by Joan Boswell
Elizabeth frowned. “Curious George?” she said.
“Maybe later,” Hollis said. “Right now, Hollis will follow us soon. Then we’ll go for a ride.” She pointed to the new shoes. “Let’s see how well you and your new shoes go down the stairs?”
After they’d left, Hollis pulled a plastic baggie from her purse. Maybe it was a good thing Danson hadn’t taken his toiletries. She collected the hair brush from the bathroom drawer and sealed it in the bag.
Back in the living room, she turned her attention to Danson’s computer. She hated leaving before she saw his files. She temporized—maybe half an hour. No, she wouldn’t do that. This wasn’t the time to keep Candace waiting. Candace would feel better after they delivered Danson’s things to Rhona. Before she left the apartment, she verified that she’d replaced every item where it had been originally.
At Candace’s house, her Volvo station wagon idled in front of the building. Hollis parked and walked over.
Candace cracked the window open and waved a post-it note. “Here’s the name and address. Stick it in with whatever you have. I’ll drive you downtown. I don’t want to slow down the DNA testing for a single solitary moment.”
Hollis piled into the front passenger seat. Before she could slam the door, Candace squealed away from the curb. Hands gripping the steering wheel, she took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at Hollis. “Are you a praying woman?”
“I used to be married to a minister, so I should be. I’m not though.”
“I’m not either, but I’m praying there will be DNA on the brush…” She took one hand off the wheel and tapped the baggie on Hollis’s knee, “…and it won’t belong to a murdered man.”
Candace’s driving frightened Hollis. She erratically sped up and slowed to a crawl, causing following drivers to honk and wave fingers at her as they passed. Twenty long minutes later, she deposited Hollis at the police building on College Street. At the front desk, Hollis dropped off the bag with directions to send it up to Rhona.
Returning to the car, she glanced at Candace, whose face was not as white and strained as it had been.
“Hi, Howis,” Elizabeth said in a tone that suggested they’d been parted for at least a year.
Hollis swivelled cautiously and grinned at the girl strapped into her car seat in the centre of the back seat. “Hi, Elizabeth. Nice shoes.”
Elizabeth held up her foot. “Nice,” she said approvingly.
“Given what we’ve found, perhaps I should go back to Danson’s apartment and keep working. I can come to dinner another time,” Hollis said.
“Go back after dinner. Since we think Danson didn’t intend to be away, you have to talk to Poppy and see if she can provide some insights into where he might have gone. They’re close—Danson tries to take care of Poppy.” A small smile crept across Candace’s face. “Once you’ve met her, you’ll know what a challenge that is.”
“How much do you plan to share with your mother?”
“Nothing more than what she already knows—he’s missing. But Danson calls her often and pops in to see her at least once a week, and he may have told her something. As I said, he’s family oriented and always wants to look after us.”
“Poppy, Poppy, Poppy,” Elizabeth chanted.
“You’ll see her soon. She’s coming for dinner,” Candace said.
“Getti?”
“No, lasagna, but you like that.”
Hollis smiled. Candace had been right when she claimed that having a sustained conversation when a toddler was around presented challenges.
“Candace, you arrived at the apartment before I had examined Gregory’s room or gone through Danson’s files or opened his computer. We need to discover Gregory’s surname and contact him. I hate to waste a moment.”
Candace banged her fist on the steering wheel. “If you talk to Poppy, you’ll find out more than I will.”
“Why is that?”
“Because when she chooses, she manages to say nothing charmingly, and I’m not good at persuading her to talk about subjects she doesn’t want to discuss.”
Clearly dinner would be a command performance.
In the hour before dinner, Hollis walked MacTee and settled him in her apartment before she went downstairs. Candace, with Elizabeth behind her, answered her knock.
“Tee?” Elizabeth said and peered behind Hollis.
“I left him upstairs.”
“Would you get him?” Candace said. “He’s like Nana the St. Bernard in Peter Pan—he acts like a babysitter. If we’re to have a good conversation, we need him.”
