by Joan Boswell
Yvonne’s body hummed to life. She roiled up on her knees like a fern unfurling in fast forward. Seizing the jagged crucifix in both hands, she plunged, aiming at my chest. I grasped a chunk of the shattered table and thrust upward.
Yvonne didn’t do any jail time. The shard I’d used to defend myself had pierced a major artery in her abdomen, killing her. I’d escaped with a deep laceration to my palm, a variety of cuts and bruises, a concussion—and more material for my article than I could have imagined.
I’d even managed to scoop Bob.
The story of Yvonne Bellinger was one of a highly capable woman who had sought, in the first instance, to break through the glass ceiling then, in the second, to use it as a shield to seek her revenge. While underestimated by the corporation, she’d managed to embezzle over seven million dollars in the years since her husband’s first heart attack.
Investigators discovered that Richard’s poor health, complicated by depression, had led him to amass heavy gambling debts. Yvonne had written her first fraudulent loan to bail him out. The frequency of the loans had increased after his death and as she was passed over for executive positions. Her insider knowledge had been her weapon, Jon Vandenburg an innocent victim.
A light of her generation of career women, Yvonne was crushed by the glass ceiling. Glass had, indeed, eaten light.
Susan C. Gates is an Ottawa-based writer, a recovering public servant and a reformed banker. Trading the creation of public policy for the fabrication of crime fiction has proven to be an easier transition than initially imagined. Susan emphasizes that, to the best of her knowledge, none of her family or friends in the banking industry has been convicted of embezzlement or murder. She serves on the executive of Capital Crime Writers.
“Glass Eats Light” is a comment of Swedish glass artist Bertil Vallien and the title of a book by Gunnar Lindqvist (Carlsson Bokforlag, Stockholm, revised 1999. Translation by Angela Adegren) about the artist’s life and work.
My Husband the Dead-Head
“I want to go to Woodstock,
I want to hear them play,
I want to see Jerry again
Alive as he was that day.
“I want to hear old Mikey
Beating on his drum
And ‘Pig Pen’ blowing on his harp,
Boy, it would really hum.”
Oh you were always complaining
A never-ending reminisce,
Sitting around and moaning
About the good times that you missed.
Well, Garcia’s taken the Golden Road
And his group has fallen apart
This world is no longer Truckin’
And I know how that broke your heart.
Sure it was partly all that moping
That made me bash your head
But I feel like I did you a favour
You should be Grateful you are Dead!
Joy Hewitt Mann
How to Make a Killing in Real Estate
Pat Wilson and Kris Wood
Summertime and the real estate’s selling,
Suckers are buying and the prices is high...
Gavin smiled at his take on the old Gershwin standard. July was a good time for a real estate agent in Nova Scotia, especially for a young, handsome hot-shot entrepreneur who knew how to reel them in. He swung his new black Subaru Outback into the airport short-term parking lot, slotted a couple of loonies into the meter and headed for the arrivals area.
“Margo Blackthorn”. The name on the curtesy card was all he knew about his prospective client, aside from the fact that she wanted a summer hideaway in Nova Scotia. Didn’t they all, he thought. Baby boomers from Winnipeg to Montreal, not to mention Americans by the hundreds, thought buying a little house on the ocean would alleviate their collective mid-life crises.
Inside the terminal, Gavin positioned himself in front of the exit doors and held up the placard. The third person through the doors started towards him. A good sign. Business class always got off first. His adrenalin started pumping. He knew prime prospect material when he saw it. Italian bag and shoes, silk and cashmere pants and sweater, salon-perfect hair in an improbable shade of red, manicured nails, exquisite make-up job, Rolex watch, and a diamond ring that could buy a small country. She had to be in her early fifties, but money and willpower kept the visible advances of time at bay.
“Mrs. Blackthorn?” Gavin put a little honey into his voice and allowed his eyes to linger a touch longer than necessary on her generous cleavage. The older ladies always liked that.
