Windfall

by Byron TD Smith

  Shima is out. Tess is helping me look. She said to call you. – FTM

  He read it a second time and spun around to face the chair where Mr. Munroe could ordinarily be found. Behind the chair, the door to the back office opened, revealing a small room barely big enough for the desk that had been squeezed in there, let alone the piles of books on the floor and the desk itself.

  Mr. Munroe, still sitting down and holding the doorknob, said, “You’ve had a couple of calls.”

  “A couple?”

  “I’m sorry. The first was an hour ago, but you were with a customer and I got busy.”

  Henry waited. “Yes?”

  “Ah, the first call was from a Kat Hunter. And just now a call from a Tess Hom… Homma? They both said that you were to call Ms. Hunter.”

  Henry excused himself and grabbed his jacket from the coat hooks behind the counter.

  “No problem,” the old man said from his cave. “I’ll see you next week.”

  Henry called Frieda’s mobile as he hurried from the store.

  Cat hunter. Cute, but not funny. Shima’s never been outside.

  There was no answer. He re-read the text, jaywalked across the street to his bicycle, and raced to Richardson Street.

  Henry let his bicycle drop against the apartment door opposite his own. Stepping on his newspaper, he burst into his suite.

  “Frieda?”

  No girl.

  “Shima?”

  No cat.

  He looked back at his texts. Another had arrived.

  Upstairs with Tess – FTM

  Henry ran up the stairs and knocked on the door of Unit 3, immediately above his own. There was no answer, so he knocked again, louder and longer.

  “Frieda?”

  “Oui, monsieur?” said a voice behind him.

  He turned to see Frieda’s face, mostly cheeks and framed by her brown-and-blue hair, peering out from the door behind him.

  “Fred.” Henry walked straight into the strange apartment and gave her a hug. “Are you okay? Where’s Shima?”

  “We found him. He was with Bernadette.”

  “Why was your phone off? Wait, why was Shima with Bernadette?”

  “Oh, my phone is at Tess’s. She and I were drawing in her apartment and I wanted to show her Shima, but when we got downstairs, he was gone. Bernadette thinks he might have gotten into the walls. How cool is that? Like a secret passage for cats.”

  Feeling lost, Henry looked around. The apartment was similar in size to his own, but it retained all its original walls. Instead of being wide open, it was still broken up into several small rooms. He stood in the living room. The entrance to his left opened onto a kitchen stocked with avocado-green appliances from his childhood.

  The walls were vintage plaster and covered by only the odd small painted canvas and framed photos. The floors were hardwood and covered with Persian rugs of various dimensions. The room was in the front of the house and bright for the light pouring in through windows like those in Henry’s kitchen. The furniture was uniformly mid-century design, lean and teak. Wool and afghan blankets had been placed strategically around the living room: on the arm of a chair, the back of the couch, and beneath the coffee table. Henry coveted the vintage furniture that spoke to him of style and permanence.

  Henry recognized Bernadette, of similar vintage to the furniture, as the woman who had shown him the apartment. She had bright, relaxed eyes, and unblemished pale skin that avoided wrinkles due to her naturally plump, but not fat, body type.

  Seated next to her was another, younger woman. She was pretty, fit, and looked back at him with amusement. Her hair was, indeed, cut short and so jet black as to assert some Asian heritage. She was dressed casually in a T-shirt and rolled up jeans. Her dirty bare feet surprised Henry and felt revealing, although he couldn’t pinpoint why. Both women held cups of steaming tea. Next to the teapot on the coffee table was a plate with a stack of white-bread sandwiches, cut into triangles.

  Shima lay between the two women on the couch, with Bernadette’s free hand resting on his back.

  “Hello, Henry,” Bernadette said. “Frieda here has been keeping us quite entertained. She’s one of the good ones.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that. It’s nice to see you.” He looked again at the artsy young woman, sitting cross-legged. “And you must be Tess?”

