by K. K. Beck
Of course you were a princess, thought Jane. When it came to past lives, everyone had been a princess. No one had ever been an accounts-payable clerk or anything like that. Still, there was something sweet about this woman. She had the slightly beatific face of those who choose to believe what they want to believe, because it's more interesting and fanciful, and then hang in there with abiding faith. She had a cute little turned-up nose, and her big cushion of puffy hair had the shrubby pattern of growth of some of the mounds of herbs around the place.
“Actually,” said Jane, “I came on another errand entirely. I'm looking for a Brenda MacPherson.”
“I'm Brenda.” The woman looked surprised, but, thought Jane, congratulating herself on ingratiating herself quickly with her, she didn't look wary.
“Did you ever live in the States?” said Jane.
She wrinkled up her nose. “I lived in Los Angeles for a while.” Jane found this easy to believe. “To study polar foot massage. But I didn't like it. A lot of negative energy down there, even though many people are spiritually aware.”
“I was looking for a Brenda MacPherson who used to live in Seattle.” Jane felt she should embellish. “A friend of a friend,” was as far as she got.
“That's really weird,” said Brenda. “Someone called me this morning looking for another Brenda MacPherson too.”
“From Tofino?” said Jane.
“He didn't say where he was calling from. But he sounded like an American.”
“His name wasn't Johnson, was it?” said Jane.
“Yes,” said Brenda.
“Her ex-husband. I was trying to find her to warn her. He's been let out of jail and he's looking for her.”
“Oh my God,” said Brenda. She put her hand to her cheek. “I told him I knew about someone with my same name. She's a stripper in Nanaimo. Some friends of mine were over there and saw her picture outside the place and they were joking with me about it, like I was over there stripping, you know. Not really my style. Anyway, her stage name was Stephanie Chantal, but my friend was with someone who knew her when she went to U Vic, and her name was Brenda MacPherson. Do you think it was his wife?”
“Could be. Do you remember the name of the place?” said Jane. Just then the man in the baseball cap came up to them. “I noticed some foxglove over there. It's poisonous, you know. You aren't recommending that, are you?”
“No, I'm not,” said the herbalist impatiently. “But it has the same thing they use for heart medicine.”
“Digitalis is poisonous if the dosage isn't right. And how can you get the dosage right if you're just gathering this stuff out in the yard?” He shook his head.
“Is there something I can help you with?” said Brenda coldly, with the reluctant air of a habitually nice person who had finally been pushed to the limit of her tolerance.
“No,” he said, looking a little irritated she wasn't going to argue with him anymore. Jane smiled at him. In spite of his rudeness, he'd made it easy for her to ingratiate herself with this particular Brenda. “Actually,” he continued, “I've been camping over at Fillongie Park, and my wife sent me into town for a few things for dinner. I thought I might pick up some garlic here. They don't have a lot at the store, do they?”
“I've got some,” she said. “Just a sec, okay?” She held up her hand and turned back to Jane.
“The name of the place?” prompted Jane.
“The Regency in Nanaimo. There was this big sign with the girls' names, and it was right there. Stephanie Chantal.”
Jane reached into her purse for a scrap of paper and a pen. “Here's my name and a phone number in Seattle where you can leave a message. If Mr. Johnson calls back, or if you hear anything else about this other Brenda MacPherson, give me a call. But don't talk to him if you can help it. He's violent.” Just in case he called back, Jane wanted to make sure he wouldn't get any cooperation.
The woman looked down at the paper. “Jane da Silva. Okay, I will. Gosh, I hope you find her before that other guy does.”
Jane thanked her, and Brenda the herbalist turned her attention to the man in the baseball cap. “It prevents colds, you know,” she said. “Garlic. And it prevents intestinal disturbances. And mucus.”
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “We just want it for spaghetti sauce. If we have any other problems, we'll try the doctor.” He gave them both a grim little smile, because he'd managed the last word.
“A real charmer,” said Jane as he ambled off.
“Some people are so closed-minded,” said Brenda. Jane thought that when it came to being narrow-minded, the herbalist and the man in the baseball cap were probably neck and neck.
Chapter 24
Jane had imagined the Regency would be some dingy bar with painted plywood siding and a few desperate characters lurking outside.
Actually, it was part of a rather pretty-looking old brick hotel, near the harbor in downtown Nanaimo, a town about forty-five minutes' drive south of the Denman Island ferry.
She went inside rather nervously. A motherly looking older woman in a hand-knit sweater, who reminded her of a French concierge, was working the door. From behind her, through a smoked glass door, Jane heard some perky canned rock music. Apparently the place was open all day long.
“I'm looking for the manager,” said Jane. The woman ran her eye down Jane's body, and raised an eyebrow. “It's not about a job,” Jane said. “I think I'm fifteen years too late for that.”
