Balsam Sirens

by Keith Weaver

  “There’s one in Fenelon Falls, one in Bobcaygeon, and one in Lindsay.”

  “Good. Give me a list of the places you’ll be during the day. I’m going to be spending a lot of time here close to Largs to watch for any snoopers. Are you going straight to Toronto?”

  “Was planning to.”

  “See if you can find four or five plausible reasons for detours, so you can look for tails. If you think you’re being tailed, call me.”

  “And you’ll come running?”

  “Someone will.”

  Mike had taken about two pages of notes as we talked. From the house we heard voices, indicating that George was up.

  “Okay, Mike. Time to go and collect my charge. You’ll stay here tonight?”

  “I will indeed!”

  “Good. See you this afternoon.”

  A quick check of my e-mail confirmed Jocko’s commitment to meet me and that I should drop in to the office where my former trustee worked “at a time convenient for me”.

  Eighteen

  Rather than go straight to my car, George and I did a quick walk around Largs, giving me the chance to say again how lovely the place was, that I hoped he had enjoyed his few days here, and that he was welcome to come back any time. Only then, after George managed a small spontaneous smile and some head nodding, indicating that he had enjoyed the visit, only then did I make my way to the car, open it, place a small briefcase on the back seat, and climb into the driver’s seat. George dallied over the job of taking the passenger seat.

  “Okay, George?”

  A noncommittal nod.

  “Then we’re off.”

  George had relaxed sufficiently during his time with us in Largs that his faltering speech patterns had become a bit more fluid. I had also learned to ask him questions that required “yes” or “no” answers or short responses of less than five words. But I noticed as we made our right turn from Arran Street south on Highway 35, marking definitively the return to Toronto, that George’s agitation had returned to its normal state. It was another gorgeous day, fair weather cumulus clouds dotting the sky, a warm wind fanning the wheat and oats in the fields to ripeness, and through occasional breaks in the trees to our right, I caught glimpses of the lake, giving me its private unspoken reassurance “It’s okay, I’m here”. George and I spoke in a desultory way for the first twenty minutes or so, me asking my harmless questions and George supplying monosyllabic responses. When it was clear that he was as relaxed as he was likely to be about the trip back, I lapsed into silence and gave the appearance of just concentrating on my driving.

  And although I was concentrating on driving, I was also keeping an eye out behind for “followers” and ruminating on what Jocko had passed to me.

  Harold had spent time in prison for both breaking and entering and robbery. That was one of the things Jocko had uncovered. Did George know this or not? Better not to make any assumptions, but in either case, implications could and should be drawn. Harold also had been charged at one point with computer fraud, but the charge was dropped due to lack of evidence. Jocko’s information noted the break-in and tossing of Harold’s apartment, but there were no written details apart from notes made by the officers who investigated. There were a few pictures, and they coincided with my recollection of the scene, although that recollection was based on not much more than a fifteen-second glance. All this just confirmed my need to take a look at Harold’s safety deposit box. The lawyer, Hawley, had filed the paperwork needed for George to be able to gain legal access to the box. But George had asked me to hang onto Harold’s keys; he still appeared reluctant to go very far in admitting that Harold was no longer with us, or perhaps he was just reluctant to take on any personal responsibility in the matter in order to keep his world as simple as possible. So I still had Harold’s keys, including the key to the safety deposit box, and it looked as though they would be staying with me for the foreseeable future.

  The thought also occurred to me that I would have to take the lead in cleaning up Harold’s apartment, selling his furniture, and either subletting the place or arranging for the rental lease to be terminated. This all placed responsibilities on me, and I made a note to have George sign a standard contract making it clear that actions taken by me were done on George’s behalf and at his request. It’s not that I had any fear of George turning on me somehow, but the whole case had become strange and conceivably could lurch sideways at any moment.

  At the turning near Lindsay, instead of crossing Highway 7 and carrying on to the south, I turned left into Lindsay itself, drove straight down Kent Street, then did some back street work to arrive at a Tim Horton’s, where I turned in to the drive through.

  “Coffee, George?”

  A “yes” was eventually forthcoming.

  “Anything to eat, George? I’m getting a sandwich.”

  George surprised me by asking right away for some Timbits.

  Could be the country air, I thought.

  Our order came back through the window, and I started the car and drove out into the parking area. We sipped our coffee, George smiled at me, and then attacked his little box of Timbits with more enthusiasm than I had seen him apply to anything.

  The sugar hit seemed to enliven George, since he joined in my conversation about spring, the weather, and how Lindsay was changing.

  Coffee gulped and Timbits scarfed, we struck out again, doing some ridiculous weaving through more back streets to arrive eventually at Highway 35. We carried on to the south. About fifteen miles south of Lindsay, I said to George, as if taken by a sudden enthusiasm, that I wanted to revisit a familiar spot, where one could get a good panoramic view to the south from a nice lookout point. I drove to the lookout point and, as expected, it was as popular as usual, ten or fifteen cars already parked there.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” I commented, and George nodded, retrieving a last flake of sugar from the corner of his mouth. I said I was getting out for a moment to take a look, but George indicated he was happy to remain in the car. He was now looking less buoyant, the effect perhaps of falling blood sugar levels.

