by Maia Ross
Jaydyn doesn’t say much as we walk the few steps to the pub, but she wobbles quite a bit on those silly heels, so I keep my hand on her elbow. Just to help steady her, of course.
There is a beautiful crèche in the front window, and I stop to admire it for a moment. One of the island’s artisans made it years ago and it’s in pristine condition. My heart is suddenly flush with the Christmas spirit.
Jaydyn tries to pull away but I don’t let her go. I pull her tighter, in fact. I love a good showdown. I want to save Christmas, save Bailey, and scare Jaydyn so badly she never steals another dime from anyone ever again.
Jaydyn makes a squeaking noise.
“Irma!” Mandy yells when we finally enter. She’s half Jamaican and half Irish and can make a pot pie with jerk chicken that’d knock your socks off. She’s a big, burly maestro of fusion cooking, and gives absolutely spine-crushing hugs.
She sprints towards me and I ready myself. “Hello, de…dear,” I manage as she squishes the wind out of me. I don’t mind. It’s all very jolly.
When she finally puts me down, she glances over at Jaydyn, who sets her eyes on Mandy for a moment before flicking them away. “Hello, Mandy.” Jaydyn’s voice is flat.
“Why hello, Jaydyn.” Mandy looks unimpressed. “How high are those heels, five inches? You could probably kill someone with them, eh?”
Jaydyn snorts. “Hardly.”
I once saw a Stasi agent impale a stiletto exactly like the ones Jaydyn is wearing in someone’s eyeball, for really no reason at all. You just can’t teach some people manners.
“Table?” Mandy’s grin is huge. “And Merry Christmas, Irma.”
“Yes, please, dear. And a very Merry Christmas to you as well.” I glance at Jaydyn to see if she’s feeling any Christmas spirit. From the way she’s hunched over her cell phone, she is not, although I worry briefly that she’s calling 911.
Mandy seats us in the corner, me with my back to the wall, Jaydyn in a spot where she’ll get hit by the kitchen door every time it opens. Perfect. A happy feeling settles inside me. I love how Mandy always spoils me.
I order tea—with two tea bags, goodness, the tea here is weak—and Jaydyn orders some very old scotch and a salad, your basic no-carb meal for the eternal dieter who still has some impulse issues.
She adjusts her silverware, the placemat, and her water glass before meeting my gaze. Coolly, she says, “And what can I do for you, Irma?”
She’s obviously put some effort into pulling herself together, and I appreciate that. More of a challenge that way.
Mandy’s back with our drinks, and a salad that’s obviously not made to order: sad iceberg, limp arugula, angry-looking kale. I make a mental note to ask Mandy what her issue is with Jaydyn the next time I see her.
I organize my tea and then let myself settle. But before I start talking, I ask myself: Is my maitai in my purse, or did I move it? I discreetly peer in and locate it, tucked into some satin. It’s so important to get into the right mindset before scaring someone into doing the right thing.
Then I meet her eyes.
Her glass shakes all the way to her mouth.
“I have a problem I’m hoping you can help me with.”
Jaydyn puts the glass on the table with a thunk. “Of course, I would love to help you.”
I look around to make sure nobody can hear us. The kitchen door flies open, bumping Jaydyn’s chair. She makes a sour face, then tries to move the chair over. When the kitchen worker—I haven’t seen her before, but her features match Mandy’s—goes back into the kitchen, she knocks the chair again and winks at me. I try not to smile.
“Someone has taken out a huge amount of debt in Bailey’s name.”
Jaydyn snorts again. “I mean, really, Irma. She’s a kid, they do that kind of thing.”
“I’m sorry?”
She smiles now, her nervousness gone. Temporarily, I’m quite sure. “You know how kids are—rack up a bunch of debt, and then don’t want to pay it back.”
I tilt my head. “I don’t think you’re quite understanding me. Someone who is not Bailey has done this.”
She shrugs, her Tiffany necklace accentuating her lovely collarbones, and I focus on them for a minute. Did you know it only takes seven pounds of pressure to fracture a clavicle?
