From where Henry stood with Frieda and Tess, he could see the rotating barrels of the mixing trucks painted like corncobs, strawberries, and pea pods.
“Who paints these?” Frieda asked.
“Students from the art college,” Tess said. “Each semester, a group of students will repaint everything. It’s a huge endeavor.”
“Did you go to school here?”
“I didn’t go to art college,” Tess said. “In fact, I have a business degree from UBC. I thought about becoming an accountant.” She turned her eyes toward Henry. “But, in the end, playing with other people’s money, trying to help the rich stay rich, wasn’t for me. I took some private art lessons, but mostly I just drew. A lot. Then, I had to start showing my stuff and asking for work. That was the hardest part.”
Frieda squinted as though exerting effort to digest this information.
“I like to think that I helped people do more than get rich and stay rich,” Henry said. “When I was with the bank.”
“Would you read some of my writing?” Frieda asked Tess. “I think you might be able to use some ideas for your books.”
“I would love to,” Tess said, smiling. She put her arm on the young girl’s shoulder.
Henry replaced his thoughts of jobs and careers with the scene before him. In another universe, this might be his family. A wife, a daughter, a day at Granville Island. But it wasn’t. It never would be. He had tried and failed. As sweet as the scene may appear, it was painfully different from how he had thought his life would turn out.
He looked at Frieda, in her T-shirt with a three-eyed gorilla and with her leather bag full of god-knows-what, and he simply loved her. This would have to be enough.
Tess said something, breaking the silence. Henry wondered whether she had sensed his increasing heaviness and was grateful to have been snapped back to the present.
“Hi,” he said.
“Your phone is ringing,” she repeated, pointing at his pocket.
“Oh.” Henry looked at the caller ID. It was Sarah.
Ignore.
“Is everything okay?” Tess asked.
Henry realized he was scowling and exaggerated raising his eyebrows in order to iron the creases from his brow.
“Everything’s cool.” His phone buzzed to let him know there was a voicemail.
Henry waved the annoying device and shrugged his shoulders in apology. “Let me just listen to this.” He turned his back and walked several steps away.
The connection was weak, the message scratchy, the voice too familiar.
“Henry. It’s Sarah. We are . . . sooner than expected. Stewart . . . with the bank. So we . . . pick up Frieda, or you can drop her off. I’d like . . . you don’t have to run into . . . I’ll call . . . back around five-ish.”
Henry wished he carried his earphones. The phone was hot against his cheek and his palms were moist.
Wiping his hands on his pants, he turned back to Frieda and Tess. Frieda was crouched down, trying to coax a seagull from under a picnic bench to her empty hand.
“You’re good to stay with me all week?” he asked her.
Without taking her eyes off the bird, she gave him a thumbs up.
He typed several replies before settling on the wording.
We’re having a great time. Fred’s with me all week. Sorry to hear your holiday was cut short.
Perfect. Send.
Frieda had found a bun from god-knows-where and was tearing off pieces to throw at the seagull.
“That was your aunt. Where’s Tess?” he asked.
Sarah and Stewart are getting back at five. Henry looked at his phone. It was three-thirty.
“She went to the washroom. Do you like her?”
“Sarah?”
“Tess.” Frieda looked confused.
“Tess? Yeah, she’s great.”
“No. I mean do you ‘like her’ like her?”
“You are charming.” He gave her a soft punch in the arm. “She’s nice, but I don’t really ‘know her’ know her enough to ‘like her’ like her. Do you follow?” Henry had already wondered whether he liked Tess after saying goodnight yesterday.
If timing is everything, I’ve got nothing.
“Well, I think you like each other. She likes art. You like art. She studied business. You’re a business guy. Both of you are sort of not-grown-up and like to have fun. Except for just now, I think she brings out the old Hen.”
“She seems fun. I just need to sort some things out, though. Life doesn’t move that quickly.”
“Maybe you’re just not doing life right.”
Before Henry could recover from the sucker-punch of thirteen-year-old Zen wisdom, Tess was back.
“Shall we keep going?” she said.
“I hate to cut things short,” Henry said, “but we need to get back. I forgot there was something I was supposed to do. It won’t take me long.”
Frieda made a disgusting choking sound. “Right now?”
Henry’s shoulders slumped. “I’m really sorry. I have to get somewhere before it closes.”
“Well, can’t Tess and I stay here?”
Henry looked at Tess. A smile broke out on the young woman’s face and she brushed her short bangs with her fingers.
“That would be grand,” she said.
Henry brushed aside thoughts of what Rachel might say and slipped Frieda some cash. They agreed to meet back at the house, and he started up the hill.
He had an hour and a half. It would take him nearly a half hour to walk back to the house. Frieda’s cloak hung next to the door when they left.
He should just make it.
Tess held the sharp, steel scissors against her chest and surveyed the scene in her living-room. Her light table and supplies were covered with a sheet, and young Frieda sat perched atop Tess’s yellow barstool, with a towel across her shoulders.