  “And you must be Henry. Nice to meet you.”

  Henry waved uncomfortably at both women as he stood, still confused.

  “Fred, how about you tell me more about your day?”

  “After our tea,” she said, her tone excited. She helped herself to a half-eaten sandwich from the coffee table and spoke with a bite in her mouth. “I went out to find a good space to write. Sometimes a new environment helps get the creative juices flowing. When I came back, there was a smelly dude in the hallway downstairs. I think he was creeping on the apartment across from yours. I didn’t want to open your door with him right there, so I came upstairs and Tess let me in.”

  “Thank you,” Henry said to Tess.

  “It’s no problem. I was stuck on something anyhow. Plus, Frieda’s pretty cool.”

  Frieda’s face reddened. She carried on.

  “Tess is a comic book artist, like for real. She draws Enigma Team 6, and Time Doctors. She has her own studio where she makes real comics, and it’s right upstairs from you and you didn’t even know. I told her that I write, and she said we might get to work together someday.”

  He felt his heart slowing down and his body relaxing as he listened to Frieda’s enthusiasm. A chill reminded him that he had broken a sweat, riding as fast as he could.

  “That would be quite a break.”

  Tess returned Henry’s smile, and he realized his collar was damp. He pulled at his sweaty shirt so that it wasn’t sticking to his stomach.

  “I know, right?” Frieda said. “So, we hung out there until we were sure that the creepy guy would be gone. She gave me a tattoo.” Frieda pulled back her sleeve to reveal an ink drawing on her arm of a medical caduceus and pocket watch. “I’m never washing this off.”

  She paused for a breath, then continued. “Tess came with me downstairs so I could show her Shima, but he was gone.”

  Bernadette cut in. “The little prowler just walked right out of my closet as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He scared the hell out of me. Let me show you.”

  Tess helped her get up and, as they followed Bernadette to the bedroom, Henry saw that she held her side and walked more slowly than when they had first met.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Just a little wear and tear is all,” Bernadette said, dismissing his concern with a wave. “It comes and goes. There are gaps going into the walls where there used to be French doors. I think he got in there. I believe your bedroom closet has the same thing.”

  In the short hall to the bedroom, two framed photographs stood out from all the painted art. One was a color picture of a much younger Bernadette standing next to a man at the edge of a canyon. Her mouth was open in laughter; joy visibly unfazed by the tendrils of long, dark hair blowing around a headscarf and into her face. The second, smaller image was a black-and-white photo of a younger woman, twentysomething, sitting in a wooden garden chair with two small children in her lap.

  Henry hurried to catch up to the group in the bedroom. Each side of the wall into which the closet was cut had a three-inch gap from floor to ceiling.

  “The old doors would have slid in there when they opened,” Bernadette said. “They were probably taken out when the place was divided into suites. Long gone before I moved in.”

  “Mine is the same,” Henry said. “I thought the openings would be too small for him to fit through. I guess I was wrong.” He looked down at the old cat who appeared very content with himself.

  Little bugger.

  “I spent half the morning looking for my bloody ear plugs,” Bernadette said. “I can’t sleep a wink without them, and I
sometimes steal a nap in the afternoon. This little monster, though, he wandered around my home until he found them. He just picked one up and carried it right to me.”

  Absconding, more likely.

  Henry glanced at Frieda who was already looking back at him with wide eyes. She pointed at her ear. Henry shook his head. Do not mention ear wax.

  “I figured he was yours. Anyhow, before I could get to my nap, I heard these two young ladies outside, shouting, and I went to see what was going on.”

  “We were looking for Shima,” Tess said. “And now, here we are.”

  “Well, thank you both for your help with holding my life together,” Henry said with a small bow. “We should probably get out of your hair and figure out what we’re doing with the rest of the day.”

  “Why don’t we all have dinner?” Frieda said.

