by Maia Ross
Beside me, Stu scratches his chin, leaning forward. “Did…did she just rev her rascal?”
I straighten my shoulders. “I believe so, yes.”
Agnes’s eyes are wild, half of her hair escaping its grey schoolmarm bun. The scooter bursts forward, scattering the couple standing in front of the hardware store. The scooter’s high-pitched whine rings out as she hurtles toward me. I put my hand over Stu’s arm, ready to push him out of the way if needed. I can still do a mean roll-and-tumble if I have to.
Agnes is twenty feet away, then ten, then she’s on us. My adrenaline is pumping, but it’s a good feeling, a lovely feeling. I feel ready for anything. Only danger can really make you feel alive.
The scooter squeaks to a stop about an inch from my nose. I don’t flinch.
“How’s that new hip working out for you, Agnes?” I ask.
Agnes is wearing a Christmas sweater that looks like it was dragged through a hedge and then wrestled onto her body. Three cartoon reindeers and a constipated-looking Santa Claus. She snorts. Her blue eyes look a little crazier than usual. I’ve heard breaking a hip will do that to people. I take a sharp inhale and then force myself to let it out. I’ve decided not to get old and break anything, but I’ve seen the best taken down in battle and I understand that I can’t control everything, although I don’t really see why I shouldn’t be able to.
Agnes snorts again and I wonder if she’s channelling that reindeer. “Young lady—”
Even though vanity is a terrible thing I can feel my cheeks pink at the word young. And then I’m happy to see Agnes. Not a lot of people are old enough to call me young, but she’s eighty-nine and welcome to it.
“Where is your first edition hardback copy of A Field Guide to Sabotage? It is two days late.” She delivers this line while poking her finger at me, and then sniffs. Agnes, the head librarian of our tiny island library, is ruthless about late books.
“Good heavens.” I force some solicitude into my voice. “I’m so very sorry, Agnes. I had no clue it was late. The days have totally gotten away from me. You know how it is at Christmas, and I have my annual winter solstice party I’m getting ready for. I will go home and—”
“I also haven’t received my invitation to your party yet, Irma.” She clears her throat. “And I am not pleased.”
Sly old goat. But I like Agnes, and I like being on her good side. “Another thing I’m failing at. Of course you’re invited—”
“Good.” She sniffs again like a Victorian-era aristocrat. All she’s missing is the bustle. “No need to return the book yourself, I’ll pick it up at the party.” Beep beep. She sits back in her scooter after tapping the horn.
I look at Stu and he looks at me.
Beeeeeeeeeep.
I scoop up Stu’s elbow and pull him to the side. Agnes nods smartly at us and continues on down the sidewalk. Me, I contemplate the fact that I’ve just been hustled by an octogenarian.
Stu bursts into laughter as he watches Agnes scatter pedestrians like bowling pins as she barrels down the sidewalk. I mean, really, who can blame her? Sometimes we need to make a little noise, to be seen.
I turn my head to make sure Agnes isn’t going to run me over from behind. I lost a partner in a similar scenario. But Agnes is parked in front of the clinic now, jabbing her finger into one of the island children’s shoulders. The little boy, about eight or so, looks terrified. It’s nice to see Agnes so energetic. I certainly hope to be raising as much hell at her age.
“Well, I’m off,” Stu says, like this happens every day.
“Cheerio,” I answer, opening the door to the post office, feeling invigorated from my encounter with Agnes.
“Hi Irma!” The island’s postmistress, Lorraine, greets me with a smile. There are three islanders in line and everyone turns to say hello. No threats.
I return the greetings and hobble toward the chair Lorraine always leaves out strategically for the island’s senior community. My knee is throbbing a bit, but I’m perfectly able to stand. I just want to out-wait everyone else here, and perhaps garner a few sympathy points with Lorraine.
Lorraine services the line with precision before turning to me. “Are you alright, Irma?”
I rub my knee a little, just for dramatic purposes. “I’m fine, dear.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
She puts a “Back in ten minutes” sign on the front door, but doesn’t lock it, before motioning me to the back room. Before long, a pot of tea is steeping in her tiny kitchenette.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, sitting down with two cups.
I put my hand on my chest in mock surprise.
“Stamps, then?” she says wryly.
“Well, I do have a problem I’m trying to get to the bottom of. But I’d hate to put you out.”
“Mmhm.” Her pretty almond eyes narrow a little. She’s sixty-three, almost ready for retirement, but those eyes don’t miss much.
“Well, there is this one thing.”
She laces her tea with milk and sugar and raises it to her mouth.
“I need you to swear to secrecy.”
“Scout’s honour.”
“Someone has stolen Bailey Marshall’s identity.”
Lorraine curses like a sailor, slams her mug on the table. “That poor kid. How can I help?”
She’s always been a good egg. I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket. Last night, Roger gave me the post office box number that was used for the fraudulent application. I slide it across the table to Lorraine. Her face moves through a number of expressions before settling on puzzled. “What’s this?”
Briefly, I give her some background on what’s going on with Bailey, and Lorraine’s eyebrows knit themselves together like she’s making a scarf.
