by Maia Ross
Luna has served me; Bailey is in the back. I’ll speak to her later, but the glimpse of her face that I caught when I came in broke my heart. She’s obviously been crying.
The bell dings as the door opens. I don’t look up to see who it is. Not because I’ve stopped scanning for threats. I don’t look up because I can smell Nathan’s cologne.
He sits down across from me. He’s flushed, pink from the cold and maybe something else. “H-hi, Mrs. Irma. You called…” He trails off for a minute, then rallies. “So…I’m here.” His voice squeaks on here and I almost feel sorry for him.
I give him my best there’s nothing to be afraid of smile. I learned that one by facing down my dentist. “How are you doing, Nathan?”
He looks down at his lap.
“Do you want to get anything?” I gesture at the shelves of baked goods, all lined up in neat rows. There is a tray of reindeer cookies that look very appealing, if you like sugar.
“No thank you, ma’am.” He looks around, a bit like a frightened bird. “I have to get back.”
“Well, thank you so very much for taking the time to see me.” I sip my tea, as slowly as possible, until he looks like he’s going to explode. It really is easy to make most people tell you what you want them to. There are always a few holdouts, and I have some more advanced methods for them. But for the most part, people hate silence, they’ll do anything to fill it up.
Finally, I put my cup down. “Nathan, can you please explain to me why you processed an application for Bailey’s credit card with a post office box as an address?”
The tips of his ears are fire engine red, and he fiddles with something in his lap. “I thought…” He swallows. “I thought it was because of her parents, you know, her stepmother is so… I thought I was helping. I had no idea any of this could happen.”
“She has her mail sent to my place,” I say gently. “She can’t afford a post office box, Nathan. That’s the point.”
“Smart,” he says, glancing up to meet my eyes.
“Nathan.” I make sure my voice is calm. “It’s against the rules for the bank to accept credit applications without a street address.” This isn’t actually true, but it feels like it might be true, which is almost as good.
Nathan blanches, and those ears turn magenta. “Oh my gosh. What? When did that rule start? No one ever… I mean—are you sure?”
“Have you ever processed an application attached to a post office box before?”
He shakes his head once, hard. “I’m going to get fired. I’m going to—”
I put my hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Nathan, it’s going to be all right. I’ve spoken to Roger. As long as you help me figure out what’s happened, then everything will work out for you.”
“Why aren’t, you know, the police—”
“Nathan,” I say, my voice suddenly sharp. “You need to focus on helping yourself, not criticizing how things are going.”
“Oh I’m not, I promise. I’m sorry.”
I smooth my face into something neutral. “It’s all right, dear. Is there anything else about the application you want to tell me?”
“No.” His head shake is vehement. “It was completely routine. But whoever did this knew Bailey’s social insurance number and all of her confidential banking information. We have a specific, unique security phrase they would have needed to know, and they did. They knew all her account numbers, her passwords, everything. It isn’t really stuff that could be guessed. You’d have to know it.”
“I see. And what can you tell me about the trust fund?”
He leans forward. “Well, I know it was originally quite generous.”
I give him a sharp look. “What do you mean, originally?”
“Someone has been borrowing against it.”
I suck in a breath so quickly it gets lodged somewhere in my trachea. “Roger said it was frozen, it can’t be used at all.”
He looks around again, furtive, like a chipmunk. “It is. But that’s…recent.”
“Who was borrowing from the trust?”
“Officially, her dad. You know, for things like food and lodging and taking care of Bailey. It happens all the time. But later, her stepmother started to borrow against it. Like, a lot. At some point this past fall, it went beyond what would be considered normal living expenses and the decision was made to freeze it.”
“How is it legal for someone to have drawn from it?”
“I don’t know for sure.” When he sees my face, he adds, “I swear it, Mrs. Irma. There must have been a provision for Bailey’s living expenses. A limited amount per year until she turned eighteen. But no one at the bank realized that limit wasn’t being honoured by the client.”
“I understand.” I drink some more tea, let the silence stretch itself out. “Nathan.” I put my hand on his arm again. He looks at it like I’m trying to kill him, which I’m totally not. “Why were you so agitated when we were at the bank the other day?”
He rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to get a bug off him. Then he looks down again. “I…uh…I really…uh…like…uh.” He clears his throat. “Bailey.” The last word sounds like he’s coughing up a turtle.
But I’m not convinced. Maybe he’s a good little liar with a good little story. What if he’s doing this to other customers? What if he’s really a little sociopath with a little scam—one who enjoys other people’s money more than his own? I’ve seen very delightful young people tell very convincing lies.
The swinging door to the back of the café opens and Bailey steps through it. In an instant, Nathan’s shoulders push themselves back, he straightens his tie, runs a quick hand through his hair. He turns a toothy smile to Bailey.
Understanding floods through me. Of course. Nathan looks like my second husband used to look when we first started keeping company. I sneak a glance at him to try to gauge his truthfulness again.
He looks at Bailey and smiles like Christmas has just exploded in his lap.
Oh, bother. On the one hand, I love dead ends, they help bring clarity into the truth-finding process, help focus your problem-solving. On the other hand, now I really don’t know who’s done this. It has to be the stepmother. It has to. Or someone else at the bank. Someone Snookie-sized.
