by Ron Chudley
Two men descended the steps, one slow and careful, the other with the sure agility of youth. The young man reached the boathouse first. He glanced toward a boat that was tied up at the dock, then stopped and waited for his companion. “You wanna beer first, Fitz,” he said, “You look like you could use one.”
The old man glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hair-of-the-dog. Fitz, your head’s gotta be splittin’. Miz Trail told me what went on last night.”
“What did she say?” the old man said carefully.
“That you got pie-eyed.”
Fitz sighed resignedly. “She had that right. I guess. Okay, one beer. Then we’ll head out.” He brushed past his companion, who followed him inside.
The interior of the boathouse revealed that it had long since evolved from its original purpose. It was now a workshop, fishing lodge, and all around old-man’s den. The central slot where boats had once been moored was covered with stout boards. A workbench ran down the entire north wall, on which was a profusion of ropes, chains, paint pots, and an extensive collection of woodcarving tools: knives, adzes, awls, rasps, mallets, and chisels. In a cleared space stood a work in progress: a half-finished rendition of a fish, carved skilfully in cedar, which seemed to leap from the pile of chips and shavings that surrounded it. Scattered about the shop were many more carvings, mostly animals or birds, all strikingly executed.
At the ocean end of the building, where the bay window projected, was an old kitchen table, a couple of chairs, and a crumbling couch. Nearby was an ancient fridge, and a mess of books, newspapers, and overflowing ashtrays scattered all about. Beside the window, which commanded a stunning view of the east end of the bay, was a battered rocker. On the window ledge was yet another carving, different from the rest: a delicate rendition of a sailboat, windswept, broaching hard, with the suggestion of a solitary figure at the tiller.
Fitz headed straight for the fridge, and extracting a couple of cans of beer, one of which he thrust in the young man’s direction. Both cans popped and hissed almost in unison. The old man headed for the couch, his companion following and perching on the end. They drank and Fitz sighed profoundly. He had white hair and beard, both neatly trimmed, sharp, prominent features, and a high forehead. His skin, though weathered, showed little of the discoloration of age. His eyes were pale and piercing. After a while he said, “So—how’s your new job going, Con?”
Con shrugged and sucked on his beer. “I’d hardly call waiting tables for minimum-and-tips a job—more like a fuck-off. But it’ll do till I get something better.”
“If you want ‘better’ you should go back to school.”
“Oh, man, don’t start that again.”
“Well you should. You need education to get anywhere these days. Con, you used to be so—“
The boy cut him off with an explosive gesture. “Oh, Jeez! Can it, old man, will ya? I came to do some fishin’, not to be preached at. Seems like that’s all you ever do these days. When you’re not jawin’ on about damn developers.”
Fitz sighed. “You’re right. Sorry, kid. Did Mattie . . . tell you what happened last night?”
“Like I said, that you got plastered.”
“Nothing else?”
“No! But she did seem pretty mad.”
Fitz shook his head sadly. “She had a right, Con. Seems like I nearly killed her.”
Con stared. “No shit! How?”
“Don’t ask! Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Yeah?”
“But maybe you should—so you can keep an eye on me.”
Con laughed. “Me—keep an eye on you? Fitz—what happened?”
Fitz took out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out in a cloud from which his companion just perceptibly recoiled. “As you know, I hardly ever touch hard liquor.” Fitz said. “Years ago, after Brian’s dad was killed, I hit the stuff pretty bad. I got over it. But it wasn’t easy. Ever since—even after what happened to Brian—and in spite of everything else that’s been going down lately—I’ve managed to keep it more or less together . . . until last night.”
“Christ! What did you do?”
“Give it time, I’m getting there.” He took another swig from his beer, coughed, and sighed. “Do you know how long our family has been in these parts, son? Since 1875, four years after BC got lured into damn Confederation. At the start we owned almost all this end of the bay. Even after the First War, we still held a whole hunk on either side of here: that same land my neighbours sold out to those damn developers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But what happened? Why’d you sell the land in the first place?”
“My dad did that before I was born. The fool took it into his head to play the market—sold the land then lost all the money in the crash of ’29. It’s lucky we didn’t lose the house as well . . . Anyway, a few days ago, after I started getting those weird phone calls I told you about—”
“You mean that shit’s still goin’ on?”
“Of course! Those guys don’t give up, I told you that. Anyway, this last week it’s been a sort of countdown.”
“Come again?”
“You know—five days before something bad happens. Then four, then . . . you know, countdown!”
“Jesus! Didn’t you call the cops?”
Fitz gave a derisive snort. “What good have they ever been? In the other stuff that went down, all they could think of was vandals or kids. I know they think I’m just a crazy old coot. And what proof have I ever had anyway? Those bastards are far too clever for that.”
“Yeah—but what’s all this got to do with almost killin’ Miz Trail?”
“Stop interrupting—I’m getting there. Halfway through this countdown thing—a few days back—I got to thinking that if this wasn’t just empty threats this time, if they really planned to do something—like maybe burn me out, like that poor bugger in Nanaimo . . . I told you about that, eh?”
