by B R Snow
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not sure what’s going on with that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he said, accepting my ticket. “But we’re always the last ones to know. I’ll be right back.”
He trotted off, and I walked down the steps to wait for my car. I buttoned my coat to fend off the cold, but the wind was down, and the sky had cleared. I glanced up at the moon and stars and took a deep breath and felt the cold air hit my lungs. I took a step back when my car arrived, and the attendant hopped out and left the door open. I handed him a twenty, and he glanced at it then grinned at me.
“Twenty bucks?”
“You mentioned something about making twenty bucks earlier. I guess it stuck with me.”
“Thanks,” he said as he toed the pavement with the tip of his shoe. “Look, I was wondering if you get up here often.”
“Yeah, from time to time,” I said. “And I imagine I might be coming more often in the future.”
“Would you be interested in maybe going out sometime? You know, dinner and a movie. Or if you’re up for it, we could hit a club or two.”
I smiled at him as I thought about it. Then I flashed back to Bill and Shirley and how happy they seemed to be. And the more I thought about it, I decided that happy didn’t really capture it. They were content. Fully committed to each other and at peace with the idea. And I hoped they’d be able to stay that way. I studied the attendant’s face. He was younger than I, but not too young. And he was certainly attractive in a boyish sort of way I found appealing.
“You mentioned earlier that you’re trying to make it as a stand-up comic,” I said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“Yeah, I think I am,” he said without boasting.
“Then that means you’ll eventually start making the rounds of all the comedy clubs, right?”
“You gotta go where the work is,” he said, shrugging.
“And you’d be on the road constantly, right?”
“Most of the year, I’m sure,” he said, nodding.
“Then I have to say, while I’m tempted to say yes, I’m afraid it’s going to be a no. I’m sorry.”
“Just because there’s a chance at some point in the future we wouldn’t see each other very often?”
“Pretty much,” I said, smiling and nodding.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m looking for anything serious,” he said, frowning.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, gently placing a hand on his cheek. “But I am.”
I gave him a hug, climbed into my car and left him standing there with a confused look on his face. I waved goodbye through the rear-view mirror, grabbed my phone from my bag and slid it into its dashboard holder. I set the sandwich on the passenger seat then called Josie and put the phone on speaker.
“Hey,” she said. “We were beginning to worry. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I said, reaching for one of the pieces of the Dagwood. “I just left, and I’m on my way home. Is Chef Claire there?”
“Yeah, she took the night off.”
“Good for her,” I said, taking a bite of sandwich. “Put me on speaker.”
“Hi, Suzy,” Chef Claire said. “Any news?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” I said, giving up trying to eat and talk at the same time. I set the piece of sandwich on the passenger seat next to the rest of its family as I kept an eye out for signs to the highway.
Then I launched into the story of how I’d spent my day. A roller coaster day filled with twists and turns, emotional highs and lows, and enough mood swings to empty a shrink’s prescription pad. When I got to the part of Charlie’s arrest for the murder of Joshua Middleton, I waited for Chef Claire’s reaction when she heard the news. All I got was a long silence.
“Chef Claire?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“I think so. Part of me feels incredibly sad. And I feel awful about what might happen to Bobbie. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m also relieved. I can finally stop worrying about him doing something like that to me.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said, working the car into the right lane and onto the entrance ramp to the highway. “What are you guys doing?”
“Just waiting for you,” Josie said. “We thought we’d catch up, play with the dogs, drink some wine, maybe watch a movie. You know, the usual.”
“Perfect.”
“Are you going to be hungry?” Chef Claire said.
I glanced over at the passenger seat at the sandwich that was big enough to warrant its own seatbelt.
“Geez, I sure hope not,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, we’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Josie said. “Drive safe.”
“Will do.”
I ended the call and reached for a piece of the sandwich. I drove with one eye on the highway and the other on the sandwich as I tried to figure out a way to eat without losing half of it on the floor. Traffic was light, and I set the cruise control to sixty-five. My kitchen creation was delicious, and I savored every bite.
I was glad I took Charlie’s suggestion to stay away from the mayonnaise.
The man may have been a deranged killer, but he sure knew his remoulade.
Epilogue
Charlie was officially charged with the murder of Joshua Middleton before I even made it home. When convicted, as everyone associated with the case is certain he will be, Charlie will be looking at a mandatory life sentence. And as Bill had said, if he’s a really good boy and proves he can play well with others in the same sandbox, parole after the mandatory twenty-five is a possibility, however remote. The certainty of his conviction was pretty much signed, sealed, and delivered when Bobbie, as Bill had suggested she might, confessed to her complicity in the murder and made it perfectly clear to anyone who would listen that she only agreed to help her brother out because she feared for her life. It wasn’t much of a defense, but it was probably the best option she had.