Then she picks up the paper and frowns. “Irma…You know I’d do anything to help you out, but this would actually be illegal.”
“I totally understand. But we’re talking about a young person here, Lorraine, someone who has their whole life in front of them.”
She sits back in her chair, her My Mom is a Better Sailor Than Your Mom mug gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. “Irma…” She sighs. I lean forward. “Here’s the thing…”
I hold my position, waiting. After a few minutes, it becomes obvious she’s not going to say any more. “Lorraine, I understand completely that you’d help if you could. Can you just…leave me alone with—”
“She’s rich, you know,” Lorraine interrupts me. “These summer kids, they don’t have to worry about anything.” She raises a hand to keep me from talking. “Did you see the cover of yesterday’s paper? I know it seems grim right now, but she’ll bounce back from this. I mean, I’m sure she’s got ten trust funds or—”
I bloody well can’t believe I didn’t squeeze Roger about the trust fund. No wonder he looked so smug when I picked up the bill last night.
“—whatever. She’s set for life. I mean, maybe a bump or two in the road is a good thing for her. Help build her character.”
“Lorraine, was it Jaydyn Marshall, because—”
She holds up a hand. “I can’t jeopardize my job, Irma.” She looks miserable. “Lately, they’ve been cracking down on any kind of non-regulation activity, that’s what they call it. The new manager they brought in? The big jerk from Toronto? He actually goes through the system logs to track what we do all day, can you believe it? He’s already cut my hours once. I can’t manage if he cuts any more.”
I consider telling her how badly-off Bailey is—I really should have taken a picture of that terrible room—but my heart isn’t in it anymore. I couldn’t stand to see Lorraine miserable just to make Bailey happy. It isn’t right. So I nod and tell her it’s okay, even though my tea has turned bitter in my stomach.
If there’s anything I’ve learned over my seventy-one years it’s that I don’t deal well with failure. I’m not proud of it…well, scratch that. I am a little proud of
it. It’s helped solve a lot of problems, not just for me but for others as well. But if I can let go of the frustration that’s like a vice wrapped around my spine, I might just be able to figure out a way through this.
My feet are stomping down the sidewalk, I realize, and I make an effort to calm myself, greeting a few folks who pass by me while I try to regroup. I stop for a minute. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. And that’s when the pain in my knee wakes itself up. Bother.
I pivot and head back the way I came, turning ideas around in my head as I go. If it was Jaydyn, wouldn’t Lorraine have just nodded? Who else could it be? Nathan? It can’t be Bailey’s father. He’s too embroiled in his own world.
I’m not approaching this the right way, I know I’m not. I hate the Internet, I just bloody hate it. Faceless cowards doing evil while hiding behind a screen. I’d like to poke all their eyes out.
With a tank.
I make a concerted effort to walk carefully the rest of the way to the island’s clinic, staffed by Dr. Julian. A bell tinkles brightly as I enter the clinic, which is painted in a pale, cheerful blue and outfitted with comfortable chairs and bright clean equipment.
The receptionist is MIA, probably getting in a few errands before Christmas. Christmas. I try to let the seasonal spirit re-enter my body.
“Hey, Irma!” Dr. Julian sprints around a corner. “Can you hang on for a sec?”
“Of course, dear.” I take a seat on one of those comfortable chairs and smile sweetly.
He gives me a little wave and disappears.
I can see my reflection in the glassed wall opposite me; my hair in a neat silver chin-length bob, and my petite frame, all five feet of me. My ski suit today is powder blue. There’s nothing special about how I look, which pleases me tremendously. Nobody notices older women and that’s exactly how I like it.
Then I stand. The problem with me and chairs is that I’d always rather be doing something and chairs are for people who aren’t doing anything. I wander around the corner, toward the examination rooms, and then back to the waiting room, reluctantly parking my caboose. I really am rubbish at waiting.
Next, I try to distract myself: What if someone else at the bank set up Bailey? What if it was Snookie? That hideous brooch I saw at the Club last night was a designer piece, I’m sure of it. Bank salaries don’t pay for that much sparkle, and her latest boyfriend escaped the island and went home to Vancouver in September, my spies tell me. Snookie is from a good old island family, one with an excellent name and a father with a well-known proclivity for gambling, which is why the family name is all Snookie really has now. She lives in the pool house of a distant relative, but she still likes shiny things.
I spend longer than I should trying to figure out a way to blackmail Lorraine’s jerk of a boss even though I know it’s wrong. Wrong, to me, has always been a relative term anyway. Plus, I don’t think I have enough time to organize and execute a solid blackmail plan. Or put that post office box under surveillance. Then I root around in my fanny pack and fish out my cell phone. I tap out a message to Violet: Violet, can you please hack into the post office?
She answers instantly: All of them?
I laugh and try to remember what acronym is used for that. I eventually give up and send Violet a random emoji.
I don’t want to kiss you, Irma.
Fair enough. Just the island post office.
Irma, you should not be writing this stuff down.
It’s another good point. I’m using terrible opsec. Retirement might be addling my brain.
LOL.
Ah, yes. That’s the acronym. So can you?