When Hollis returned with MacTee, Elizabeth threw up her hands and shouted, “Tee, Tee, Tee.” The buzzer signalled the arrival of Poppy and Alberto. The door to the front hall opened, and Poppy Lafleur, in a cloud of musky scent, made her entrance, trailed by the slim, elegant Alberto.
What presence Poppy had. Tall, auburn-haired, and beautifully made-up, her clingy black jersey dress revealed a spectacular figure. Patent-leather stilettos, a chunky jade-and-silver necklace and two armloads of silver bracelets that jingled when she moved completed the elegant presentation. A subtle cloud of aromatic scent floated in with her.
Her figure was evidence that dancing burned masses of calories—probably as many as running. Hollis asked herself if she should replace running with dancing, but even as she posed the question, she knew nothing would ever make her figure like Poppy’s. Hollis’s big-boned frame would remain her inheritance from peasant ancestors.
“We’ve met in passing,” Poppy said and extended beautifully-manicured hands loaded with large, eye-catching rings. “But you haven’t met my partner. This is Alberto.”
Alberto grasped then kissed Hollis’s hand.
Latin men did that in movies, but it seemed a little over the top in a Toronto living room.
“Charmed,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent and a smile that revealed teeth so white, they had to be capped.
He made Hollis think of matadors or gigolos—handsome and fully aware of their effect on women.
“Darling,” Poppy said in a low, throaty voice, bending down and opening her arms to Elizabeth.
“Poppy,” Elizabeth trilled. No Grandma or Nana for this exotic creature.
After a big exchange of hugs and kisses, the two moved to the slip-covered cream cotton sofas. The couches sat at right angles to one another with a long, rectangular black leather bench in front of them. Elizabeth hoisted herself onto Poppy’s knee and snuggled ever closer as she moved the bracelets up and down on Poppy’s arm.
Conversation swirled from the unseasonable weather to the possibility of an election before Candace pulled an ottoman over to face her mother.
“Poppy,” she said, “I’m worried about Danson. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Darling, you worry too much. Danson is a grown man. If he goes off for a few days, it isn’t anything to fuss about. There is something I want to ask you.”
Candace shifted on the ottoman and waited.
“Were you in my apartment recently?”
“No. Why?”
“I saved a section of Saturday’s Globe from two weeks ago, and I’ve misplaced it.”
Hollis would have pegged Poppy as a Sun or a Star reader. The Saturday entertainment section must be the attraction.
Poppy toyed with a dangling earring. “I’m sometimes forgetful, but I’m sure I didn’t throw it out. I thought you might have picked it up.”
“I didn’t. Danson’s in your apartment all the time. He cares for your plants. Perhaps he took it or tidied up before he went wherever he’s gone,” Candace said coldly.
Poppy, ignoring Candace’s comment, directed her next remark to Hollis. “Darling Danson. I owned masses of gorgeous, expensive artificial flowers and plants and my darling son objected. He said silk plants were totally déclassé.” She tossed her head, and the swinging red hair caught the light. It’s glory reminded Hollis of the shampoo commercials in which hair was i
mpossibly shiny and beautiful.
“As if I cared,” Poppy continued. “Anyway, I refused to replace them with real ones, because I knew, absolutely knew, that they’d die. Darling Danson said he’d help me buy real ones and look after them. He’s been as good as his word.” She frowned. “My poor plants—without Danson around to attend to them.”
She focused on Candace. “But why would you suggest that Danson would take it? Do you have a copy of the Globe?”
Candace shook her head. “The recycling pickup was Wednesday. Sorry. “
“Darling, it isn’t that important, but I am worried about my plants.”
Looking at Candace’s fists and white knuckles, Hollis feared her friend would launch an attack on her mother. Instead, Candace slumped back and sighed. “Poppy, the plants are in self-watering containers. They’ll be fine, but if it will make you happy, I’ll come and tend them.”
Poppy clearly expected those close to her to bail her out of difficulties. Candace had performed the role since she was seven and continued to do so.