As soon as Bobbie rolled over on her brother, Charlie’s lawyer briefly considered an insanity plea. But that was scrapped when the judge who caught the case, a devoted foodie with a fondness for pheasant and elk who’d eaten Charlie’s food several times in the past, rejected the lawyer’s appeal on the grounds that anybody who could work that kind of magic on wild game couldn’t possibly be considered clinically insane. When the lawyer tried to challenge the judge’s ruling as being arbitrary and capricious, the judge sent him back to his seat with a thinly veiled threat to eat the man’s liver with some fava beans and a six-pack of Molson. The lawyer, who apparently also moonlights as a literary agent, soon changed his strategy and is currently in negotiations with a major publishing house about a combination biography-cookbook about Charlie’s life and some of his favorite recipes, tentatively titled: Three Hots and a Cot. Chef Claire has already gotten word to the lawyer that, if any of her recipes end up in the book, she’s going to grab her bat and pay him a little visit.
Bobbie, whose tenure as the CEO of Wags was over before the ink had time to dry on the contract, is still hopeful that she’ll be able to avoid a lengthy stretch of prison time. The word on the street is that she’ll be incredibly lucky if she only gets seven years. If she gets five or less, Shirley says Bobbie should immediately buy all the lotto tickets she can get her hands on.
Bobbie was the subject of constant discussion and debate between the three of us for weeks, especially around the topic of what we were going to do about the dog toy company. We strongly considered just walking away from the whole thing given everything else we had on our plate, but we kept coming back to the nagging thought that the idea was simply too good to pass up. In the end, we agreed to move forward, especially after my mother had, in no uncertain terms, questioned our sanity.
From a personal perspective, all three of us were torn when it came to Bobbie. We felt bad for her and knew that h
er fear of Charlie had forced her to do things she would never choose to do without her brother’s pressure. But we had a hard time getting past the idea that she had lied to us, not to mention the fact that she had also played an active role in a murder.
That most certainly didn’t help assuage our concerns.
We debated at length additional reasons that might have driven her actions. During those debates, every tired theory and pop-culture cliché we could remember were put on the table, kicked back and forth, and beat to death: Nature versus nurture, rational choice, victimization and the social conflict theory, punishment versus compassion, chicken and the egg, and society’s impact on individual responsibility, which, late one night after too much wine, laughingly morphed into the dog ate my homework theory of personal responsibility.
We decided to visit Bobby after she made bail. Once we got past a very awkward first half-hour, we were able to move forward and negotiate a new ownership deal. The three of us ended up keeping sixty percent of the company and gave twenty percent to Bobbie, which she was stunned and delighted to receive. After all, we decided, it was her idea, and she should share some of the profits. And as Josie pointed out on the drive home, unless the price of prison-cigarettes and pruno continued to skyrocket, Bobbie should be able to save pretty much everything she made while she was away and have quite a nest egg by the time she got out.
Given the stark reality behind Josie’s black humor, I probably laughed harder than I should have and almost drove off the road doing seventy.
We weren’t quite sure what to do with the remaining twenty percent but were committed to making that decision before we headed off to the Caymans. We decided to use one of our family dinner nights to get it done, and over a Beef Wellington that Chef Claire surprised us with out of the blue, we kicked around a variety of ideas about how to allocate the remaining ownership stake. My mother, who’d been listening quietly to our conversation, started making notes as she ate. Then she put her utensils down and proceeded to outline her list of thirteen suggestions for jumpstarting and taking the company to the next level. We listened in stunned silence, and when she finished, she went back to work on her Beef Wellington. The three of us looked at each other, nodded in unison, then welcomed my mother aboard.
And as long as the three of us stick together, our sixty percent ownership stake should help us maintain at least some semblance of control.
Our search for a new CEO continues. It’s a crucial decision, and it’s probably going to be a long process, but I’m doing my best not to obsess over it. However, we were able to make one hire I feel really good about. I kept my own promise to make it up to Marjorie’s son, Thomas, the young man I’d added to my initial list of suspects on the night Middleton was killed. Thomas is Wags’ new Head of Logistics and is currently scouring Ottawa for warehouse space that can be converted into a manufacturing facility. I saw him recently, and he pointed out the downtown penthouse condo he’s renting as we drove around the city in his new sports car.
I’m pretty sure he’s forgiven me.
Apart from that, life around the Inn has fallen back into its predictable early winter pattern. Sammy and Jill are excited about running the place for the entire winter, and we’re looking forward to spending ours in the sun and sand. Jill finally convinced us that she’d be able to handle running the rescue program in addition to her regular duties so we gave her the job. And the other night, Josie and I did our final review and realized that everything was done, and we could head off with a clear conscience and not have to worry about the Inn or the welfare of the dogs while we were gone.