“And that same someone has borrowed a huge amount of money against her trust fund.”
Jaydyn’s snotty little smile wavers. “What are you…what did she…that’s not true.”
I lean forward, my voice as stern as I can make it. “Oh, it’s true. You’ve borrowed thousands against that poor girl’s future. And when you were done with that, you kept going. I mean, really, payday loans?”
She puts a hand up.
I continue, “I don’t know what you think you’re up to but—”
“Wait a minute!”
I wave her away. “But you will not ruin Bailey’s future. I won’t have it. Phony credit cards, payday loans, what utter nonsense.”
She looks pale; now her drink is back on the table and she stares at the heavy cut glass like she’s thinking about throwing it at me. I’d like to see her try!
“How do you know that I—we’ve borrowed against the trust?”
I sit back and smile. The first truth is always the hardest for them.
“It’s really not what it looks like.” She pastes a smile on her face. “Douglas said it was fine and—”
“Did he really?” I say drily. “Your husband, who can barely remember to put on pants, signed off on ruining his first child’s future?”
She rapid-blinks, then takes a swig of her drink. “It’s Felicity’s fault, you know. If she’d built the trust better, then—”
“What does that mean, built it better?”
She shrugs her evil little shoulders. “I mean, who on earth builds a trust that can’t be accessed until a child is thirty? If Felicity had allowed us to draw more money from the trust for living expenses, then everything would have been fine. It isn’t cheap, raising a child, you know.”
I look over her shoulder. Mandy has made a huge collage of framed pictures of people who’ve eaten here, parties that have been thrown. One of those frames holds a picture of me and Bailey’s mother, who was always a good and decent person, unlike the one sitting in front of me now.
I turn my gaze back to Jaydyn and hold her eyes. “How rude of Felicity to die so inconveniently for you.”
Jaydyn’s eyelids flutter, then she ticks off with her hands, “Upkeep on the house here, maintenance on the New York co-op, rent on the Montauk cottage—”
I don’t normally ask these kinds of questions; they’re rude, after all. But they burst out of me all the same. “Have you thought about getting a job? And perhaps having fewer houses?”
She places her hand on her chest, her manicure nestled in her impressive ersatz cleavage.
I try to refrain from rolling my own eyes, such an unattractive habit. “The trust wasn’t meant for living expenses, it was meant for Bailey’s future. Correct?”
She shrugs. How should I know?
I lean forward again. Somehow Jaydyn’s not afraid of me, which means I’m slipping a little. I square my shoulders. “Look. You need to keep your hands bloody well off that trust. Nobody is going to let you touch it, ever again.” I fix my eyes on hers. “I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“Excellent. And then you’re going to pay back the phony credit card, the other loan too. All of it. Today.”
I don’t know quite what expression is on her face. Disdain? Denial? I hinge my neck side to side until it cracks. I meet her gaze.
“Irma—”
“Mrs. Abercrombie to you, Mrs. Marshall. And here’s something I’m wondering,” I say. “Why does Bailey have to go into the family business if her father, your husband, never spent one single day inside its doors? And don’t you think that you and Douglas should be responsible for providing his daughter an education, regardless of
what field she chooses?”
There’s a pause. “Bailey is going to make her own way in the world.” She meets my eyes. “Just like I did.” She tries to adjust her chair after getting whacked by the door again but eventually gives up. She doesn’t have a lot of space to work with, poor dear. And she’s lazy, probably wants to make one of the staff move her chair for her. I really do worry about her generation sometimes.
“I see.”
“And anyway, it’s not me.” She hiccups.
My head tilts itself. “What’s not you?”
“Whoever is doing payday loans, that kind of thing.”
I put my hands on the table. If I’m going to strangle her, I’ll have to do it quick. But I hold myself back and say, “The person who did this had specific, intimate information about Bailey. It had to be someone who knows her. It has to be someone from the island.”
The scotch is gone in a gulp and she holds the glass up in a desperate plea for more. “I don’t know what to tell you, Irm—Mrs. Abercrombie.” When she sees my face, she adds, “We did borrow some money from the trust. For reasonable, required living expenses. And the last six months have been so very difficult. But it was always done with the intention of paying it back. I don’t know anything about any other loans.”