“We've got some girls your age in pretty good shape,” said the woman kindly. “A lot depends on their personality.”
Jane rather doubted that when it came to marketing female flesh to a bunch of testosterone poisoning victims, a winning personality could substitute for twenty-year-old breasts.
“I'll take your word for it,” she said. “Actually, I'm looking for someone who danced here.” Jane was hoping she could find Brenda without having to take a seat in the front row among a lot of drooling jerks. “She's my best friend's little sister,” said Jane. “Stephanie Chantal.” She smiled nicely. She didn't want the woman to think she was here to save Brenda from a career in vice.
“She doesn't work here anymore,” said the woman. “They rotate them a lot, you know.”
“I imagine the fellows like new talent on a fairly regular basis,” said Jane.
“That's right. It's too bad really, but the chaps just don't get as excited after they get used to the girls' bodies, even though they seem to get personally fond of them.”
“That fits with what I've noticed about life,” said Jane, who didn't believe human behavior changed all that much. She had a quick vision of wandering cavemen, driven into the next valley by some imperative of nature to spread their genetic material as broadly as possible. “Do you know where she went?”
“We never give out that information,” said the woman. “But maybe you can ask Bob.” The woman gave her directions down a short corridor to a door marked PRIVATE.
Jane thought about knocking, then decided to just go in.
Bob, whom Jane had imagined as a greasy pimp with a lot of gold jewelry, turned out to be a wormy-looking little guy with thin hair sitting behind a desk with his plump hands folded in front of him.
In front of his desk sat Steven Johnson, with a big, stupid grin. He was listening to Bob, who was saying, “Why don't you stick around for the lunch show? We've got a new black one, you can bounce a quarter off her stomach.”
Jane closed the door behind her, and the two men turned toward her.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, avoiding eye contact with Johnson.
“You here to sign up for amateur night?” said Bob. He didn't look as skeptical as the little old lady at the door, but perhaps he encouraged any woman who wanted to dance naked in front of him, whether he thought they had commercial potential or not.
“No,” said Jane. “I don't think you could bounce a quarter off any part of me.”
“Don't sell yourself short,” said Mr. Johnson. “
I don't know if she can dance, Bob, but Jane here is a very attractive woman. I've been privileged to have a good look at just what she has to offer.”
Jane gave him a contemptuous look and turned back to Bob. “I'll wait until you're through here. I just had a question about one of your dancers.”
“Go ahead,” said Johnson, rising. “I'm all through here.” He passed Jane on his way out the door, giving her a little sneer, waved at Bob and said, “Thanks a lot,” and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Jane had been so irritated at finding Johnson there, and then at being insulted by him, she hadn't focused properly on Bob. She tried to make up for it now by giving him a big smile.
“Sit down,” he said, addressing her chest. Jane would have thought that working with naked women all day would have dampened his interest in checking out women's bodies, but maybe it was just a professional habit.
“I'm looking for a dancer. Stephanie Chantal. I was supposed to meet her here last week, but I heard she left already. Can you tell me where she went?”
“We never give out that information,” said Bob. “Have you called the booking agency?”
“But didn't you just tell Mr. Johnson?” said Jane.
“Of course not,” said Bob. Jane felt sure he was lying.
“But he thanked you. I heard him.” Now she'd called him a liar. A bad move that didn't allow him to save face and eventually come around to wanting to help Jane.
“Sorry,” said Bob coldly. “I can't help you.”
Jane buried her face in her hands. “God, I hope you didn't tell him. What did he tell you? He's crazy, you know. He beat her up and now he's stalking her. I want to find her and take her to her sister's house in California so she'll be safe.”
She looked up at him again, thrilled that she'd produced a few tears, or at least a glassy-eyed look. She sniffed to add to the effect.
“You're saying he's got some personal thing with her?”
“Yes. She left him and now he's stalking her. The man's an animal.”
Bob cleared his throat and looked guiltily away. “I'm not sure I believe you. Mr. Johnson is with an insurance company.”
“He's such a good liar. I don't blame you for telling him. He can be very convincing. I understand that you did what you thought was right.”
“He told me he had a payment for her for a claim. She was in a car accident and he had a check for her.”
“Couldn't he have mailed it?”
“I asked him that,” said Bob. “He said she had to sign something first.” He looked worried now. “And there was some kind of time limit on it. She'd skipped out without taking care of it.”
Jane felt like saying sarcastically, “An insurance company is knocking itself out trying to pay a claim?” but felt there was nothing to gain by informing Bob that he was an idiot.
Instead she said, “Just tell me where she is, so I can warn her.”
“I don't know what to believe,” said Bob. “This is pretty weird.”
“Why would I lie?” said Jane. “Why would I try and tell you all this about Stephanie and that guy if he were a legit insurance guy?”
“He told me you'd be here and that you'd lie,” said Bob.