“To catch the blood,” Tess had explained, snipping scissors in the air for emphasis. Brown and blue hair peppered the floor, the towel and the sheets.
“Can I see it?”
“Almost.”
“What do you think of Henry?” The lack of segue suggested the young girl had been hanging onto the question for some time.
“We only just met. Why do you ask?”
“Well, my dad says that Hen will never find work in this town again. So I was thinking that, maybe, if he was dating somebody he might not move away. Maybe.”
“I think what your dad said is just an expression.”
“Maybe. But wouldn’t it be better if he stayed? He’s not always so serious, and he’s into a lot of games and music and stuff.”
Tess stifled a laugh at the young hard sell. “I’m sure I’ll get to know him better. First impressions are nutty, eh? I mean, he thinks someone is stealing his crosswords.”
She fluffed Frieda’s bangs with her fingers and stepped back to survey her work.
“Are you ready to see it?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Tess took the towel off the girl’s shoulders and followed her into the bathroom. Frieda let out a sharp scream of excitement. They both spoke at once.
“It’s awesome.”
“You look brilliant.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Your mom’s going to love it.”
“I look like you,” Frieda said.
“A little, yeah.”
Like a page from Time Doctors, Tess saw a younger version of herself looking back from the mirror.
A knock on the door interrupted the small party, crammed into the tiny bathroom.
“Come in!” Tess called out. Then, to Frieda, “Back on the stool. I see some bits we’ve got to clean up.”
As they walked back to the front window, Henry entered the studio-cum-salon and said, “Look who I found.”
He stopped short and blinked several times.
“I’ve been cutting my own hair for years,” Tess said.
“Well, you’ve done a
fine job,” Bernadette said behind Henry. She carried Shima in her arms; the cat purred and cooed when he saw Frieda.
“I heard a scream, even with my poor hearing, so I came out to see what was going on. I saw Henry at your door and thought I would make it a complete set. This little monster here must have jumped two feet straight up at the noise.”
Henry looked lost, like it was his first day on earth. “It’s a big change, but it suits you.”
“I texted my parental units and got an okay from Tomas,” Frieda said, referring to her father by name. “He hated the blue anyhow.”
“We got you something.” She ran past him to the door next to which lay her satchel and a brown paper bag. She retrieved the latter and handed it to him.
“For me?” Henry turned it over to read the stamp from Zulu records on one side of the flat package, before sliding out an LP. Blackstar? “Are you kidding me?”
Tess could tell from the look on his face they’d made the right choice. A quick search online had revealed that David Bowie’s last album, released only days before his death in 2016, was considered a seminal work in his catalog.
“Do you like it?” Frieda asked.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” he gave her a peck on the top of her head, and she hopped back up onto the stool.
Shima hopped down to the floor and rolled around on his back in the cut hair, his white belly and chin straight up. Henry set the record on the kitchen table, scooped up the little cat and brushed him off onto the sheet.
As she snipped at straggling hairs, Tess watched Henry wander into her living room, scratching his curiosity itch and petting the cat draped over one arm. He lingered at Tess’s bookshelf, and he paused appreciatively in front of one of her paintings before drifting to a hanging scroll bearing two large Japanese characters in scripted black ink.
“Honma,” she said.
“Your dad’s family crest?”
“Not a crest. Just the name. And it’s my mum’s family.”
He turned to face her, a question etched on his face.
Tess had seen this look her entire life. People wrestling with questions that touched on ethnicity, family. Words become loaded with uncertainty, like delicately placing weight on a newly frozen lake. Wanting to know, not wanting to offend. Despite best intentions, most people left to their own devices cracked the ice beneath their feet.
“I just assumed…”
“Most people do. How was your errand?” she asked.
“My what? Oh, good. Perfect.”
“Were you filing a police report?” Tess asked, laughing. Frieda snickered, too, in on the tease.
“I don’t get the joke,” Bernadette said.
“Henry has turned into Eliot Ness,” Tess replied. “Let him tell you about his criminal conspiracy.”
Frieda snorted.
Henry came to stand next to Bernadette in the kitchen. “Do you do crosswords?” he asked, in a suspicious tone.
Tears formed at the corners of Tess’s eyes. She and Frieda contributed their own color commentary as Henry told Bernadette about his missing papers.
“Maybe the house is haunted,” Tess said.
Frieda smiled. “Shima’s figured out how to hold a pen.”
Henry’s tone bore a hint of defensiveness, although he tried to laugh along. “Whatever. It’s a real person, though. Someone’s taking them.”
Tess patted him on his shoulder, in sympathy.
“A thief?” Bernadette asked. She looked over at Tess, who shrugged.
“It has to be,” Henry said.
“I don’t do crosswords, I’m afraid. Do we even have a paperboy anymore? And aren’t there far more valuable things?”
Frieda climbed off the stool. “I agree with Hen that it’s Mr. Creepy from the other day.” She doubled over and shook the remaining loose hair onto the sheet.