  Walking to the edge of the lookout, I drew out my cellphone and made as though I were taking a series of pictures.

  “Mike. It’s Whelan.”

  “Where are you?”

  I explained exactly where I was, and gave a description of the car that had been following us all through Lindsay to here, all while holding the phone up in front of me as though aiming and clicking.

  “Can you stay there for fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes. No problem. What am I waiting for?”

  “Never mind about that”, Mike rumbled ominously. “Wait fifteen minutes. If I haven’t called you back by then, wait another ten minutes then carry on to Toronto. Don’t look at any of the cars around you. Got that?”

  “You’re my man, Mike!”

  “You got that right, Mark, my boy. If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, I’ll call you later.”

  Returning to the car, I had a quick word with George, grabbed my sandwich, and went back to perusing the wonders of nature. Fifteen minutes came and went. No call from Mike. At twenty minutes, I wolfed the rest of my sandwich, tossed the wrapper into a waste container, hopped in the car, and drove away sporting the smile of one who was freshly in the thrall of nature’s glories.

  At the point where Highways 35 and 115 intersect the expressway, I picked up the pace, wanting to get into town, do what needed to be done, and return to Largs.

  “I think we should go to the bank, George, and take a look in Harold’s safety deposit box. Is that okay with you? It won’t take long.”

  George flinched nervously, and managed to indicate his agreement.

  “Good. After that, I’ll take you back to your place. Is there anything I can help you with while I’m in town?”

  “No … I’m fine … thanks.”

  We found the bank, where I introduced us and said what we wanted to do. I produced the documentation aut
horizing George to act on behalf of his brother, and we were ushered into a small room where our two keys soon had the safety deposit box sitting on a table in front of us. George eyed it doubtfully, a sleeping animal that would become vicious the moment it awakened.

  I opened the box and took out everything it contained, placing the contents in little piles on the table. An insurance policy, documents related to his car, all things to be expected. Then a birth certificate and a passport. Some heavy cord held together an assortment of correspondence, most on the letterheads of lawyers and accountants, some appearing to be personal. Two small government bonds, a few years short of maturity. Then there were the more interesting items: four large notebooks, a sealed envelope marked Photos, and what looked like a small leather change purse that had a zip closure. George was evidently curious, but stood back about four feet, well out of contact range.

  “Do you mind if I take all this material away and have a close look at it, George?”

  “No”, George said quickly, shaking his head, appearing eager to disown it all.

  “I’m going to make an inventory. I’ll pass that on to you, and you can have all the contents whenever you want them.”

  There was more unequivocal head shaking. “No. It’s okay.”

  I placed all the material in my briefcase, closed the box, and then called the bank employee.

  We returned to my car, I drove George to his place, went with him up to his apartment just to make sure that there would be no sudden panic attacks, and asked if he could get me a drink of water.

  Faced by something practical, George seemed to relax, got me a glass of water, and then we chatted some more while I drank it slowly. George managed to tell me that he was not expected at his workplace until tomorrow morning, but thought he would probably turn up that afternoon, which meant likely in about two hours, since it was now almost eleven thirty.

  I asked George several times if he was sure he would be all right. He nodded, said yes, and then surprised me.

  “It was … the last few days … at Largs … thank you, Mr. Whelan. Thank you very much.”

  I gave him several copies of my card. “You’re welcome back any time, George. You can reach me on my cell number at any time, and if you need to talk please just call me. It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night. Okay?”

  “Yes. Thank … thank you.”

  We shook hands warmly, and then I left.

  Back in my car, I realized that I would need to hurry to meet Jocko at the appointed time, but I found a place to park and made my way to C’est What? with a few minutes to spare. Being late at a Jocko appointment would bring out a contradictory and self-defeating harangue, something that might go on for fifteen minutes, about how little time he had and that now some of that precious time had been wasted.

  My discussion with Jocko added a few more details to the material he had e-mailed me, but made no substantive difference. I thanked Jocko, said that I had enough information for now, and that he was to send me his invoice, but that I might want more help later, probably on short notice.

  “Yeah, yeah! You and every other mother I do work for! Okay! Piss off! I’m up to my eyeballs! Shit on the left, shit on the right, here shit, there shit, everywhere shit, shit …”

  I closed the pub door against his emerging rant, and smiled at seeing Jocko so happy with life.

  The next and final stop was the firm of Clarence and Donaldson, a venerable institution where Gary (his preferred short form of Garfield) Aldred, my trustee turned portfolio manager, had worked. I had remained in fairly close contact with him until his death at the age of ninety-eight, just a little more than a year ago. But right up to the end he had been clear-minded and able to tap his first-class memory.