She held out her hand. He shook it warmly, being careful not inflict bruises from the rock she wore.
Once they were settled into the Subaru and on their way back to Halifax, Gavin got ready to put out the bait. He had several properties in mind, each well into six figures, pulled up from the MLS listings. Now, he wondered if he should have looked at some of the seven figure properties as well. Before he could even throw his line into the water, she turned to him and began to talk.
“I know just what I want,” she told him, her blue eyes glittering with excitement.
Gavin’s heart dropped. Shit, he thought. He hated clients with a checklist. Made his job a lot harder.
“A little fisherman’s cottage,” she said. “Something small and quaint. A hideaway, really. On the ocean, of course. Very private. With wonderful views.” She looked at him as if he could conjure such a thing up out of thin air right there and then.
“A fisherman’s cottage,” he repeated. Before he could stop himself, his mind jumped to his own private game, a game where he created truthful descriptions of the real estate he sold, rather than the flowery phrases that appeared in the listings. Fisherman’s cottage, he thought. Built like an upside down boat, right on the road, with sixteen sheds between the house and the water, blocking all possible views of the ocean.
“Will you be able to find me the little hideaway that I have in mind?” Margo Blackthorn shifted in her seat so that she faced him.
“Absolutely!” Gavin said, his voice betraying none of the anxiety he felt. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. He reached across and patted her hand. “You’re in good hands with Gavin James.” He noticed that she flushed as he touched her. Good sign, he thought. She’s one of the hungry ones. All part of the job, and a little charm goes a long way in reeling in the big sale. Not that it ever came to anything personal. I’m too smart for that, he thought, humming under his breath.
“Summertime and the wishers are dreaming,
That the next one they look at is fine.
Facing south, looking out to the ocean...”
Margo slid her hand out from Gavin’s and glanced at him from under her lashes. Early thirties, she decided. Not much more than that. Slim, but not skinny. Good suit and shoes. She always noticed shoes. Nice manners, too. Hair a little long, perhaps, but not thinning. The gold stud in his ear gave him an edge that she rather liked. In fact, she liked everything about Gavin James, if for no other reason than he represented something as different from George as day from night.
George. Florid-faced, paunch hanging out over his belt, the comb-over beginning to lose the battle with the bald spot, loud, rude and abrasive, much too rich to care about looking well-groomed or exhibiting good manners. George. Marrying him had seemed like a good idea twenty years ago when she’d been newly-divorced and looking for an easy meal-ticket. If it hadn’t been for the pre-nup, he would have been history long before now.
He should have been history, she thought with an edge of anger. After all, he was sixteen years older than her, had a tricky heart, high blood-pressure and a penchant for fast food, cigars and single-malt whisky. By rights, he should have keeled over within the first five years of their marriage, and she should be living as the grieving, but rich, widow. That had been the plan.
Instead, he showed no sign of obliging her by dropping dead. Even with his sexual acrobatics, like the Energizer bunny—he just kept going and going and
going. In the meantime, she got older and older. Opportunities were fewer and farther between. Her life was slipping away. Soon, she’d be old. Dried up. Dessicated. Even beyond hormonal replacement.
She had to make the most of the few good years she had left by snatching what little bit of pleasure she could find. Hence, Nova Scotia and Plan B.
She glanced at Gavin and licked her lips. If she needed any incentive to carry out Plan B, here he was.
Married, she wondered? No ring. But that didn’t mean much these days. Look at George. One affair after the other. Not that she really cared, but it rankled that he didn’t even bother to hide them.
Gavin shifted the Subaru’s gears, and she noticed the long lean muscles in his thigh flex beneath the thin cloth of his summer suit. She sucked in her breath. It had been a long time since she’d felt that trickle of warmth in the middle of her stomach. Not since George had fired Bennet, her tennis coach. Typical George. Liked to play around himself, but expected her to be the faithful wife.