While her glass is refilled I look down and realize I’m clutching the tablecloth in both hands. I release the linen, smooth it out a bit. It’s always important to look calm.
I glance over at Jaydyn: the new drink is really perking her up. I think about the maitai for a minute. Too public, I decide eventually.
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “And don’t think I don’t know those are last year’s boots you’re wearing. You’re broke, and you’re bleeding Bailey dry.”
That’s when the smile starts at the right side of her mouth. Soon, it takes over her whole face. “Ask Roger.”
“What?”
“We signed back all of the money that was borrowed from the trust. We did it about twenty minutes ago, in fact.”
Then she laughs, a tinkly, little-girl laugh.
My stomach lurches. And then, in my mind’s eye, the following happens: I reach over and grab her by the back of her head and drive her face into the table. Not too hard, just a love tap. And I move her head to the side a bit before I do it, to save her from a nose job. It is Christmas after all.
Don’t, Good Irma tells me. It’s the holidays, etcetera. I force some of the tension out of my bones and sit back a bit.
“You should call him,” she adds, giving me a jaunty little salute with her glass.
I won’t hit her, I won’t...
Jaydyn’s smile is a smirk now.
…of course, there’s always the maitai.
“Douglas had a good year,” she says, gesturing grandly with her drink, joy stamped on her features. Not joy for the season, or for her stepdaughter’s future, joy because she’s besting me. “Well, he makes a pittance, really, but his great-great-grandparents’ company did well. Very well. And we got a great buyout from them.” She giggles.
I do so hate being bested. Is she lying about the trust? Is she telling the truth about the trust but not the credit card?
“Oh,”—she waves her glass around again—“and I called the Club. Seems like our New Year’s Eve reservation is perfect. Perfectly reserved.” She laugh-hiccups, then smiles. “Perfect,” she mouths.
I take a good look at her. I believe—I firmly believe—that anyone can lie well, given the right circumstances. Jaydyn has every reason to lie. She’s weaselled her way into a closed trust, she’s potentially tarnished the family name—a mortal sin around these parts. Douglas doesn’t notice much, but that he would notice.
But the smile doesn’t falter.
So she isn’t lying, the bloody little twerp. She knows Roger will tell me the truth, and that if she’s lying, I’ll find her. No, that happy smirk means she’s telling the truth.
Bollocks.
Chapter Nine
When I check my messages after Jaydyn takes her leave of me, there’s a voicemail from Roger, and I call him back. Our discussion is brief and to the point: Douglas, indeed, has just repaid the money taken from the trust. And, no, that doesn’t mean Bailey can now use it for her education, because of the freeze that was put on it in November. So no one can access it again until Bailey is thirty, which was how the trust was originally written. A good lawyer might be able to pry some funds out, but that could be years from now. Bailey will lose her year in the meantime. I try not to be irritated with Felicity, who was a lovely woman. She would have thought that her family money, what she left to Douglas, would sustain Bailey and take care of her education. Generations of her family had relied on that good old money. But she had no way of knowing that it would melt away forever in 2008.
I feel terrible. I just don’t know who’s done this, or why. Why Bailey and not some other island shmuck? I don’t know how to save Bailey’s education. I don’t know how to convince Douglas he’s married a little twerp—and that he’s being one himself. I make a note to exact some kind of revenge on Jaydyn in the future, and have a good long talk with Douglas, at a not-Christmassy time, and try to focus.
But it’s no use. My party is tomorrow night—our family’s solstice party has always kicked off the holiday season—and Bailey needs that money by the twenty-second, two days from now, or her year will be lost. She’s right about rents in Toronto these days, they’re a scandal. I’m worried about her falling into some sort of depression. And what a waste: she could save the world, that girl.
I look around the pub. Jaydyn’s spot has been cleared for some time now, and I’ve been sitting here alone, a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, like I’m about to either stab or eat someone. On top of everything, the little twerp has stuck me with the bill.
