“Move boxes.” Suzie picked up a stack of three from the floor. “Move them to the warehouse?”
“We don’t have a warehouse. Follow me.” Penelope led the way down the hall and flung open the door to the five-car garage.
Three of the bays were filled with cars. Penelope’s own BMW, the family Escalade and Matthew’s current project, an antique Austin-Healey. He had left his tools and supplies spread across the floor.
Penelope didn’t understand why Matthew insisted upon spending so much of his time on such a blue-collar hobby. He should be learning to play golf and hobnobbing with his new neighbors, mostly politicians and executives. But he was never happier than when he had his head under the hood of an old car, a tool in his hands and grease up to his elbows.
After much nagging on her part, Matthew nearly always responded appropriately to questions about his livelihood with references to the financial services agency he owned and operated. He’d stopped telling everyone all the seedy details of his bail bond and repo company. A very successful bail bond and repo company. But still…
But now was not the time to worry about that. Just so long as Matthew didn’t show up for the party with the grease under his fingernails. Or handcuffs peeking out of his back pocket.
“Pick these things up first,” Penelope said to Suzie. “Put them over there.” She pointed to shelves along the back wall where tools and unidentifiable spare parts competed for space with gallons of antifreeze and windshield cleaner, containers of oil and other fluids.
Suzie put the boxes down and began gathering the items on the floor.
Penelope was a bit reluctant to leave the robot unsupervised. Who knew what she might get up to? But she did need to check on the main rooms of the house before the cleaning and setup crew left.
The house looked magnificent. Flower arrangements: check. Additional rented seating: check. Fancy paper guest towels in all the bathrooms, as well as small scented candles waiting to be lit. Check.
A faint odor, unidentifiable but somewhat funky, wafted through the rooms. A damp smell, almost fishy. Was there water in the basement after all the recent rain? That shouldn’t happen in a new house like this. The smell was not exactly unpleasant, but not desirable either. Penelope took additional candles, placing them around the rooms. When they were lit, they should mask the smell. She could have Matthew check out the basement later.
Going back to the kitchen, she saw that Suzie had removed all the boxes and was now lining up ice buckets. Next to the buckets were ice cube trays, filled with water.
Horrified, Penelope asked, “Didn’t we get enough ice?”
“I will make it.” Suzie touched a finger to the water in one of the trays. Instantly the contents froze.
Penelope had no idea Suzie could do that, but she supposed it made sense that a food processing company would appreciate an ability to fast freeze things.
“Are the hors d’oeuvres ready?”
“As ordered.”
“Have you finished the miniature quiches?”
Suzie hummed. “Six hundred ready for delivery.”
“How about the dates wrapped with bacon?”
“Six hundred ready for delivery.”
Well, at least Suzie’s food assembly app seemed to be working fine, Penelope thought. “What else?”
“Twenty-five pounds of shrimp, ready for delivery. Six hundred crostini. Two hundred blini topped with caviar. Two hundred…”
“How long did all that take?” Penelope asked.
Suzie hummed. “Six hours scheduled for hors d’oeuvres production.”
“When did you do it?”
“From two a.m. until eight a.m. this morning.”
Of course, needing no sleep, Suzie would work through the night and early morning hours. “And you got all that done in six hours?”
“Yes.”
“Preparing the exact quantity of each that I asked for?”
“Except for the mini-bagels with cream cheese and lox.”
“Oh?” Penelope blinked as Suzie’s expressionless eyes stared through hers. Just a machine, she reminded herself. “What happened? Were you not able to get genuine lox?”
“Oh, no. I purchased the finest quality cold-cured sockeye lox. $75 per pound.”
Penelope winced. Although she had told herself, and Suzie, don’t skimp on quality, that was a lot to spend, even for lox. “So what was the problem?”
“I was not provided with a specific number of units to assemble.”
Well, mini-bagels weren’t one of the main features. It didn’t matter if they didn’t have many of them, or any at all. “Did you get any of them made?” Penelope asked.
“Yes. I assembled mini-bagels with cream cheese and lox during the scheduled time remaining after the hors d’oeuvres with specific quantities were finished.”
“And how many did you get made?”
“Forty-nine thousand six hundred nineteen.”
Penelope had to sit down. How many pounds of outrageously expensive lox went into that?
“And where,” she asked, “did you store them?”
“In the basement.”
“But the basement isn’t refrigerated…”
Suzie hummed. “Violation of food storage regulations. Subject to penalty.”
“But you put them there anyhow?”
“Default setting: override compliance with health department regulations. Temperature and sanitary conditions meet minimum practical standards. Possible consequences: citation by health department inspectors.”
Penelope suspected a basement full of smoked salmon canapes accounted for the funky smell she’d noticed earlier. “I’m going to get dressed. What are you going to be doing?”
“Prepare ten gallons of simple syrup.”
“Do you know how to make simple syrup?”
Suzie hummed. “Seeking recipe.”
“Equal parts sugar and water. Heat until the sugar dissolves, stirring constantly. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what to do after that?”
