The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  “You have proof of current ownership of the company?”

  “I do,” said Dick. He opened his briefcase and passed over Billy Darby’s will. “It’s been probated. It clearly makes Anne sole beneficiary of the company and its assets. Not only is she the legal owner, but she has also contributed recently to the company’s revenues through her own investigative work.”

  “There may be some merit in what you claim. I’ll talk to Ms. Pacquet. Perhaps she’ll make a concession. Extend the lease until the end of the year, for example. Naturally, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Not good enough,” said Anne. “I’m insisting that the lease continues to function now and into the future in the same way it has in the past.”

  “And we shouldn’t overlook the wording in the lease which expressly states that perpetuity conditions apply to all ‘heirs and assignees who operate said company,’ should we, Michael.”

  “While you’re at it, remind Ms. Pacquet how much it will cost to fight this in court… and lose,” Anne interjected. “Money seems to turn her head; maybe watching it fly into your pocket will make her head spin on its axis.”

  “I’ll be sure to give her all the options. Thank you, Ms. Brown, Dick.”

  Michael Ryan led the way to the door, but, before they left, he turned to Anne and said, “Do you mind if I have a word with you in private?”

  Dick looked questioningly. Anne nodded an okay to him and added, “I won’t be long. Meet you downstairs.”

  Michael shut the door behind him, turned to Anne and said, “Congratulations, Anne.”

  “It’s Anne now, is it? What happened to Ms. Brown?”

  “All the world’s a stage, my dear, and I must play my part, see justice served, and gather up roses tossed from a delighted crowd.”

  “That’s more BS in the fewest words I’ve ever heard.”

  “Thank you, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said, “but before you say anything to spoil the moment, I want to suggest something.”

  “Go on.”

  “How about dinner tomorrow evening?”

  Anne felt her cheeks flush and said, “I… I believe I did say that was possible.”

  “In Halifax. I’ll make reservations. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five-thirty. We’ll fly over and be back before dawn.”

  “How about this? I meet you at the airport at six. We’ll fly over and be back by three.”

  “A respectable compromise. See you then,” he said, and ran his hands up and down her arms affectionately.

  Michael walked her down the hall. The grey-haired receptionist intercepted him there. “Mr. Livingstone is here for his appointment. Here’s his file. Mr. Quinn left an important message. Can’t wait. Ms. Pacquet left. She’ll call back. Winston says he needs an answer, and Jayne is on hold.”

  “Ah! The curtain rises. Good afternoon, Ms. Brown,” he said with a wink and hurried back to his office.

  Anne dawdled at reception and pretended to look at some brochures on the legal system until Michael disappeared behind his door. Then Anne asked the receptionist, “That picture in Mr. Ryan’s office. I couldn’t help admiring it. Was it taken by a local photographer?”

  “Yes,” she answered, pulling her head out of a filing drawer. Then, when she realized that Anne wanted more information, she added, “Campbell’s Photo Studios.”

  “I take it that’s Mrs. Ryan. She must be very pleased with it.” Anne felt her voice quaver as she formed the words.

  “She is. A lovely woman. Have you met her?”

  “I believe I have.”

  55

  It was a short drive from Fitzgerald, Ryan and Keene to The Blue Peter, but it was a quiet one. Dick finally broke the icy silence.

  “What’s the matter? You look like you swallowed a… a… I dunno… something sour? What’s up? You should feel like a million bucks. We nailed it. You know that, don’t you? You’ll keep that sweet deal on the lease until you’re old and grey.”

  “I feel old and grey right now.”

  “What happened? Did Michael try to pressure you somehow? Try to get you to settle?”

  “No, nothing like that, Dick. You were great in there… and a good friend. Thanks for everything. I’ve just got some personal things on my mind, that’s all.”