“Of course he did,” said Jane. “Don't you see how manipulative he is? But what motivation would I have?”
“He said you were her sister—some religious nutcase trying to stop Stephanie from working in stripper bars. You were some kind of a fanatic who wanted to drag her back home. He said you'd disrupted some of her performances.”
“He was lying.”
“Freedom of artistic expression is very important to me,” said Bob sanctimoniously. “This is a clean industry, and everyone has a right to enjoy erotic entertainment. Up here in Canada we do it a lot classier than you do in the States with a bunch of hookers and drug addicts. Frankly, if you're trying to screw up a good thing, and maybe lose Stephanie a job, I don't want to help you.”
“So you're saying you think I'm trying to save a lost soul from life as a stripper?” Jane tried to sound as if she didn't think Bob was pretty dense.
“Look, all I know is this Johnson guy comes in here, seems like a nice guy, and he tells me he's looking for Stephanie on account of this insurance deal. And he tells me that some crazy woman is going to come in here trying to find her and lying and whatever to get me to tell where she is. So then you come in with this story, just like he says you will.”
Jane didn't want to waste any more time. Johnson already had a head start. She leaned across the desk and said in a low, steely voice, “I want to help Brenda and save her from this son of a bitch. I don't care if Brenda's stripping or if she's got an act with a German shepherd and a Tijuana mule, or if she had to go down on you and all your friends to get this job.”
“I guess you're okay,” said Bob, after a slight pause. “She headed up to Port Hardy. You might find her dancing at the Tomahawk Club.”
Chapter 25
The rain had cleared up a little, thank God, but the worn wooden bleachers at Ross Field where Calvin Mason sat with Carol, watching her son, Raymond, play, held water like a sponge, and they were still wet.
At the bottom of the fifth (Little League games only went for six innings, but they seemed interminable to Calvin), Raymond's team, Bill's Auto Detailing, was getting badly waxed, trailing Ballard Kitchen 'n' Bath by a humiliating nineteen to three.
Carol's boy was at bat. Unappealing as the kid was— kind of jug-eared and knock-kneed, furtive-eyed and a mumbler—Calvin had developed a perverse desire to see him do well. He found himself strangely touched by the sight of Raymond awkwardly suited up and out there on the field looking slightly terrified when he wasn't looking overconfident.
The Kitchen 'n' Bath coach said to his pitcher casually, “Smoke 'em in there, buddy. You got this guy.”
Calvin felt Carol tense up on the bench next to him. Raymond, as he always did when concentrating, stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth just a little.
Raymond's coach looked irritably at the dugout where Raymond's teammates were horsing around, ignoring the game and trying to lag spare baseballs into batting helmets and generally bouncing off the fencing. “Pay attention to the game,” he said. “Let's hear some chatter from you guys.” He turned his attention to Raymond.
“Swing at the good ones, Raymond,” he said. Raymond, who read a lot of books about boys saving the game with one powerful out-of-the-park hit, had a tendency to go for anything with everything he had. There were two outs and runners on first and third.
“Choke up on the bat, Raymond,” yelled Calvin.
Behind them, a mother, who'd been talking throughout the whole game, continued her monologue. She shut up, Calvin noticed, only when her kid was at bat.
She specialized in horrible things that had happened to people she knew. The first couple of innings she'd covered various obstetrical and gynecological horrors of which she had personal knowledge. The woman was a walking textbook of medical malpractice.
Now she was talking about bad things related to ear piercing. She had covered off-kilter jobs and various kinds of horrible infections caused by not changing earrings often enough or using cheap earrings.
“And my cousin's daughter,” she was saying now, “she wore these huge big earrings all the time and they stretched out her holes so bad she had to have stitches.”
The pitcher sailed one right over the plate. Raymond just stood there.
Calvin winced, but the umpire called it a ball.
How these adult umpires could tell what was what standing behind little kids who were four feet high was a mystery to Calvin, but he was sure the pitch had been good. “Good eye, Raymond,” said Calvin encouragingly, nevertheless.
“Anyway,” the woman behind him was saying, “the holes were, like, huge. The doctor said they could rip right open anytime.”
Raymond wound up for another hit, swung a nice, level, hard swing and the ball arced up in the air and into the
outfield.
Raymond took off for first, encouraged by shouts from the bleachers. The other team and its parents urged someone named Max to get underneath the ball and catch it. A minute ago, Max had been drawing intricate patterns in the dust with the toe of his cleats, completely oblivious to the game, but the shouts from the bleachers galvanized him into action, and, squinting up into the cloudy sky, he waited patiently for the ball to fall into his glove. Which it did, much to Max's own astonishment and the cheers of his parents and teammates.
As Bill's Auto Detailing gathered up their gloves and ran out to the field, Calvin leaned over to Carol and went for the payoff.