“Finish making frozen daiquiris. Lime, melon and strawberry.” Suzie indicated a trio of large bowls on the counter. One was filled with slices of lime, one with strawberries, and one with chunks of cantaloupe melon.
The melon chunks looked strange, the usual orange color mixed with striped beige. Penelope looked closer. Each piece of melon had rind attached. Seeds floated on top.
“The melons need to be peeled, and the seeds removed,” she said.
“Peel melons and remove seeds,” Suzie repeated.
“Yes.” Penelope sighed. “Do you know how to make daiquiris?”
“Of course. Lime juice, rum, ice, simple syrup. Slice of lime for lime. Add crushed strawberries for strawberry, crushed melon for melon.”
Suzie hummed. Penelope wondered if this meant the robot was reviewing the instructions. All she could do at this point was hope.
After she was dressed, Penelope lit all the candles. She was right; the funky salmon odor did recede, replaced by a somewhat nauseating sweet smell. She checked to make sure the servers had all arrived and were presentable, and satisfied, headed back into the kitchen.
Suzie stood idle in the center of the room.
Every inch of counter and table space was now covered with trays filled with glasses, precariously stacked ten high. Penelope closed her eyes. She should have realized that Suzie would make all thousand daiquiris at once.
The glasses were grouped by color. Clear, pink and light orange. But the contents looked strange. Penelope peered at one, then picked it up.
The daiquiris were frozen solid.
“Suzie!”
The robot sprang to life. “Yes?”
“What are these?”
“Frozen daiquiris.”
“But they’re frozen solid!”
“Yes.”
“They’re supposed to be slushy!”
“Slushy?”
The doorbe
ll rang. Penelope could hear one of the servers opening the front door. “Yes, slushy. Not frozen solid. How could anybody drink these?” She looked desperately at the stacks of filled glasses. “Do you think you can make them slushy?”
“Probably.” Suzie hummed. “Yes.”
“Then please do so. I need to greet my guests.”
People tumbled in. Matthew, with his hair slicked back and actually looking presentable in his tuxedo, smiled and greeted the arrivals.
Penelope was relieved to see the daiquiris on the trays that the servers passed around were appropriately slushy. She took one herself and swirled it gently in the glass, but she was too nervous to drink it.
As she circulated and made small talk with the guests, Penelope noticed that some of them looked a tad unwell. A few sat down abruptly.
Mrs. Van der Horne returned an empty glass to a tray and took another melon daiquiri. She frowned, put her hand to her throat, and downed the new drink in one gulp. Then she staggered a few feet, retched, and collapsed. She knocked over a side table. The burning candle which had been perched on it rolled across the floor.
Penelope dashed over, prepared to stomp out the flame, but it went out as the candle rolled across the carpet.
Several of the guests were now swaying unstably on their feet, some vomiting. Penelope looked on in horror as more succumbed. The only ones left standing besides herself were Chief Inspector Reylander, a reformed alcoholic and therefore did not drink, and two of the servers.
She dashed into the kitchen.
Suzie was melting frozen daiquiris and emptying them into a large pitcher.
On the counter next to her, the daiquiris appeared to be of the proper slushy consistency.
“The guests are all vomiting and collapsing,” Penelope said, in full panic mode. “What could be happening?”
“Probably the ethylene glycol,” Suzie said, continuing to empty glasses into the pitcher.
Penelope lifted one of the properly slushy glasses to her nose. It smelled fine. She touched her tongue to the contents. It tasted fine. “What’s ethylene…whatever you said?”
“Ethylene glycol?” Susie kept at her task.
“Yes.”
“Antifreeze.” Suzie gestured at a large jug on the floor by her feet. “Makes the daiquiris slushy, not frozen.”
“Antifreeze! Isn’t antifreeze poisonous?”
“Toxic?” Suzie asked. “Yes. It’s sweet, so it doesn’t affect flavor. And it makes the frozen daiquiris properly slushy.”
“You put toxic antifreeze in the daiquiris?”
“Yes.”
“But that’ll make people sick!”
Suzie hummed. “Adulteration or contamination of food products. Violation of food safety standards. Subject to penalty.”
“You knew that? And you used it anyhow?”
“Default setting: override compliance with food adulteration or contamination regulations. Does not meet safety standards. Possible consequences: consumption may be lethal. Citation by health department inspectors. Criminal investigation and prosecution for manslaughter probable.”
Wisps of smoke curled under the kitchen door.
Penelope opened the kitchen door and peered out.
The odor of smoke and vomit mingled to drown out both the candles and the salmon. Flames danced and flickered at several locations, licking up at the curtains and furnishings.
Some people writhed on the floor. Others lay still.
This party was going to be a memorable occasion all right, just not in the way Penelope had hoped.
Susan Daly
Susan Daly has found her niche in the world of short crime fiction, where she fights for justice and rids the world of deserving victims. Her stories pop up in a surprising number of anthologies. Her story “A Death at the Parsonage” won the 2017 Arthur Ellis Award for best short story from Crime Writers of Canada. A member of Sisters in Crime National, Toronto, and Guppy Chapters, Susan lives in Toronto, a short commute from her superlative grandkids. Find her at susandaly.com.