  Dick dropped Anne in front of The Blue Peter and returned to work. She opened the front door, but hesitated in the vestibule and tried to temper the confusion of emotions which troubled her. Disappointment, anger, shame, and folly. Each vied for dominance, but no matter which of them won, she knew that it was she who inevitably would be run roughshod over. That was the price for being vulnerable. That was the price for having a generous heart. That was the price for being receptive to charming men. Men like Michael Ryan. In that moment she knew that anger had won out. At least anger burned with a passion, she thought, and a righteous anger she could live with.

  Anne took in a long, deep breath, held it for a few quiet seconds, then let it slowly escape as she pushed through the inner door to The Blue Peter and strode toward the circular booth in the corner where Ben and Jacqui and Delia McKay were sitting.

  “How’s the eviction going?” asked Ben.

  Anne grabbed Jacqui and gave her a smothering hug. Then she hugged Delia, whispered “Thanks” in her ear, and sat down next to Ben.

  “You don’t see me packing my bags, do you?” she said to Ben. “The status quo will prevail, barring any self-destructive mania from the not-so-merry widow. I hear you two have been touring the countryside,” she said, turning to Jacqui.

  Jacqui’s eyes brightened. She leaned forward.

  “It was awesome. On the ferry over we saw tons of lobster boats. We saw dolphins. Almost everyone on the boat spoke French and, when we got to the Magdalens, there were beaches everywhere. Aunt Delia called it a ‘surprise vacation from a vacation.’ I like that.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” said Anne. “Did you find the days long in Iona?”

  “The first day a bit, but Aunt Delia taught me how to fish, and we visited Eloise and Warren and Gary. They have a farm. Gary’s their son. He took me for a tractor ride, and do you know what? Pigs are smarter than cows. They’re almost as smart as horses, Gary says. Oh! And you won’t believe it! I can bake! Aunt Delia taught me.”

  “Incredible!” said Anne and looked at Delia.

  Delia nodded, a wry smile fluttered about her lips, and she rolled her eyes.

  Jacqui’s face suddenly clouded in thought.

  “I remember you telling me once that we didn’t have any relatives on the Island,” she said. “but we do. We have a dozen of them. The cemetery’s full of them. Aunt Delia and I visited them. Aunt Delia talks to them, too, and she reminisces about things they used to do. I thought it was a bit creepy at first, but I got kinda used to it. Of course,” she said turning to Delia and laughing, “she doesn’t talk to some of them. She said ‘I didn’t speak to them when they were alive. Why would I start speaking to them now?’”

  “Well, what I really meant, Jacqui, was that we have no living relatives on PEI,” said Anne.

  Aunt Delia cleared her throat very noisily, leaned forward, and gave Anne a hard stare.

  “I’m not under the sod yet, girl.”

  Anne flushed with embarrassment. Everyone laughed, including Delia McKay.

  56

  Nurse Jayne Ryan had made a case to back up Robert Somerville’s story. Added to that was Sister Cheverie’s report on Cameroon. In it she had mentioned the name Bobby Dill. Quite a few details were falling into place. Everything seemed legit, but everything isn’t always what it seems in investigations. Anne needed proof. That led to more emails: one to the commercial research office at the London Times to verify the posting of Bobby Dill’s name change to Robert Somerville; the other t
o the National Land Registry which tracks the transfer and ownership of manorial titles.

  After that she had one more question for Jayne Ryan.

  Anne Brown arrived at the hospital early the next morning and went to her former ward. Jayne R.’s name appeared on the duty board. She asked the desk nurse if she might speak with her, and a few minutes later Jayne arrived.

  “Hello, are you not well? Have you forgot something?” she asked brightly.

  “Can we speak privately for a minute? I won’t keep you,” said Anne.

  Jayne pointed toward a small alcove where visitors and mobile patients sometimes rested.

  Anne began by telling her that she was a private investigator. Jayne looked surprised and drew back slightly in her chair.

  “I have to ask you a personal question. You don’t have to answer it, of course, but the truth of it will impact the well-being of several individuals.” Anne hesitated. It was a difficult question for her to get out. Then, seeing no polite way to phrase it, she just came out with it: “Are you having an affair with Robert Somerville?”