“Hi Nathan,” Bailey says, her voice flat. She looks terrible: her hair is limp and lifeless, and so are her eyes. She’s carrying a tray full of cookies and pulls two of them off. They’re moose wearing Santa hats, meticulously frosted. I shake my head and she offers them to Nathan, who gobbles both of them down so fast he looks a little surprised to still have fingers when he’s done.
“I…I have to get back to work,” he stutters.
I nod in agreement. “Wonderful to see you, Nathan.”
He nods shyly and starts towards the door.
“Bye, Nathan,” Bailey says in a tone that breaks my heart. She’s trying to be upbeat but the sad note in her voice pulls the good mood right out of me.
He waves over his shoulder and then he’s gone.
As soon as he leaves, the smile vanishes from her face. “Any progress?”
I motion for her to sit. She glances over her shoulder at the door she just walked through and takes a seat. “We’re crazy busy. I can only talk for a second.”
“Bailey, do you know about your trust fund?”
She nods. “Yeah, my mom arranged it for me. I can’t touch it now, if that’s what you mean, or else I’d have emptied it out when I started school. But it isn’t very big, from what Mom told me when I was a kid. And I can’t access it until I turn thirty.”
“Why thirty?”
She shrugs. “It’s always been this way in my family—all the women got their own money, back when women couldn’t own property and all that junk. It was our just-in-case money. That’s what Mom called it.”
Smart woman, leaving her daughter a getaway fund in case she married a deadbeat…or worse. I wonder if Bailey knows it’s been borrowed against, but I don’t want to upset her any further. She
looks like a china doll, about to break. Her bottom lip is trembling. I can remember, suddenly, being young and scared and not knowing if things were going to be okay. For most of my life I’ve been comfortable, but when I was in my twenties, for reasons I don’t like to think about, I spent a few long years down on my luck, pinching pennies for groceries and rent and heat, just scraping by. That was husband number two, a terrible, selfish plonker I still haven’t quite gotten over. I don’t know exactly what Bailey is going through, but I do remember the desperation I felt in those years, the anxiety about how many days there were left in the month vs. the pennies we had in the bank.
“Bailey, why do your parents want you to work at the family business if your own father doesn’t?”
She blinks a few times, her eyes shiny. “He was the only one in the family who didn’t. Jaydyn said we have to do our part.”
“But the board ousted your family, didn’t they?”
“Some of them, yes. But not all.”
I put my hand on hers. “It’s going to be all right, Bailey. I promise.”
Tears run down her face like they’re chasing each other. She leans forward and whispers, “Irma…I called the school, and tried to tell them that I’ll get the money, but they said if I didn’t have it before the twenty-second of December, they’re kicking me out of my room. I tried everything and they wouldn’t budge. And they have a waitlist for residence that’s huge so if I can’t get them the money in two days I have nowhere to live, and rents for apartments in Toronto are just crazy…it’s like Manhattan now. Irma, I don’t know what to do. I can’t get approved for a student loan because my parents make too much money, and now I can’t even get credit. If I don’t get my degree, I can’t have a job in the field I love. I just want to help people and I’ve been working toward this my whole life and now…”
The doors to the back bang open and Luna emerges balancing two huge trays like she’s in the circus. “Someone’s on the phone for you, Bailey.” She puts them down on the counter behind the cash and wipes her hands on her apron.
“Okay,” Bailey says softly. “Thanks, Irma, for everything.”
“Hang in there, dear. It’s going to be all right.” I squeeze her arm before she hurries to the back.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your company so much this week, Irma,” Luna says with a tired smile as she sits down in the chair Bailey has vacated.
“I can’t resist your protein muffins.”
“My mom’s recipe,” she says, looking over at her mother’s recipe box. Her shoulders slump.
“I know, dear.” I rest my hand on hers for a moment. “I’m so looking forward to your treats on the twenty-first. Are you bringing a date?”
She looks at the ceiling and back down, laughing. “If I had time to find one, I would.” She gives me a sly look. “Are you bringing a date?”
“I don’t normally, if I’m having an event at my place. It can get in the way of being a good hostess.”
She nods but still looks mischievous. “Who was that dapper gentleman I saw you with at the Club a few weeks ago?”
“Who?” I say innocently. For Luna’s sake, I’ll refrain from telling her that particular bloke used to be a hired killer for the Russian mafia. Lovely fellow, but not really relationship material, as Violet would say.
“What are your plans today?”
I roll my shoulders, which are starting to feel a little stiff. I ignore it. “I’m going over to the Christmas Market.”
She stands. “I have to get back.”
“I won’t keep you. Thanks for the goodies.”
She smiles, picks up the cups, and disappears into the back.
I walk to the door, thinking. I hadn’t planned on going to the Christmas market—to be honest, I sometimes go a little crazy when it comes to purchasing Christmas ornaments or decorations or stuffed beavers or even cookies. I might have a slight Christmas addiction. But I know Jaydyn mans a booth there every year. She enjoys people seeing her doing something laudable.