Spirit River Dam
Susan Daly
Toronto
October 1964
“Lot 5, Spring Morning in Ste.- Rose by Anne Savage.”
Imogen sat near the back of the audience as the auctioneer went into the details of the painting on offer. It was safe to tune him out, since Spirit River Dam was Lot 68. She avoided glancing at Bryan in the next seat. It was hard enough to maintain her equilibrium.
Spirit River Dam was going to make them both a tidy little fortune. Cormack Fine Art Auction House was the most prestigious in Canada, and they handled only the finest paintings.
Six weeks ago, she hadn’t known of the painting’s existence. Nor had virtually anyone else.
“There’s a man here with a painting.”
Imogen looked up from her desk in her private office to where her assistant, Linda, stood in the doorway.
“There’s always a man with a painting. A family heirloom, no doubt?”
“Actually, this one might be worth looking at.”
“Might it?” Really, Linda should know better. Just because the prestigious Pemberton Gallery had an entrance right off Queen Street, hopeful hawkers assumed they could simply drop in, as though this were a high-end pawn shop. As if any dusty old canvas-and-oil combination with a good story—Grandpa accepted it from some starving artist instead of payment for delivering the baby—should bring big money.
Linda persisted. “It could be a Thomson.”
These damned art history graduates. So full of their own expertise.
She only hired them because they were willing to work for peanuts, happily performing the most menial tasks, all the while believing they were on the first step of a serious career in the art world. As if most of them didn’t wind up in retail. Or in the suburbs with babies.
“They’re always Thomsons.” She didn’t trouble to hide her annoyance. “Thomsons or Jacksons. And I suppose it’s been in his family for generations with no one the wiser?”
“Yes, exactly.” Linda’s face took on a look of irritation, where most of her predecessors would have been cowed. “You could at least take a look at it.”
“Oh, all right.” But before Imogen could do more than push back her chair to stand up, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway behind Linda. “Oh, God, I should have guessed.”
“Hey Immy,” her ex-husband, Bryan, said. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”
Imogen allowed Linda and Bryan to drag her into the appraisal room, where the occasional painting had, in fact, been identified as Art. Most came to nothing.
The painting lay face up on the table, surrounded by a nest of brown paper and string. A small work, oil on board, perhaps seven inches by ten, in a dark, shabby frame.
“Thank you, Linda. You’d better go back and keep an eye on the front of the gallery.”
Linda left, oozing resentment. They both knew the other assistant was out there.
Imogen stepped up to the table and took a look. A long look. In spite of herself, she began to feel the keen energy that had flowed from both her assistant and her former husband.
The painting depicted a dam on a river, surrounded by the trees of late autumn. The center part of the dam consisted of four tall posts rising above the concrete base spanning the river, supporting a crossbeam.
She felt the kind of tingle in her chest that couldn’t be ascribed to paint analysis or provenance or a solid signature in the corner. She just felt it to the depths of her art expert bones.
It was a Tom Thomson.
Not from the signature (there wasn’t one). Not because it looked liked his style (though it did) or contained his subject matter (it did that as well). Nor from the brushstrokes or the colors or the board it was painted on (though they ticked all the boxes, too).
She just knew.
A painting by one of Canada’s most revered and groundbreaking painters of the early twentieth century, a man whose innovati
on had been the basis for an entirely new school of Canadian art. His iconic West Wind hung in the hallway of every public school in Ontario.
And, not incidentally, an artist whose works fetched ever-escalating prices with each passing year since his death.
Imogen’s fingers were itching to turn it over, take it out of its narrow vintage frame (that ticked the right box too), and see what was on the back of the board. But first...
“Where did you get this, Bryan?”
Enthusiasm glowed in his rather sweet (she had to admit) round face. He still reminded her of a teddy bear. An excited one, at the moment. “My Aunt Peggy. It was hanging in her dining room as far back as I can remember.”
“Really? I never noticed it.” But would she have? In the six years of their ill-fated marriage, had they ever had dinner at his aunt’s house? She couldn’t visualize the dining room of the 1930s bungalow.
“How did it come into your family?”
“She always owned it. Or Uncle Bert, I guess. It was the family joke. ‘Oh, I see you’re admiring Bert’s Tom Thomson.’ But no one ever thought it actually was a Thomson. Certainly not Aunt Peggy.”
“And you’re the one who inherited it? I mean, were you specifically named in the will as the recipient of this painting?” Tracing the legal ownership was as important as the provenance itself. Imogen was trying to remain calm, not get too excited. It might still have been a case of, “Oh, take anything you like, dear...” over the heads of legally deserving cousins.
“Yup, once removed. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Bert were married in 1911, but never had any kids. He died in 1938. My aunt died about ten years ago and left everything to my mom. When Mom died, it all came to me.”
Imogen nodded. She’d last seen Bryan a year ago at his mother’s funeral.
Okay, the ownership sounded secure. She’d still have to confirm it through the legal channels because, frankly, Bryan could spin a good story, as she knew all too well.
“So what made you decide it might be a Tom Thomson, instead of the old family joke?”
The Best Laid Plans Page 2