my area.” I don’t add that I don’t understand anything about digital crime. I used to feel like I understood the shape of the world, the security concerns we had, as people, and as nations. Now I’m not so sure and it bothers me because security is all about information, access to data. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
He puts a little effort behind hiding his smile with his drink, but not that much, and then his grin fades. “I do feel quite badly about all this. Especially with the problems Douglas has been going through.”
I don’t breathe. “What kind of problems?”
He looks startled, like he knows he’s said too much, but then gives in. “Financial.”
“I was reading in the paper just this afternoon that their company has made record profits this year.”
He blinks. “Yes, I heard about that, but apparently part of how they did that was by ousting Douglas and a few other relatives. There would have been a payout to all the family members who got turfed, of course.”
“Goodness.”
“Indeed. In any case, I don’t know all the details, I just know he’s been struggling financially the last few years. But back to our current conundrum.”
A twee chocolate torte is deposited in front of Roger, and a plate of fresh fruit for me.
Roger palms his fork and eyes his prize like a shark would look at a plump little seal. Then he pauses. “To be honest, Irma, not much happens to online fraudsters like this. It’s hard to prove. Law enforcement, the banks, even the credit card industry aren’t super keen on prosecuting.”
“What does that mean?”
He takes three bites, devouring them like he’s never tasted chocolate before. Truly, I’m starting to become worried about his health. Maybe I’ll have him come ski with me tomorrow. We’ll start with an easy ten-mile trail.
“It means that you’re unlikely to get a conviction, even if we know who did it. And even if you do get a conviction, it takes a very long time. A very, very long time.”
I choke on a piece of dragonfruit. “What are you talking about? Online financial crimes can ruin someone’s life—a young person’s life. And the police do nothing?”
He looks alarmed, probably from the look on my face, the tone of my voice. And possibly the knife that’s suddenly gripped in my right hand. I take two deep breaths and wipe the expression from my face, put the knife down. I smile at him, which seems to make him more agitated.
“It’s…” Two more bites. “A…problem, from a regulatory perspective, as well. Banks don’t want to report online fraud, because it triggers an audit or investigation or bad press. Or all three.”
Do not pick the knife back up. Do. Not. I smile again even though it hurts my face. “So, will the bank void the transactions, then?”
“It’s going to take some time to sort this out,” he answers, his plate scraped clean. He looks around like he’s surprised it’s all gone. Dear heaven, please don’t let him order a second dessert, I’ll have a heart attack.
But the fact that the post office box from the application is on the island means I still have hope. I mean, how convenient would it be for Jaydyn to flit down to the post office to pick up her dirty papers? Whoever opened that box didn’t want to travel far, and one of the worst attributes people involved in criminal enterprises can have is laziness. It very often is what gets them caught.
“I’ll put a fraud alert on Bailey’s account and freeze her credit, make sure no new debt can be registered under her name without her signing off on it.” He clears his throat. “Well, Nathan should have done all this this afternoon when he requested that the bank open an investigation. I’ll follow up on it.”
“Thank you. Is the bank going to—”
He holds up a hand. “We’re going to bring in someone from the mainland to investigate. It’ll take a while. You know how it is.”
I nod. “But can’t you authorize a loan for her now? She was approved for the credit card, and we know she didn’t misuse it, so why can’t the bank extend her the same thing now in a loan or a line of credit?”
He clears his throat. “If we were a bank, then maybe, Irma. But we’re a credit union and the loan board has to vote on things like this. They’re all on vacation until the new year and we’ve closed the books on loans until then. I’m sorry, I can’t help.”
The cheque comes, deposited neatly in the DMZ between us.
I make a frustrated noise before picking it up and signing on the dotted line. Roger smiles smugly and salutes me with his latest drink. I don’t mind. It was worth every penny.
I sleep excellently. Really, I refuse to do otherwise. The next morning I take my diesel-tea in my easy chair, the one that looks out over the cul-de-sac. It’s overcast today, the air grim and grey. It looks like it’s going to snow.
My tea is good and strong and goes down perfectly while I surveil the road. I mull over my discussion with Roger last night, and try to think of who, on the island, would want to harm Bailey. Her stepmother, certainly. Nathan, possibly. Snookie? It’s hard to imagine her having the technical chops to do something like this, but if it’s just filling out some applications, the same ones she does every day, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult. In my experience, crime often comes from the inside of an organization. It’s just so much easier. But what about Jaydyn? How is she paying for that house, Harriet’s salary, all those presents, and…
The trust fund. Bloody hell. I completely forgot to squeeze Roger about it last night.
I put my teacup down hard, too hard for china that’s been in the family for over a hundred years. I’m losing it, losing my touch.
I spend a few minutes in self-doubting misery before trying to distract myself with the view. I want this island—and everyone on it—to be safe. When I retired here, I made promises, promises that I’d be a civilian. To other people, and to myself. But it’s hard. Very, very hard, not to pull Nathan or Jaydyn into a dark room and convince them to tell the truth.
Because here’s the thing: the world we see out our door every day—the nice restauran
ts, the smiling families, the traffic rules, the bylaws—isn't real. What's real is all the evil swirling underneath that façade. Every December, I choose to believe in the happiness and joy that can exist in the world and in the wonder of Christmas. For a time, I focus on a snow globe of my own making, with loved ones who are safe and warm and indulging in parties and sugar-laden treats. It’s sort of like temporary insanity, but with more glitter. And that’s why I snap on my skis and head into town.
Chapter Six
It starts to snow on the way in, but I’m ensconced in layers of Gore-Tex and moisture-wicking bamboo. With a good hat, of course, one that covers my ears. A pair of goggles protects against the wind and snow and there’s nothing to complain about, were I a complainer.
The first few miles are easy, but I start feeling a niggling pain in my left knee every inch past that. Bother. Young Dr. Julian has warned me about this. I’ve been taking cortisone shots for the past few years and I must have somehow forgotten to get my last one. Physical infirmity really is such a nuisance, as welcome as pirates on a cruise ship. Although fighting pirates might be fun, actually.
I put the pain out of my mind and rise above it, just like I’ve been trained to do. I decide to leave the wooded trail I’m on and head to the main road. The snowbanks will be level and full of fluffy snow and much easier to navigate. I power through to the post office, snapping my skis off without almost breaking a hip, which is a wonderful omen.
Stu barges down the sidewalk toward me, his hands full of shopping bags, his beard flapping in the wind. “Afternoon, Irma.”
“Need some help with those?” I ask, eyeballing his purchases.
Stu laughs. “Where are you off to?”
“Well, I—” Further down the sidewalk I see Agnes O’Muffin in her mobility scooter. Apparently the scooter is called a rascal, which suits her perfectly. Word is she got her brother, who’s a mechanic, to soup it up. She spots me, leans over the handlebars like she’s Evel Knievel’s demented aunt, and then pumps the gas.