Can’t you just beat them up and get the info?
I tilt my head, thinking about it. Probably for too long, although who’s to judge. Best not to, dear. It is Christmas, after all.
Irma, and anyone else who’s listening: I can’t hack into the post office. #SorryNotSorry.
I want to follow up with her about this not sorry thing, but I’ll accept her refusal for now. Alright. Then I try to find the right smiley-thing but I can’t. To be fair, I don’t try very hard. She sends me a reply with icons of a smiley face, a crying face and a little duck. I’ll try to work through all that later. For now, I try to think of another way to go at Lorraine’s jerkboss. I can’t imagine how I can move this investigation forward without knowing who owns that post office box, and if I can’t move this forward, then Christmas might just be ruined after all, which I simply can’t have.
“Irma!” Julian is shuttling Cedric, a sixteen-year-old island son, through the waiting room and out the door. “What can I do for you?”
I put my hand on his arm. “I have a tiny little problem.”
He smiles, his unlined, youthful skin not emitting a single wrinkle. There is no way I was ever that young. He steps back, gestures with his arm, and we walk down the hallway, chit-chatting about the status of our respective Christmas shopping and preparation. Not that I’m competitive, but it sounds like I’m winning. Eventually he directs me into one of the brightly-coloured paediatric rooms, outfitted with a race car for an examining table. I try not to take it as a comment on my height.
“What can I do for you, Irma?” he asks once we’re all arranged comfortably.
I try to ignore the primary-coloured assault on my senses and retain a sense of dignity. I brush away a small child’s toy, which squeaks as it hits the floor.
Julian starts to laugh, jiggling silently. I really think he and Violet would make such a nice couple.
He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry, Irma.”
“Did you put me in this room specifically so that would happen?”
He looks affronted, although the smile that’s trying to get out betrays him. “You have such a suspicious mind.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” An exhale. “I’m having some problems with my knee again.”
His jocular expression is gone in an instant and he gloves up before I can say corticosteroid. “May I?” he asks, and I move my leg closer so he can do a quick exam.
“Bloody hell.”
He palpates the spot again. “How about here?”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not too bad.”
“Liar.”
I give him a look.
“Is it worse than before, or the same?”
I explain about my skiing, about how one minute the pain was gone and then it was there. So it can’t really be that serious. He seems unmoved.
“I can give you another cortisone shot—”
“Wonderful. Let’s do that.”
“—but you’re going to want to see the specialist I talked to you about.”
“Of course.”
“That’s what you told me the last time.”
“Very true. Shall we?”
He sighs and gets the shot ready before plunging it into my knee. “How does this feel?”
“Right as rain. Thank you so very much,” I say between clenched teeth, even though I’d really rather be waterboarded. As soon as the discomfort passes, I add, “I was wondering if you could help me with something else.”
“Shoot.”
“Does that new bloke from Toronto, the one who’s running the post office, have any health issues that I should know about? I just want to be welcoming, that’s all. I don’t want to invite him to come skiing with me if he has a heart condition or something like that.”
He stands, patting me on the shoulder. “Irma, it’s Christmastime. Can you put a hold on your activities until after the holidays are over?”
Activities. I like that. “Not really, Julian. Evil never takes a holiday.”
He makes a muffled noise that sounds a little like he’s trying not to laugh. I don’t mind. Whatever gets the job done.
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing in his file that would interest you, if you know what I mean.”
I let out a strangled sigh. It was a longshot, anyway. I stand, test out the knee. It’ll do. “Thank
you, dear.”
“Anytime, Irma. Anything I can bring on the twenty-first?”
“Just yourself. Actually, are you seeing anyone? That would be nice, if you brought someone.”
He gives me a wry smile. “It’ll just be me, Irma.”
“Because you’re not seeing anyone?” I ask sweetly as he walks me down the hallway and out the front door.
“It was so nice for you to drop by,” he says at the entrance, dimples appearing on his cheeks.
I pat him on the shoulder.
“Oh, and Irma?”
“Yes?”
He looks down and then meets my eyes. “I know you have a real love of everything being perfect at Christmastime. But sometimes life just doesn’t work out like that…and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Very interesting point, young man.” I pat his arm. He was always such a bright chap, and always so helpful, even when he’s totally wrong like he is right now. “I’m proud of you.”
He grins a bit like the little boy he used to be. “I’m looking forward to your solstice dinner, Irma.”
“Violet will be there, you know.”
“Awesome.”
He looks like he means it, which pleases me. Outside, snow is drifting lazily to the ground and a smidgen of sun is bathing the sidewalk. I stand in it for a minute. I am bothered. I can’t see the shape of this, and I’m starting to think I’m losing my touch. Why is everyone saying no to me? I have to lean on someone before I can get anywhere, because right now I’m nowhere, and I can’t beat the answer out of anyone, because it’s Christmas. I hate being nowhere.
Which is why I pull my cell out and make a quick call.
Chapter Seven
A few minutes later, I’m sitting at my favourite table at the café, a cup of depressingly weak tea in one hand and a protein muffin in the other. Hopefully both will stick to my ribs, because I need some energy for my trip home.