“Thank you, darling.”
Given the exchange and Danson’s disappearance shortly after his visit to Poppy’s apartment chances were good the paper was significant, Hollis thought. Did she have Saturday’s paper? Not likely. She’d dragged out a clear green plastic bag for recycling and was sure the paper was gone. Even if they found a copy, how would they know what they were searching for unless Poppy ’fessed up, and that seemed unlikely.
Poppy shrugged, slanted forward and peered down. “Elizabeth, darling, are those new shoes?”
Elizabeth stuck a foot out to allow Poppy to admire her shoe.
“It’s time to eat before Elizabeth has a major meltdown,” Candace said.
In the dining room, Candace fastened a large plastic bib around Elizabeth’s neck and anchored her in her high chair. MacTee settled underneath, ready to catch any morsels dropped or thrown his way.
The adults helped themselves. After Candace assured herself that everyone had what he or she needed, she said, “Poppy, what section of the paper did you save?”
Hollis smiled. Exactly what they needed to know.
Poppy waved a finger in front of her lips to indicate her mouth was full. Finally, she said, “The financial pages. Something triggered an idea for a contact for costumes. I can’t remember what it was.” Poppy spoke rapidly without meeting her daughter’s eyes.
Hollis glanced at Candace and assumed her friend’s lifted eyebrows expressed doubt.
“Poppy, if it was important enough to ask us if we had copies, you must be able to be more specific. It has to be related to Danson.”
With another forkful halfway to her mouth, Poppy paused. “You can be so dramatic. Did I tell you we’ll be away at the Vancouver dance competition next week? Candace, darling, if you could see to the cats, I’d appreciate it.”
Candace laid her fork on her plate. She stared at her mother as if confronting a rare and unfamiliar species. “I’ll do it,” she said frostily.
Alberto pleaded the onset of a migraine and left soon after dinner. Elizabeth insisted Poppy supervise her bath and read her bedtime stories.
Candace and Hollis listened to gales of laughter while they cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher.
“She’s terrific with Elizabeth—never worries about getting messy. Elizabeth loves her,” Candace said.
“Fascinating woman.”
How did you say to a friend that you thought her mother was a liar? Hollis ventured what she hoped was a diplomatic question. “Did you think she told us everything about the newspaper article?”
Candace blew a noisy raspberry. “No. She only tells you what she chooses. She didn’t want to enlighten us, and she didn’t.”
When Poppy rejoined them, she gathered her handbag and said, “Darling, I can’t stay. Alberto and I have to rehearse for the competition. Tomorrow morning we’ve reserved our studio for ourselves, and we hired a cameraman to record our routine so we can study it.” She smiled at Hollis. “Delighted to finally talk to you. As an artist you must come down and see my art collection.”
“Love to,” Hollis said. The opportunity to pump Poppy had evaporated. How could they uncover the information she seemed to be withholding?
Six
With her detecting supplies stashed in her bag, Hollis set off for Danson’s. Lights shone from the apartments above and below his black windows. She hated entering unfamiliar unoccupied space at night. She’d once been trapped in a dark, deserted church with a murderer and knew this experience partially accounted for the phobia.
That was then, and this was now. She locked her truck, squared her shoulders and marched into the building. Inside, she unlocked Danson’s downstairs door and climbed the broad, once-grand mahogany stairs as if she carried heavy iron bars that increased in weight with each step she took. When she faced his apartment door and slid the key into the lock, her stomach contracted, and her throat dried. She swallowed convulsively but without releasing any saliva. The taste of hard, metallic fear filled her throat.
How could she overcome this paralyzing dread? If she propped the door open, the other tenants would hear her scream. What if they didn’t come? What if they thought it was on a neighbour’s TV and cranked up the sound on their own set?
Scream—what was wrong with her? She’d searched the apartment hours earlier and seen nothing to frighten her and no evidence that anyone else had been there. Silly, silly, silly, she scolded and ordered herself to get a grip.