  Jayne’s face paled. Then it flushed. Then she became indignant. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “At the yoga class last week. You and Robert looked to be more than old acquaintances… more intimate, more like confidantes.”

  “I’ll say this much and no more. I am not having an affair… with Robert or anyone else. Such a suggestion is simply preposterous. I’m married, you see. Bobby and I were talking about some personal matters. Bobby is an old friend… and a good listener.” Jayne stood up, turned to leave. Then she stopped short and faced Anne. “Did someone hire you to follow me?” she asked. “Does my husband have anything to do with this?”

  “No,” said Anne, and Jayne R. walked away. There were tears in her eyes.

  Later that afternoon Anne saw tears well up in the eyes of Mrs. Frances Murphy as well. Mrs. Murphy had met her at the door and ushered her to a bright west-end reading room. Tea had already been prepared, and Mrs. Murphy served it herself on an antique silver tray. Next to the teapot she placed a small China plate with buttery sugar cookies.

  Anne took a sip of tea. Then she took out her notebook and went through the steps she had taken and the results she had uncovered: the difficulty in connecting Robert Somerville with either the Briarsley estate or humanitarian work in Cameroon or matriculation from Cambridge. Anne told of her confusion when she’d discovered that Barclay’s bank recognized his name and affirmed his account. She mentioned following him to yoga class, and witnessing his tête-á-tête with Jayne Ryan, the instructor. Anne also spoke of Sister Jeanine Cheverie reaching out to her fellow sisters in foreign missions to no avail.

  Anne’s mouth felt dry. She finished the remainder of her tea in one gulp. Mrs. Murphy automatically refilled her cup, but she asked no questions and revealed nothing in her expression other than a ponderous calm.

  Anne explained her chance meeting with Jayne Ryan and Jayne’s relationship with a boy called Bobby Dill. She expounded upon Marion Dunning’s affair with Harrison Somerville, her pregnancy and remarriage. She told how Bobby Dill had discovered his real father’s name many years later and how he’d worked to reclaim his identity as Lord Robert Somerville.

  Anne’s eyes had been fixed on the entries in her notebook as she read. Finally, her eyes scanned the final page. She looked up for the first time in several minutes and said, “I’ve confirmed Ms. Ryan’s story with two outside agencies. It appears that Lord Robert Somerville is nothing other than what he claims to be.”

  Mrs. Murphy had not stirred from her position in the chair. Nor had she lost the calmness in her face. But now tears streamed from her eyes.

  “My dear, I can’t thank you enough,” she said.

  “I am also confident that the relationship between Mr. Somerville and Ms. Ryan is solely friendship. They are not romantically involved as far as I can determine,” Anne said.

  “For that I’m grateful, as well.”

  Mrs. Murphy turned to a side table. On it was a small box. She opened it and drew out a ring. It was a diamond. To Anne it looked like it weighed a carat-and-a-half.

  “He proposed to me on Canada Day. I accepted… in spite of your wise admonition to tread carefully, I’m afraid. Affairs of the heart rarely listen to reason, you see, and, fortunately for me, reason never completely abandons the truth. That’s why I haven’t put this ring on until now. Nor have I told anyone of our engagement until now. Thank you again, Anne.”

  “I guess fairy tales can come true,” said Anne.

  “Often when we least expect them to,” said Mrs. Murphy, “and sometimes even after the magic they once held has long vanished from our recollection.”

  Mrs. Murphy graciously saw her to the door. Anne walked down the porch steps and headed for her car. All the while she blinked away at the tears in her own eyes.

  57

  At five minutes before six Anne’s car pulled into a parking slot in front of the airport terminal. It was a clear, bright evening, the blue of the sky deepening, the sun low, a few small puffy clouds hanging about. It would be a perfect evening for a flight to Halifax.

  Anne stepped into the foyer. A nervous energy enlivened her movements. Her silver earrings glittered in the light from the window. A turquoise pendant, dangling from a silver chain, pattered against her breast. She wore a light-weight black sweater and snug black pants. A salt-and-pepper wrap covered her shoulders and tied at her waist. She was lightly made-up.