The weather is getting colder by the day, and the dogs are getting increasingly resistant to spending any more time outside than is necessary. Given the half-foot of snow and the blustery wind out of the north we dealt with yesterday, it’s hard to argue with their logic. As for Jack, he’s become a full-fledged member of the family, and we’ve already turned down several adoption requests. At some point, we’ll probably consider one of them, but he’s doing well, gets along great with all the other dogs, and has a personality that never ceases to put a smile on our face. I suppose that someday the perfect family will come through the front door and we’ll be more than happy to let him go.
Maybe.
Thanksgiving was wonderful, and we shared it with a collection of friends and their dogs I couldn’t have dreamed possible when I was younger. We counted our blessings then, over turkey sandwiches around midnight, began to count the days. And since we’d reluctantly agreed to my mother’s request to spend Christmas at her house in the Caymans, we found ourselves at a small airstrip just outside of town on the morning of the 23rd shaking our heads at the four dogs who were slowly making their way up the stairs onto the private jet we’d chartered. Chloe led the way, paused on the top step to glance back and make sure the others were following, then stepped inside. Al and Dente bounded past Chef Claire, closely followed by Captain. We waited until our luggage and the dog crates were loaded then headed up the stairs. We got the dogs into their crates for takeoff, ignored the stink-eyes all four were giving us, then took our seats. Josie and Chef Claire sat in the row behind me and kept their distance when they saw my look of fear and panic begin to set in. I focused on my breathing and buckled in tight. As we waited for the pilot to finish his pre-flight, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the number and answered in the middle of the second ring.
“Victor Rollins,” I said, elated to have something to take my mind off takeoff. “I was wondering when we were going to hear from you.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, obviously in a very good mood. “I wanted to wait until I had something definite to tell you.”
“And?”
“I got good news and even better news,” he said, laughing. “Which do you want first?”
“Your call, Victor. Surprise me.”
“I just got the CEO job,” he said, then rattled his ice cubes.
I ignored the annoying rattle.
“Congratulations. It sure took them long enough to make up their minds.”
“Yeah, Wendell was squawking about it, but then he suddenly quieted down after a couple of board members let him know they’d heard some disturbing rumors about what he and Middleton had been up to.”
“Really?”
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Suzy?”
“Me? Victor, I’m shocked that you would even think such a thing.”
One row back, Josie snorted loudly.
“Well, anyway, I’m in, and Wendell is on a very short leash,” Rollins said, again rattling his ice near the phone.
“I know what you’re doing, Victor,” I snapped. “Knock it off.”
“You’re so easy to get a rise out of,” he said, laughing. “Now for the other good news. What would you guys say to a ten-year deal?”
“You want a ten-year agreement?” I said, surprised. We’d been hoping to possibly get one for five. “That’s pretty unusual, isn’t it?”
“Maybe a little,” he said. “But we think this thing is going to go big and go big in a hurry. And we’re willing to agree to ten years just so we don’t lose any momentum down the road by having to waste a lot of time negotiating a new deal.”
“You mean you want to lock us up now and not have to worry about giving us any more money until you absolutely have to, right?”
“Nothing gets past you.”
I turned around in my seat to look at Josie and Chef Claire who were listening to the conversation.
“Did you guys get that?” I said to them.
They both nodded and gave me thumbs up.
“Okay, Victor. Ten years it is. But we’ll want to include a walk-away provision after five in case either of us wants to get out.”
“C’mon, Suzy,” he said, rattling his ice. “Why on earth would you want to walk away?”
“Add it to the list and let the lawyers hash it out,” I said, not in the mood to argue with him.
“Yeah, we’re still looking for the new CEO, but we just hired our Head of Logistics. He’s a good kid. You’ll like him. At the moment, he’s scouting locations in Ottawa for the manufacturing facility.”
“Manufacturing?”
“The toys aren’t going to make themselves, Victor.”
“No, of course not,” he said, confused. “But why would you do that? I thought you’d be subbing that out and having the toys built in China.”
“No, that’s not going to happen,” I said firmly.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because they eat dogs in China.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said after a long pause. “I forgot who I was dealing with for a moment. Well, have it your way. It’s your company. But it’s going to cut into your margins.”
“I’m sure it will. But that point is non-negotiable,” I said, glancing over my shoulder and receiving nods of approval from Josie and Chef Claire. “Besides, we like the idea of providing some jobs to folks on both sides of the border.” I decided to throw him a changeup. “How’s Wilma?”
“She’s great,” he said. “I moved in with her. But her apartment is pretty small, so I imagine we’ll start looking at houses pretty soon. You know, now that I got the job.”
“Good for you,” I said, nodding. Time to see if he could hit a fastball. “How’s your drinking?”
“What?”
“Well, the last few times we talked, it seemed like you were hitting the scotch pretty hard.”
“That was just a temporary stage I was going through to help me cope with all the stress Middleton was putting me through.”
“Whatever you say, Victor.”
“You sound just like Wilma.”
“Good. You should listen to her. What’s the deal with her idea for the pet massage business?”
“That’s on hold for the moment,” he said. “We agreed to wait and see what happens with our relationship before we do anything with it.”