One deep, calming breath and she opened the door.
Then she retreated to the hall, removed a hefty pad of printing paper from her bag and wedged the door open.
Briefly she contemplated ringing the other tenants’ bells, asking if they knew where Danson was and telling them she would be in his apartment but decided against it. Later, if it became necessary, she’d interview them but not tonight.
Finally, after another steadying breath, she crept into the apartment and flicked on the three light switches just inside the door before she froze and listened. Silence. The bedroom and bathroom doors were closed. Had she shut them when she’d left?
If only she’d brought MacTee.
She really was being silly. Who had ever heard of a golden retriever protecting anyone?
She inched along the hall, flung the bathroom door open and hit the light switch. Earlier in the day she’d bunched the shower curtain back, and it remained just as she’d left it, an empty white room. No one lurked here.
The closed bedroom door came next. She tiptoed to the door, carefully rotated the knob and banged the door open. Nothing moved. The only sound was her breathing and her thudding heart. No one there. She flipped lights on as she progressed from room to room. Nothing. She was alone, totally alone.
Once her heart had resumed its normal rhythm, she started her search in Gregory’s room, confident some item would have his surname, his employer’s name and a contact number to confirm that he was who he said he was.
An old-fashioned maple bed, matching dresser and straight chair, inexpensive white particleboard desk and bedside table furnished the room. Yet another lacrosse poster adorned the walls. A laptop, boom-box and a stack of CDs sat on the desk, a shaving kit rested atop the bureau and several paperbacks, one splayed open, spine up, lay on the bedside table.
What did this tell her?
She’d been through this with Danson’s belongings. Guys didn’t leave without their shaving kits. Furthermore, businessmen seldom parked their laptops at home, certainly not in a temporary pad like this. They might have a desktop at home, but laptops were for travel, for bringing work home from the office. Wherever he’d gone, Gregory hadn’t intended to stay. No, not quite true. He could have a razor, shaving cream and toothbrush at a lover’s or relative’s place. It was peculiar that both he and Danson had left at approximately the same time.
She unzipped the cheap black pseudo-leather case. Not much inside the main compartment beside
s the essentials for keeping oneself clean and healthy: toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste, Noxzema shaving cream, nail clippers, comb, Advil and an unopened package of condoms. No medical prescription with his name on the label.
The side pocket’s contents told a different story. She’d been building a picture of an innocuous young man, but the tin foil, spoon, matches, hypodermic needle and a baggie of white powder erased that image. Gregory used cocaine, maybe crack, maybe heroin—this equipment belonged to a heavy, not a recreational, drug user. An even more unsettling question—why hadn’t he taken his paraphernalia with him?
Had Danson known? Was he too a drug user? How would Candace react if she found out that he was an addict? Like most family members confronted with unpleasant realities, Candace wouldn’t want to believe it. Fortunately, no evidence supported this idea this far. Back to Gregory.
She dragged the wooden chair to the desk, sat down and found she needed a password to open the computer. Her disappointment was mixed with suspicion. Computers revealed so much about their owners, particularly e-mails and saved files. Few people employed passwords for personal computers. If you had something to hide or weren’t who you claimed to be, of course you’d guard your information. Was this why Gregory’s required a password?
The almost-empty top desk drawer held three Bic ballpoint pens, a yellow legal pad, envelopes, a few paper clips and a calculator. The other drawers were empty except for traces of ancient dust. No bills, no receipts, no address book—nothing to identify Gregory. Granted, he’d moved in recently, but putting herself in the same situation, she would have had address stickers in with the envelopes, extra chequebooks—personalized items you used frequently.
Perhaps his clothes would reveal more. Brand name dress shirts, golf shirts, a tweed sports jacket, grey flannels, chinos and jeans hung in the cupboard. On the floor, black oxfords, brown loafers and worn Nikes. Everything was standard issue, brand-name clothing. She rummaged through the pockets and came up with crumpled tissues, a half-empty package of Lifesavers, a match folder with a gas company logo.