“Summertime, and the client is picky
Wanting something that won’t pay me well...
Thinking cheap when the market is climbing
But she’s a buyer and I’m just the guy who can sell.”
Gavin hummed as they drove past the Ocean Vista Realty sign and bumped down a narrow, overgrown driveway.
“This is the only fisherman’s cottage on the market in this area right now,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her as she took in the small, one and half story box, painted a virulent purple. Several sheds dotted the scrubby yard, two of them leaning haphazardly against each other. Three rusting vehicles graced the patch of grass in front and an old oil tank sagged against the side of the house. The front door stood several feet off the ground with no steps or porch for access.
“We have to go around to the back door if you’d like to see inside,” he said.
“Where is the ocean?” Margo asked in a small voice.
“It’s a ‘distant view of the Atlantic’,” he told her, trying to sound reassuring, while his brain played the game. Distant view of the Atlantic: if you’re in the bathroom, standing on the toilet seat, in the winter, at sunset.
“Oh.” She made no move to get out of the Subaru.
“Generally speaking, fishermen don’t care to look at the ocean. Having spent all day battling the waves, they want to come home and look at something more relaxing, like traffic on the road in front,” Gavin explained.
They sat for a moment. Only the shrill cries of the seagulls foraging in one of the large garbage bins on the edge of the driveway broke the silence.
“If you’ll forgive me for making a personal comment,” Gavin began, slipping his hand on hers again. “I really don’t think this is for you. I see you in something a little more prestigious, more in keeping with your style. Say, something like a ‘sea captain’s house’.” Sea captain’s house: same as fisherman’s cottage, but bigger and usually over-priced.
Summertime and the agent is handsome
Young and good-looking and ready to play...
This time, Margo didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she sat back and contemplated Gavin’s suggestion. A “sea captain’s house.” It had a romantic ring. Gingerbread trim, arbours, ocean vistas from the gazebo, a boat moored at the bottom of sloping lawns. Spacious rooms, high ceilings, multi-paned windows, wood wainscotting and that wonderful air of Victorian elegance. Yes, she could see herself there. Pouring champagne for Gavin. In the drawing room. Just the two of them. In front of the fire. Alone.
She felt the heat again, only this time it began at her head, prickling its way down her body, leaving her limp and perspiring. She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her cleavage.
“A sea captain’s house.” She liked the sound of it. So much better than her original idea of a quaint little fisherman’s cottage by the sea. After all, size didn’t really matter, at least not in this instance. She smirked. Whether George set off for his final earthly journey from a fisherman’s jetty or a sea captain’s wharf made little difference. The same cold, bone-chilling, heart-stopping Atlantic waters washed against them both.
She turned to Gavin and laid her other hand over his. “I’m putting myself entirely into your hands,” she said. “You seem to know me so well.”
Summertime, commissions are hefty
Clients buying though it takes so much time
Holding hands and pretending to like it
I do what I must as long as the money is mine.
A week later, Gavin began to feel desperation creep over him like mould on a bathroom wall. Would she ever make a decision?
One day, she had to have “access to the beach”. Sixty homeowners have a narrow right of way to a fifty foot stretch of communal sand
The next day, she wanted a private beach. Any kind of beach, she said. “Shingle” beach is fine. Small rocks. Or even a “bold” beach. Big rocks. But not an “active” beach. Appears and disappears at the whim of various storms and tides.
It must have a wharf, she told him. Any structure, any size that goes out any distance into the water. And a boathouse. A garage built too near an active beach.
She didn’t mind a house that needed some work. One of the ones that advertised itself as being in need of a little “TLC”. Bottom line: cheaper to pull down and build a new house.
She kept talking about a “hideaway.” Twenty miles down a dirt road. Something “quaint.” Pokey and inconvenient. “Surrounded by trees.” Impenetrable forest all around.