  “Great idea,” Henry said. Why not? They would decline anyhow. “But we aren’t making anything special. It’s only spaghetti.”

  He noticed that Tess wasn’t wearing any makeup. She was an effortless sort of pretty.

  “I’ll bring wine,” Bernadette said. “But first I have to follow up with the building manager. I’m surprised there was someone showing up to the office downstairs. I can’t imagine what they wanted.”

  “That sounds great,” Tess said. “Give me a bit of time to take care of a couple things and then I’ll come down and join you. Can I bring anything?”

  “Just you,” Frieda said.

  Henry carried Shima down the stairs in silence, trying to figure out how it was that he suddenly had dinner guests.

  Chapter Eight

  The Cheshire man inspected each of the coloured, Canadian bills before laying them on the table.

  Monopoly money. Why can’t they just use real dollars?

  The server had cut off his refills, so he would have to pack up soon and leave the café. He looked at the bag next to him in the booth. The clothes from the second-hand store still had a musty smell. It was only supposed to be a day trip, but now he was spending someone else’s cash on a change of clothes.

  The battery on his laptop was going to die soon anyhow.

  He pulled the manila folder from his bag; his case file. Taped to the inside left cover were the twenty-dollar bill, still inside the sandwich bag, and the pawnshop card. The front of the card had cryptic notes written in blue and black ballpoint.

  WFT

  1584 Richardson St., Vancouver, BC

  Duffel (1) Jackson (9,380)

  November 29, 1971 RENEW October 31, 1972 RENEW October 31, 1973 RENEW October 31, 1974 RENEW October 31, 1975 CLOSE January 31, 1976

  The back of the card was even less helpful: just a list of numbers, counting down from fifty to one.

  From yesterday’s search through the recycling bin of 1584 Richardson Street he had compiled a list of the current tenants, none of whom were Duffel or Jackson.

  He had thought of reaching out to the owner of the building and found the title available online. Again, more money he didn’t have. This time it was a credit card.

  Soon, though, there wouldn’t be any more financial worries.

  The title report said that the apartments were purchased in December 1971 by a numbered company: 121702 BC Ltd. The company’s address was listed as Unit 2 of the building. If the company was the building’s manager, maybe it had a list of past tenants. Maybe the trail would become hot again.

  But no one answered the door. There was no listed phone number for the company. Nobody went in or out, and he couldn’t wait indefinitely.

  His laptop made a pinging noise. He closed the manila folder, pushed the colorful cash aside, and opened the laptop. He was still logged in to the site and had received an instant message from another user.

  @swimmingwithfishes I think I found what you’re looking for. I can’t tell when the last day register was updated, tho. Are you sending payment by e-transfer?

  @treasurehunter1971 E-transfer. How much did it cost?

  @swimmingwithfishes $100. But that’s in Canada$, so I don’t know what that is in US$. $5? LOL

  @treasurehunter1971 LOL I’ll send it today.

  @swimmingwithfishes Cool. Sending docs now.

  ATTACHMENT – NoticeChangeDirectors.pdf 170KB

  @swimmingwithfishes Are you going to tell me what you’re working on?

  @treasurehunter1971 Things are still sensitive. Pretty soon, you’ll know. Huge news.

  He downloaded the attachment and opened it to find scans of old legal documents, incorporation details, formal notifications of a change in the directors of 121702 BC Ltd. Until now, getting details about the company had proved difficult for himself and the people he knew online.

  Shareholders, he was told, would be nearly impossible to find; not so for directors. So, he wouldn’t find out who the actual owners were, but at least he’d have the names of people in charge.

  There had to be people who could find these sorts of things out, but they were probably expensive, and he was already stretched thin. He had only brought enough cash for the bill, his credit card had to be maxed, or close to it, and there had only been a couple hundred dollars of cash in the pawnshop.

  So, he’d make do with the directors.

  The legal register included only three entries.