I turn the problem over in my head again: If it’s not Jaydyn, it has to be someone at the bank. It has to be.
Has retiring made me soft? Is it all over for me? I love this island, the people here. I want it to be safe—I insist it be safe—but how can I do that if I can’t even take care of a tiny problem like this?
Somehow it’s four thirty in the morning. Normally I refuse to have insomnia—a healthy day is predicated on a good night’s sleep after all—but it’s been cropping up more and more in my life over the last few years. What a bother.
I’m sitting in my easy chair, pointed at the window, watching. There’s snow falling gently outside, blanketing the entire world in the most perfect, pristine white, just like when I was a child.
I’m feeling sorry for myself.
The fire snaps and I glance over at it. Poor Bailey, everything still in front of her. So close but not quite. It’s easy for me to forget about how important money is because we were always comfortable growing up. After my education was over, Mother and Father said it was time for me to make my way in the world. I always felt so grown up and successful because I got a job right out of university and made a living wage. And they helped out, sometimes.
In any case, money simply wasn’t talked about in those days. It was private, like the fact that you liked to sit around on the chesterfield on Sunday mornings in your underpants. But money is everything. It’s opportunity, it’s stability, education, good health and world travel. It’s hope and freedom and a bigger life.
Bailey is at that point where things can go one way or another: a disinterested father, an evil stepmother, the brink of despair.
I put on the kettle and mull the problem over again. I think about the piano tuner and his granddaughter, dripping with anger about Bailey’s father’s success. How far would she take that jealousy? I think about how many people have seen that paper, who’d think that Bailey wouldn’t even notice the missing money.
The kettle sings and I brew a small cup of tea. Somehow the time is now four forty-four a.m. Bother. I’ll have to have a wee nap before the party. So much to do to get things ready, and I’m going to pop by the piano tuner’s to
have a chat with him to see how angry his granddaughter really is. Maybe she decided to be Bailey in her spare time, if it wasn’t Snookie. But first I try to organize the day logically. I have to be here in the late afternoon when the food is delivered, and I need to make sure everything is right with the dessert.
Dessert. I think about sitting with Luna for a bit. She’s up at four every day, baking, and every once in a while when I have a touch of insomnia, I go and help her, just like I used to with her mother, Andrea. Luna and I always talk in between tasks; sometimes she makes me a cup of dark hot chocolate—all the sugar squeezed out of it—and we chat for a while. I watched the sun rise there with Andrea more than once, the light breaking over the horizon. If I get that pickup out of the way, I can come home and have a short nap before the craziness of the day starts. It’s the best plan I can come up with for right now, although it doesn’t solve Bailey’s problems. Bother.
I pick up my landline and dial the café.
“Hello?” Luna’s voice is rushed and harassed, poor thing.
“Luna, dear, it’s Irma.”
“Hey, Irma, what’s up?”
I make an embarrassed noise. “I’ve got a touch of insomnia, I’m afraid.”
She laughs, a merry sound. “I thought you refused to have physical ailments?”
“Well, you’ve got me there.”
She laughs again.
“Is it okay if I swing by? I’ll pick up the pastries and I can lend a hand if you need.”
“I do need!” she exclaims. “That would really help out. I’m totally slammed today.”
“Lovely,” I say and hang up. I wish I could ski into town, but with that many desserts, I’ll never make it back. I bundle up and go out to the garage. In the summer, I drive my little MG, but I keep to my Jeep in the winter. If it’s good enough for the Queen, it’s good enough for us, Mother always said.
The roads are in pretty good shape and I take my time going in. It’s pitch black, a few smudges in the distance that are deer or other wildlife.
I pull into a spot in front of Luna’s café. Next door, the piano tuner’s shop is empty. I take a long look. The city council mandates that the frontage on every main street business has to be pristine, has to represent the town. Mo’s awning is dingy, the paint semi-peeling off his door. I don’t know why I haven’t seen it before. But how much demand is there for blind piano tuners these days? It hurts my heart, especially at this time of year. I’ll have to organize a painting party for him in the spring.