  Michael Ryan heard the click of high heels on the airport floor. He was sitting in a chair facing the runways, his head buried in a magazine, when he caught the sound. He turned and bolted up out of his chair.

  “You look beautiful,” he said. She knew he meant it, and a small thrill of excitement shot through her. She walked up to him, slipped her arm under his, and nestled close to his side.

  “So do you,” she said, “handsome, that is,” and, except for a dash too much cologne, she meant it, too.

  “Are you all set?”

  “Depends what you had in mind,” she said, looking playfully into his eyes.

  “A magic carpet ride comes to mind.”

  “That’s bound to sweep a girl off her feet. What worries me is where I’ll land.”

  “My hope is that it will be somewhere quiet and intimate with me around to break your fall.”

  “Dick was right. You are a fancy litigator. But I’ll bet that that’s a line you use with all your girlfriends?”

  “What makes you think I have any girlfriend… much less girlfriends?” he said and pretended to take offense.

  Anne just rolled her eyes and pushed him away.

  “Seriously, Anne, there’s nobody else in my life right now but you. And that’s the truth.”

  “No wife, no girlfriend, no pastries on the side?”

  “I swear. Now let’s go. We have reservations at seven-thirty.”

  “First, a ladies’ room detour. I take it there are no rest areas on the flight across.”

  “Okay, but hurry.”

  Anne headed for the washroom. Michael returned to his chair and magazine. A few minutes passed. He glanced at his watch. After a few more minutes, he went to the washroom door and knocked.

  “Anne, it’s getting late. Anne?”

  He knocked again.

  “Anne, are you in there?”

  The door opened, and a woman stepped out. Michael jumped back, his mouth agape, but he said nothing. The woman shoved him back with one hand, and with the other she held up a pocket digital recorder.

  “You look beautiful…,” said the recording.

  “You bastard,” said the woman. “I hope you know a smarter lawyer than you are.”

  Jayne Ryan shoved him again, pushed by him, and stormed out. The gravel in the parking area sprayed like hail against
the sheet metal siding of the terminal as she sped off. Anne had left the building several minutes before.

  Anne stopped in front of her house and beeped the horn. Jacqui came running out. She wore tight jeans and a tight top. Too tight, thought Anne. In her mind she was scowling, but a quick smile shouldered it to the side when she greeted her daughter.

  “You look great, Mom. Hot date?”

  “No, just meeting someone special.”

  “Who’s the lucky one?”

  “My favourite daughter. She’s been away on vacation from a vacation and just returned. We’re celebrating tonight.”

  “Cool,” said Jacqui with a bounce in the seat. “Can I come, too?”

  “It wouldn’t be a fun party without you.”

  It was closing in on seven o’clock when the two of them arrived at The Blue Peter. Ben and Sarah were already there. Half the tables still filled with mid-evening diners. Most of them were tourists. An area near the front window had been cleared, and musicians from a small jazz ensemble quietly set up their instruments and music stands, even though they wouldn’t start their performance for several more hours.

  “You look lovely tonight,” said Sarah to Anne.

  “I’ve heard those rumours, too,” said Anne.

  “New pumps? They’re gorgeous. I love them.”

  “The latest thing in women’s painful footwear,” said Anne.

  “They hurt?” asked Sarah with a sympathetic face.

  “Yeah, the last guy who saw me in them wept when I walked out on him,” said Anne with a wink.

  Jacqui looked up at her mother suspiciously. Anne took no notice of her, and Jacqui’s attention drifted to the musicians.

  How ya feelin’?” asked Ben.

  “Good. Rested now. Ankle’s a bit stiff. Of course, these shoes don’t help. Part self-inflicted vanity, part work-related paraphernalia. A woman’s equivalent of steel-toed boots. And that reminds me, Ben… I’m going to pass on that job you tried to arrange for me. I know you meant well but…”