  President J. Johnston 29/11/1971

  Resigned J. Johnston 23/12/1974

  President R. Benham 23/12/1974

  Each time he saw the Canadian day-month-year format, it was one more reminder that he wanted to get home. Johnston was a new name. Benham, however, was not.

  His case file contained copies of all his most important documents. He flipped past a map of Oregon and Washington states, marked with scattered red lines; a black-and-white photograph of a man in a suit with a woman and child; his list of serial numbers for US twenty-dollar bills; artist renderings of a man wearing sunglasses; newspaper articles, reproduced from the internet. He withdrew the list of tenants he had compiled for 1584 Richardson Street.

  Unit 1 Henry Lysyk

  Unit 2 121702 BC Ltd.

  Unit 3 Tess Honma (& daughter?)

  Unit 4 Bernadette Pruner

  Unit 5 Ronald Benham

  The old man downstairs. Benham. He was a director, or he had been. Either way, he could help get in contact with the company.

  The Cheshire man scrolled back through the pdf. His screen dimmed, as warning of the failing battery. He stopped on the incorporation information and read it over twice before the screen blinked off and began powering down.

  The incorporating entity that created 121702 BC Ltd. was someone, or something, called “WFT”.

  He slid the pawnshop card from its plastic sleeve. There was the breadcrumb, in tidy handwriting laid down nearly fifty years ago: WFT

  The card shook in his hand. He would search the internet for the meaning of the letters later and it would be impossible to learn. The internet was cluttered with trite garbage. The number of results would be ridiculous.

  Those details paled in comparison to what this meant. Everything was connected.

  I’ve found you, ‘President’ Ronald Benham. How fitting.

  He flipped back and forth between his list and the register of directors on his computer screen.

  You changed your name, but you left a trail for me. No one else could put it together, but I did. You were too smart for them. So smart that they gave up. They quit. Now that they’re gone, I’ve found you.

  He had been so focused on the numbered company’s apartment. Not a complete waste of time, but misleading. So far, Benham only appeared through the windows, never outside. The old man was the right age.

  Clever. Because it’s you.

  The Cheshire man beamed widely at the server standing next to him. She repeated her question.

  “Did you want to start with a new coffee?” She gave the urn a little waggle in the air.

  “No, thanks,” he said, still grinning. “I’m just heading out.”

 
He slid himself and his pack from the booth. With a quick look back over his shoulder, he satisfied himself that he’d left nothing behind.

  Outside, the street was quiet. The air clean. He filled his chest with breath, trying to calm the tremble of anticipation in his hands.

  The streetlight flicked on, a beacon to the house and the end of his search. He stepped from the sidewalk onto the street. He could feel the grin on his face, wider than ever.

  An unexpected second light came on over the basement stairs as the front door opened. A figure silhouetted by the light of the main hallway clung to the railing as it descended the stairs. The old lady upstairs was leaving.

  His steps shortened and his path began to curve, away from the house.

  She disappeared behind a hedge below the main floor’s windows.

  This wouldn’t do.

  He bit his cheek hard. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them still as he alit on the sidewalk, passing around the glow of the streetlamp, carrying on, leaving the house behind him. Leaving the basement. Leaving the old man.

  The trail was nearly fifty years old. He was so close. But it couldn’t be rushed. It had to be right.

  Patience.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter Nine

  These people don’t know me, Henry thought. They have no expectations. This will be fine.

  Henry had bought six of everything when he furnished the apartment: glasses, knives, forks, plates. He and Sarah used to enjoy hosting dinner parties. Now, though, it felt more like parading people through his defeat.

  Downstairs, Tess arrived first. She and Henry sat at the table with glasses of the wine she had brought.

  Frieda, meanwhile, had fashioned an apron for herself out of a dishtowel tucked into her jeans, and bustled about the kitchen. Henry watched her put on a show of randomly opening cupboards in order to orient herself to the locations of things, and she helped more than he had ever seen with making the dinner.