During all of this, Gavin had to bear with her far-from-subtle advances. She insisted upon a succession of cosy lunches and intimate dinners that slowed down their progress. He dreaded the long drives from property to property. Her knee became permanently velcroed to his, her cloying perfume filled the small confines of the Subaru, and to his horror, her hand often insinuated itself onto his thigh, where, at the most inopportune moments, it would stray upwards.
So far he’d managed to get her back to her hotel and into her room without compromising himself any further. However, he had no illusions. She had every intention of luring him into her bed. He broke out in a cold sweat at the thought.
Towards the end of the week, he began to suspect that she saw the two of them in a continuing relationship. In a desperate bid to remind her of her married state, Gavin brought up the absent Mr. Blackthorn.
“What kind of home is your husband looking for?” he asked her, edging his leg away from hers yet again.
“He doesn’t care. I doubt he’ll come here very often.” She gave him a hot glance. “He won’t be any bother to us. Don’t worry.”
Gavin’s heart sank.
“Won’t be here often?”
“No. He’s too busy with his affairs in Toronto.” Her hand stroked his thigh.
Gavin caught the slight emphasis on the word “affairs” and knew he wouldn’t be rescued by the arrival of a jealous husband.
“So you’ll be alone most of the time?”
She took that as an invitation. “Yes,” she purred. “Unless of course, I have company.” Her hand tightened on his knee.
“I’m surprised you’d want an out-of-the-way property then,” Gavin continued, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. “Wouldn’t you be happier with a property in town? Neighbours nearby? Close to shopping? I have a few very nice heritage homes on my list.” Heritage home: usually in a town, must conform to the Historical Society guidelines for buildings in the area. Don’t plan to put on new aluminum siding.
“No,” she snapped. “Nothing with neighbours close by. I want privacy at all costs.” She settled back in the seat and sucked in her mouth. “I hate busybodies watching every move I make.”
Finally, they found a property that suited her: an isolated older home, perched at the end of a rocky peninsula. Gavin smiled as she ooohed and ahhhed over the “hand-hewn beams”. Uncle Pete built it. She liked the fact that it had many “recent upgrades”. Uncle Pete fix
ed it up. That the wainscotting was “original woodwork”. Great Uncle Pete built it. And that most of the rooms had been “fully restored” to their original Victorian splendour. Oncle Pierre fixed it up. She loved the idea that it was “over a century old”. So old we can’t remember who built it or fixed it up.
Things looked good. Gavin knew all the signs. Her flushed face, little coos of delight and constant chatter of where the dining room set would go, plus numerous ideas for new wallpaper and paint made her interest plain. She talked about the colour of the drapes she’d have in the living room and how cosy the fireplace would be on a cool evening.
However, more than one fish had come this close to being landed then had slipped away at the last moment. The time had come to set the hook and reel her in.
“Wait until you see the widow’s walk,” Gavin told her. “It’s phenomenal. You can see for miles from it.”
“What’s a ‘widow’s walk’?” she asked.
Suicidal deck. “It’s a sort of platform on the very top of the house where the sea captain’s wife used to go to watch for her husband’s ship to come into the harbour.”
“How romantic!” she trilled. “I can’t wait to see it. How do we get there?”
“There are stairs out of the attic. Follow me. We’ll have to be careful when we go outside. The railing still needs a little work.”
Gavin began the long climb, all too aware of Margo panting behind him. They emerged onto a weather-beaten ten-by-ten asphalted platform, surrounded by an intricate but peeling wrought-iron railing. The wind buffeted them, cold and chilling off the water. Gavin shivered. The roofs slid precipitously away on every side, ending at a three-storey plunge to the ground. On one side, the drop continued to a rocky beach far below, now exposed at low tide.
He hated heights. What he did for his clients. He comforted himself with the thought of the fifty-thousand dollar commission. He figured he’d earned every penny of this one.
Margo’s lack of fear surprised him. She did a quick circuit of the widow’s walk. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced down over the edge of the railing. A look of calculation crossed her face.