So I head left, toward the market. And Jaydyn.
Chapter Eight
The market is breathtaking, just as it always is. We have a small contingent of artists, potters, and two winemakers on the island, and they always show up in full force for the holiday market. It brings in visitors from all over, to the chagrin of some of the island’s old blue bloods, which I think is a bunch of hooey. The snow twinkles in the sunlight and the Christmas splendour warms my heart.
There’s an automated life-size Santa at the entrance, raising his hand in greeting. Somehow, he manages to look a little perverted, and not in a good way. I wonder who was in charge of that particular detail. They disband town meetings during December or else they would be swamped with issues like this. Surely they will start requiring permits for Christmas decorations after this lecherous Santa and baby Godzilla Jesus at Stu’s hardware store.
I keep walking. There are knitted Christmas sweaters, handmade candy canes, winter wine. The vendors’ food and drink fill the air with a pleasant aroma mixed with balsam and pine. I wish I could bottle it.
People greet me as I wander around. After a few minutes I see Jaydyn: she’s wrapped up in a Tiffany blue winter coat, with classic lines and aquamarine fur around her face. I can smell her perfume from over here. She looks like a doll.
I wave.
She pretends not to see me, and actually starts speed-walking away. Can you imagine? I pull down my coat, square my shoulders, and follow her. Fleetingly, I think of the 80’s when you could just torture people openly. Bad people, of course.
She’s wearing four-inch stiletto boots that are definitely designer, and most certainly meant for warmer climates.
I pick up the pace but she scoots around a corner, the naughty little thing. Normally, cross-country ski boots can be a little slippery, and I’d worry about following her. There’s a dusting of snow on the ground that could be covering some ice. But I had some grip added to the bottom of my boots—for situations exactly like this, actually.
Around the corner is nothing and nobody. She’s gone. Bother. I try not to feel insulted that a woman wearing ridiculous heels could out-walk me.
On my next attempt to find Jaydyn, I circle the market, deciding to work from the outside in. The venue is a little like the maze from The Shining, but with a lot more holiday cheer.
“Hey Irma,” Francine calls out to me. She’s one of our vintners and makes a mean Chardonnay. She’s head to toe in red, the pompom on her hat almost as big as a football.
“Hello, dear. How are you doing?”
“Fantastic.” She points to the industrial-scale heater hanging over her. “And I owe it all to you.”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pours a glug of red wine into a little cup for me and another for herself. “After we almost froze to death last year, you made city council get new heaters.”
I look at the wine she’s holding out and take it off her hands. “Cheers, dear.”
“Cheers indeed. And Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” The wine goes down perfectly. “Have you seen Jaydyn Marshall, by any chance?”
Francine empties her glass before pointing with it, over my shoulder. “Saw her go into the Knitting Shoppe a second ago.”
My mouth bursts into a smile. “Thank you so much.”
“I’m really looking forward to your party, Irma.”
I really need to update my list. Thankfully there are a few empty slots, but I would be devastated if someone came and there wasn’t enough food. Although I felt the same way last year and the year before and I had enough to feed half the village.
I give her the cup back, she thanks me with a nod of her head, and I head to the Knitting Shoppe. Jaydyn might be hiding in there somewhere, but the owner owes me a favour.
It takes me a while, but I finally find her holed up behind some handmade felt stockings. “Hello, dear.”
She jumps about five feet in the air, which helps solidify my feeling that she’s the guilty party. And the smile she gives me doesn’t help her much either.
“Irma, how are you?”
I realize she’s actually wearing summer stilettos, the little twit. The sidewalks in our town are always expertly cleared in winter for the island inhabitants, but it’s winter still the same. And was that a tremor in her voice?
I smile what Violet has called my Queen of England smile, although I’m not quite sure what she means by that. I make a mental note to ask her when she shows up.
“I’m just wonderful, thank you. And Merry Christmas. Do you have a moment?”
“I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t actually look sorry at all, not that this will change anything. “I have to meet a friend of mine for drinks.”
“It won’t take long.”
“I really can’t.”
“I understand completely. I’ll just go speak to Douglas about it. So nice to see you, dear.” I turn to go, humming under my breath. Those stockings really are precious: cartoon elves, fat Santas, happy faces, so many Christmassy beavers.
A hand touches my shoulder. “I can probably spare a few minutes.”
I try not to smile as I turn around. “How lovely.”
The sound that comes out of her sounds a little like, “Mmmhmmmm.” She looks around, almost as if she’s trying to find someone to come and rescue her, which I promise is not going to happen.
“Let’s go to the pub.” My smile deepens.
“No. I think…” More glancing around. If she runs, I can throw one of the life-sized elves at her to take her down. Mother never said I couldn’t use violence at this time of year, after all.
Jaydyn keeps wavering so I put my hand under her elbow and start directing her out the exit. The pub is just next door and the owner is fond of me, ever since I helped her get some child support out of her terrible wretch of an ex-husband a few years back. So if Jaydyn throws a chair at me it’ll all go nicely. I sense a little resistance from Jaydyn, and I move my thumb to a pressure point in her elbow. She starts moving, which is ever so nice. I have high hopes for this meeting.