  His last letter to me had asked after my health, wanted me to pass on his regards to Andrea, and requested a meeting. We had met a few weeks later; he was lively but did give the impression that he was failing and knew it. Nevertheless we shared an excellent wine, and he insisted on me bringing him up to date on what I was up to. Just as I was getting ready to leave, he passed me a folder of what he called “notes”. When I got home, I filed that folder of notes, the bittersweet confusion I felt at the end of our meeting having left me unwilling and indeed unable to examine them. I had been pretty sure that he and I had just had our last meeting, and that turned out to be the case.

  It was only about a week ago, when I had taken to heart the marriage counsellor’s suggestion, and turned a corner in my own mind on how Andrea and I should approach dealing with Largs, that I recalled Mr. Aldred’s folder of “notes”. As I made my way now to the offices of Clarence and Donaldson, I turned over in my mind what I had learned on reading the “notes”, which was what prompted the meeting that was about to take place.

  On entering the offices, I was met by a smartly dressed man in his thirties who introduced himself as James Donaldson, the nephew of the senior partner in the firm, Arthur Donaldson. He welcomed me, and once he had learned my reason for calling in, we chatted for a few minutes before he offered to lead me to my appointment. I was shown into the office of Arthur Donaldson and the younger Donaldson left and closed the door.

  Arthur Donaldson set aside some papers and rose from his desk.

  “Mr. Whelan! Good to see you again.” We had met a few times, always in conjunction with one of my review sessions with Gary Aldred, after Mr. Aldred had formally retired. Despite being retired, he continued acting for me as a kind of portfolio manager, but even though I had visited his offices many times, Donaldson and I didn’t really know each other at all.

  “Yes. Good to see you again, Mr. Donaldson. I’ll come straight to the point. I wanted to hand this to you in person”, and I passed him a sealed envelope.

  He looked at it quickly, then opened it. It was a single sheet of paper, signed by me, and the message in it was simple. It was a formal request, prepared after I had understood some of the subtleties in Mr. Aldred’s “notes”, for Clarence and Donaldson to hand over to me a number of exactly specified files, which was in fact all the documentation held by Clarence and Donaldson on The McCleod Foundation.

  “Give me a moment please, Mr. Whelan”, and he left the room. He was back less than ten minutes later carrying a large banker’s box, and an eleven-page letter that included a sign-off page. It took me almost twenty minutes to read through the letter, and I had several questions that Donaldson answered readily. We then signed and shook hands.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whelan. I have to say that this concludes the longest-running contractual agreement our firm has ever had. And I want to assure you that if you have any further questions, I will be willing to deal with them at any time.”

  I thanked him and left.

  I knew I would have to read through everything in the banker’s box. But at the moment my main interest was in getting back to Largs to help Andrea and to have another discussion with Mike.

  The trip home was smooth and quick. All the way, I thought about various things, the chief one being the contents of Harold’s safety deposit box and the need to examine those contents, now sleeping in my briefcase on the back seat.

  The banker’s box from Clarence and Donaldson, and its unknown cargo of papers, was also sleeping back there.

  It wasn’t clear to me what all that paperwork might mean.

  I was soon to find out.

  Nineteen

  By midafternoon, I was approaching Rosedale again from the south and my first glimpse of Balsam Lake, resting in its hollow, was as good as a whispered “Welcome home”. I carried on to Largs, drove down the long inviting allée of Arran Street, parked the car behind our house, as usual, and then carried briefcase and banker’s box into our common room, where I locked them away in the secure filing cabinet. I called Mike, leaving a message and the time, indicating I was back, that I was about to check on how Andrea was doing, and that I wanted to speak to him. Only then did I go out again in search of Andrea. I found her, flushed from a
day’s work and apparent success, at Number 2 Cedar Grove. She was making liberal use of a laser distance measuring tool, a camera, a notebook, and her iPad.

  She had done what looked like extraordinary surveys on three of the four unusables, and the closed, relatively airless spaces she had been working in had given her face an attractive glow of exertion. I went over to her and gave her a huge hug. She responded but then quickly pulled away, saying that she wanted to finish, that it was all going so well. “I’m on a roll so I can’t stop to explain, and best if you just let me finish alone.” That was okay for me, because I wanted to spend some time with Mike, and I remained aware of my role as provisioner and cook. Andrea insisted, through a beaming smile of satisfaction, that she really did want to explain it all, but later, after a shower, and over a glass of wine. This easily served the end I expect it was meant for – to neutralize any inferred sting at being shunted roughly out of the way of the real work.

  “I’m off to see Mike. Then I’ll bend my mind to dinner. I’ll aim for seven o’clock.”

  “Perfect!” she said, already bent over her iPad once more.

  “Mike! Where are you?” I said into my cellphone once I was outside again.

  “On my way back”, Mike said, and I could hear car noises in the background. “I’ll be at the house in less than five minutes. See you then. We have a lot to discuss.” I would have replied but Mike had signed off immediately. His more than usual brusqueness indicated that he did indeed have things to tell me. I walked quickly back toward the house, and just as I arrived Mike came around the village square at speed and pulled up next to my car behind the house. He climbed out of his car with his always surprising large man’s grace and speed.

  “Inside”, he commanded.

  We went straight into the living area.

  “Got a cold beer? Need an antidote to both thirst and bullshit.”