“About fifty times. Go on!”
“Well, I reckoned I’d better be prepared. I remembered this old shotgun in the attic. I thought, if things ever get ugly, this could come in real handy. Then yesterday, when Mattie was away in Victoria, the last call came. I figured, that’s it, if someone does come—to try to scare shit out of me, or maybe worse—they’re the ones gonna get the surprise.”
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, but I made this one big mistake. You see, I figured I’d wait out on the front porch in the dark. But it was cold out there—and I remembered this bottle of rye that’s been hanging round for years. Great, I thought, couple of swigs of that’ll not only keep out the cold but settle my nerves.”
“Fair enough.”
“Mistake! Instead of helping, it got me to brooding on all the troubles this family’s had: my son killed, Brian lost, now this whole damn problem with the property. After a few drinks, I became certain something bad was going to happen. Then I fell asleep and dreamed it really was: a terrifying nightmare where I was being burned to death. Christ! I woke up . . . and it seemed like it was all coming true. There were these lights in the drive—coming down fast! I rushed out and when I saw what I thought was an attacker I fired a warning shot, trying to scare him off.”
“Jesus, Fitz—you could have killed someone.”
“I nearly did—Mattie.”
“Oh, man!”
“When I realized it was her, I was shocked stone sober, I can tell you. I nearly passed out. I don’t remember much after that. Ever since you woke me today I’ve been feeling like such a stupid fool. Damn, son, I could hardly look the poor girl in the face. She must think I’m senile—and maybe she’d be right.”
“No, Fitz!” Con said hotly, “You just got drunk, is all. Anyone can do that. My mum never stops.”
“That’s different.”
“Because she’s an alcoholic, you mean?”
“I guess so, sorry. Anyway, I should never have let it come to this.” Fitz sighe
d heavily. “I couldn’t say it to anyone but you—but I really think I may be going gaga.”
“Fitz, no way!”
“One thing’s certain, anyway: I never want to see that damn gun again.”
Con shrugged. “That’s okay—I think maybe Miz Trail took care of it.”
“Really—how?”
“When I arrived this morning, I saw her burying something.”
“The gun?”
“I couldn’t see exactly. But it sure was something.”
“In the garden?”
“Behind the shed. I saw her when I went to get my rod . . .” Con grimaced. “Or maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. If Mattie got rid of the gun, she’ll have done a good job. And I’m pleased as hell.”
Fitz crushed his empty can and tossed it in the direction of the trash. With a grunt he heaved up from the sofa, stamping his cigarette underfoot. The combination of the beer and the confession seemed to have done him good. His movements were almost sprightly and he looked years younger. At the door, he turned to Con, who was still on the couch, watching him with a bemused look. “Well, come on, don’t sit around looking like a funeral, boy. No one’s dead. Leastways, not yet. Let’s go fishing.”
eight
The City of Duncan, a hundred kilometres north of Victoria, had grown up around the E&N Railway. For much of its existence, it had remained a quiet country town. But now, Hal discovered, it had changed considerably. The center of what was once the old village had become a haven for bookstores, coffee shops, and boutiques. The area around City Hall was now a pleasant pedestrian square, with tables and hanging baskets. Nearby, the railway easement had been transformed into a park, featuring an impressive selection of native carvings.
Hal found Fran’s Restaurant in a side street across the road from the train station. He could see it from where he parked in the square, and sat regarding the place in indecision. He wasn’t at all sure that he’d done the right thing in coming to meet his brother’s fiancée. But that message: If you care about your brother, there’s something I really need to tell you. What the hell was that about? When he’d first read it he’d been almost perturbed enough to go back to find out. But though Stephanie’s action had been strange, he’d had no feeling of anything actually wrong. Still, it was intriguing, and anyway, he’d never been able to resist a mystery. For an actor, curiosity was a necessity, since it prompted one to dig to the roots of characters and their situations. But too much of it in real life could prove hazardous, as he’d found with that business in LA that his agent had teased him about. But this wasn’t anything like that. This was his brother, for heaven’s sake, and he had to find out what was going on.
Fran’s Restaurant was a small café with a bright green awning and a couple of trees in tubs outside. The interior was cool and not too dim, a dozen tables with yellow checkered cloths, hanging plants, and framed Audubon prints on the walls. The place was almost empty, four customers in all, none of these being his brother’s fiancée.
Hal was surprised. Stephanie had said any time after four, meaning, presumably, she intended to wait from then on. It was now four-thirty and she wasn’t here. Had she come and gone? Or was the whole thing just some stupid . . .
“Oh, you came! Good!”
Hal whirled to find his brother’s fiancée standing behind him, seeming to have appeared from nowhere. She was carrying a tray—and wearing the neat uniform of a waitress. Without another word, she led Hal to a table, fetched him coffee, moved off to check on the other customers, and finally returned and sat. Her braid was now pinned in a neat circle at the back or her head. Her broad features, in contrast to the somewhat severe uniform, were open and warmly attractive. “It’s lucky you came when you did,” she said. “We’ll start filling up soon, and then I get busy. But thanks so much for coming!”