“Well, someone’s messing with me.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“It’s going to be an odd list of suspects, eh?” Tess said, folding the sheets carefully. “I’m sure you aren’t going to break the case tonight. So, would anyone like a gin and tonic? I was also thinking of ordering pizza. And…” She added dramatic emphasis. “I have a record player.”
“That would be lovely,” Bernadette said. “I’ll get started. Fresh limes?”
Tess nodded. “In the fridge.”
“We should get Shima fed,” Henry said, picking the record up with his free hand and pointing at the door with his chin.
“It’s alright, Hen,” Frieda said. “I’ll take care of Shima. I have to send off an assignment anyhow, and I can have leftovers. You stay up here as long as you want.”
“It’s settled,” Tess said, clapping her hands together. “Adults night upstairs.”
Frieda gave Tess one more great hug, threw the old cat unceremoniously over her own shoulder, and headed out the door.
Tess espied the unsubtle wink that the young girl threw at her uncle on her way out the door. She also caught his blush in reply.
Chapter Fifteen
Frieda had no school assignments to submit.
Why don’t adults just stay happy? Hen goes from super-happy to super-sad in a nanosecond. But he’s like old Hen when he’s with Tess.
As she pondered the fickleness of the age-impaired, Shima wove himself between her feet and trilled his own contentment.
“That’s right,” she said to the old cat. “Yes. Turkey? Okay. No, it’s just you and me tonight.”
The plan was to spend this evening writing. A story circled around in her head: an ordinary girl who draws comic books and helps real superheroes solve crimes. Already, she was practicing her powers of observation. For one, she’d noticed that Henry had finally put away his cardboard box of office stuff.
As she placed Shima’s dish on the floor beneath the kitchen window, she glanced out. Someone was walking away from the house. The figure turned to look inside their shoulder bag, their profile recognizable.
She dropped to the kitchen floor, out of sight from the window.
“Why is Mr. Creepy back?” she said aloud.
He must have come from the stairs leading into the old man’s apartment in the basement. She lifted her head to peek out. He was still close enough for her to see he was covered in sweat.
Hen was right. He is the crossword thief.
Frieda hesitated for an instant. She could prove it. But it was going to be dark soon.
She vaulted to her feet, sending Shima scurrying into the bedroom (and into the walls and upstairs again). She grabbed her satchel and felt it for keys. The lock-picks in her cloak clinked as she threw it over her shoulders and raced for the door.
Frieda leapt down the steps of the building and sprinted to the sidewalk where she looked in all directions. She spotted Mr. Creepy next to the café. He dragged his feet as he walked, moving away from the apartment building. Frieda checked the pin on her cloak, pulled her hood low over her eyes and ran to the corner.
She watched from a crouch as the figure continued to the end of the block. There, he turned left and out of sight. She dashed to the corner, as close to the buildings as she could, and came to a dead stop at the end. She peered with one eye around the building, spotting him stepping off the sidewalk and getting into a dirty, off-white car.
Frieda didn’t know the makes of cars, but this one looked like the sort that children draw. What she could see was that the license plate was unusual. An extra number. A different color.
Then, it struck her.
He’s leaving.
She could stay where she was and take down the license plate as he drove past.
Or…
She stood up and looked around. What was she going to do? Steal a car? She was only thirteen. She made two mental notes:
1) learn to drive
2) learn to hot-wire a car
Frieda turned and ran back toward Henry’s building as fast as she could. She rounded the corner at a full sprint, cutting across the r
oad, having barely glanced ahead for traffic. Her hood fell back off her head and her cloak fluttered its encouragement behind her.
Go. Go. Go.
The hospital was only a block from Henry’s apartment. There would have to be cabs there. It was also the way to get to the big roads, Granville and Broadway.
For sure, he’ll have to pass by.
Frieda ran into the parking lot of Vancouver General Hospital toward a line of waiting cabs. She aimed herself at the lead taxi. The driver stood outside his door, facing the hospital, talking on his phone. She brushed past him, opened a door and climbed in the back seat without a word. She just looked at the cab driver through the open window, breathing heavily, until she saw the dirty square car pass them. She shouted, “Get in! Get in!”
Snapping out of his initial surprise, the driver climbed in and started the engine. He got out a pad and pen.
“Where are we headed this evening?”
He raised his eyebrows out of curiosity and amusement as he smiled at her in the rear-view mirror.
“We need to follow that car.”
She had been as right as she had been swift. Mr. Creepy’s car was rolling towards the hospital.
He paused. “I need an address.”
“The address of wherever that car is going is the address that we are going to.”
“You’re serious?” His large eyebrows were still curious, but less amused.
“Deadly.”
Frieda looked in her satchel and counted. With the money her parents had given her, and the money Henry had paid for cat-sitting, the money from today, less her coffee, less Henry’s record, she had . . .
Oh, math, I hate you.
“I have sixty-eight dollars. That means that we can drive for . . . thirty-four dollars before you have to bring me back here. Go! Follow!” She jabbed and pointed in the direction Mr. Creepy had driven.
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