Hal could only stare. “So . . . this is your restaurant?”
Stephanie looked startled. “Goodness, no. I just work here.”
“You’re a waitress?”
Her voice had a hint of defiance. “Yes—what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I’m just wondering what the fiancée of a millionaire is doing waiting tables?”
She chuckled, raised her eyebrows. “So—he told you that tale, did he?”
“What tale?”
“The oil futures tale.”
“That was a tale ?”
Stephanie sighed. “Sorry you had to come all the way here to find that out. I’d have phoned, but I didn’t know your number.”
“I gave it to Trent.”
“I didn’t know that either. Anyway, even if I had, I could hardly have asked him for it,”
“Right. So you’re saying—what?—that he didn’t make a fortune in the market”
“Just the opposite, actually. Listen, Hal, though I haven’t known your brother all that long, I love him very much. And I really am his fiancée. But as for all the rest . . . I’m afraid the poor guy’s flat broke.”
“But, that house . . . ?”
“The property has a little cabin in back. That’s where Trent lives. When we first met today, that’s where I was coming from. I was looking for your brother—expecting to find him working.”
“Working?”
“Sweetie—Trent’s the caretaker !”
Hal gaped. He began to speak, then stopped, as a whole lot of things began to fit together.
Stephanie, her expression at once wry and tender, continued. “In fact, the house is owned by a millionaire, but not Trent. It’s Terry Bathgate, an old buddy from Toronto days, who moved out here at about the same time and took pity on him.”
“Jesus!”
“I believe Trent did have a lot of money, but he lost it in the crash.”
“But . . . what about that trip he’s making to India?”
Stephanie laughed. “That’s just another fib! Hal, Trent’s not going anywhere.”
“But why . . . ?”
“He told you that so he could cut short your visit and you wouldn’t find out what’s really going down.”
“But this is all . . . preposterous.”
“Of course it is. When I arrived, I couldn’t even give Trent away till I found out what was happening. After you left, know what he told me? It had all started as a joke. Caused by embarrassment, I think, at what had happened to his life. He swears he meant to tell the truth eventually, after he’d had some fun for a while. But it got out of hand and he didn’t know how to stop. Then he got this idea of pretending to have to fly off, so that by the time he did see you, hopefully, he’d be rich again and it wouldn’t matter.”
“But why would the idiot go to such lengths . . . just to impress me ?”
Stephanie laughed. “Oh, come on, Hal!”
“What?”
“You’re Trent’s big brother: successful actor, famous Canadian star. That may not be Trent’s world, but he admires the hell out of you. And I think there really is part of him that might have liked to have done the same thing. So to have to admit he messed up big in his own career is very hard. That’s no excuse for what he did. I told him that. But I can certainly understand it.”
Hal whistled softly through his teeth. “Wow—I had no idea.”
A couple entered the restaurant and Stephanie rose to attend to them, returning after a moment. “Listen,” she said, “I hope this nonsense isn’t going to make you think your brother is a complete flake. When he’s not down, Trent is charming and brilliant and he’s really a very loving and caring guy. That’s why when we met, which is less than a year ago—and he was really messed up then, I can tell you—I took to him at once. Since then we’ve come a long way. Also, I believe that sooner or later he’s going to get back on top again. Whether he does or not, I don’t much care: I just love him. But nothing’s going to work for him—or us—if he has to go around pretending he’s someone he’s not. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I
think so, yes . . .”
Stephanie leaned across the table earnestly. “Look, it’s going to get busy soon. I only suggested you come here because I didn’t want to embarrass him. I’m not going to tell him we’ve talked; not because I’m scared to do that, but because I think that for his own sake he needs to tell you the truth himself.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know if he purposely waited till Terry Bathgate was away so he could invite you to the house and impress you. He says it was just spur of the moment, and I believe him. In one way, he was tickled to death to have pulled if off. He can be quite an actor when he wants to.”
Hal chuckled. “He even said he was thinking of taking it up.”
“That’s just hot air.” Stephanie’s eyes, kind but strong, held his own. “Look, I know he hopes he’ll get back on top and it won’t matter. But if he doesn’t, how’s he going to explain himself to you? It’s an awful burden and there’s got to be some way of getting him out from under.”
Hal shrugged. “So get him to call me.”
“Easier said than done. He knows he’s been stupid, but he’s very proud. I can probably persuade him, but it’ll take time.”
“Then I’ll get in touch with him.”
“No, no! Since you’re supposed to think he’s in India, he’d realize something was up. And he can’t know you heard the truth from me. That’d be too embarrassing, and might also seem like a betrayal.”
“So what do we do?”
Stephanie sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know. Trent makes me mad as hell sometimes. But I also happen to love him. I need him to find a way out of this mess while somehow keeping what’s left of his self-respect. Will you help me do that?”
“Of course.”
More people entered the restaurant and Stephanie rose. “I’m here, four till ten, every day but Sunday. If you think of some way to contact Trent again without making him suspicious, phone me here—or come by—and we can talk.”
