by Ingrid Betz
After he’d washed his hands, Landesberg glanced in the mirror to comb his hair. Getting thin on top and turning grey. Pricey bottles of hairspray and aftershave stood next to a top-of-the-line electric shaver on the glass shelf, reminding him that lawyers like David Chang did not come cheap. Which meant the clients had big money behind them; something to keep in mind tonight if they tried to beat the price down. He took an anticipatory swallow from his flask, which had grown considerably lighter over the course of the afternoon. Back in the bedroom, he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket.
“I just need to make a quick call,” he said, pressing the key that activated his home number. He’d talk to the woman, explain. She was hardly likely to object. They earned a fortune for overtime, these people. He should know.
“Wife?” said Chang, heading to the bathroom in his turn.
“I wish,” Landesberg said. “Mother.”
He let the phone ring a long time but there was no answer. That couldn’t be, he thought. Thumbing through the cards in his wallet, he found the one from Helping Hands and dialed their number. A recorded message came on, informing him that office hours were from eight a.m. till five p.m. In case of emergency there was a number he could call. Was this an emergency?
He had no idea. His mother could have mislaid the phone. Or the Helping Hands woman might speak only broken English and prefer to ignore—no, that was his mother thinking; he was getting as bad as she was. More likely they were both in the den watching television with the sound turned up while the phone rang unheard elsewhere. He thought of giving the neighbor a call—he had her number too, from earlier emergencies. A nice woman, divorced and in her early forties, she never minded running over to check. But that had been before the incident with the cat. Remembering, the impulse to call her waned.
“Everything okay?”
The springs creaked as Chang lowered himself onto the thinly quilted spread that covered the bed. He exchanged his hiking boots for a pair of two-tone loafers. Italian, by the stylish look of them, thought Landesberg.
“As far as I know,” he said.
And it probably was. Thank God, the cushion of alcohol he’d imbibed was doing its work. Blurring the edges of his concern. Making it easier to convince himself he was worrying for nothing. After all, he thought with a flash of resentment, the telephone worked both ways. Surely if there was a problem, the woman would know enough to give him a call. His number was plastered in full view all over the house, on the fridge door, the bathroom mirror, on his mother’s night table. Why was everything up to him? He shouldn’t have to be running after people to do a job he was paying them good money to do.
David Chang locked the door behind them. “She lives with you, your mother?”
“Yeah. She has a few health issues and she’s getting… ” He stopped himself from saying the word “senile.” “She has a caregiver when I’m out. Still, I don’t like leaving her too long.”
The other man nodded. “It’s a problem. My wife’s parents live with us. They should be in a home but they won’t hear of it. Any suggestions, where to eat?” he said, as the others emerged from their rooms. “Somewhere where we can talk.”
“Chinese? Ah, Mr. Li,” said Landesberg as the older man joined them. “How does the Shanghai Gardens sound to you? Peking Duck is their specialty.”
Li shook his head. “No Chinese. You have Italian?”
“Italian. Yes,” Landesberg said, recovering for the second time from surprise. “There’s a popular Italian restaurant just a couple of blocks from here.”
Li grunted. “We walk,” he announced and led the way with a brisk short-legged stride that had the others scurrying to catch up. All three had changed into black chinos and white Reeboks and Landesberg had to stifle his amusement; they reminded him of penguins.
They liked the dark wood paneling of Paesano’s, the fringed burgundy curtains that shut out the day, and the low Tiffany-shaded lighting that gave the illusion of luxury. It was early yet and there weren’t many customers. They chose a round table in the corner and studied the menu. Mr. Li needed no help with translations; he knew already that he wanted to eat beef ravioli and the two younger members of the group followed his lead. They started with antipasto and Landesberg suggested an accompanying order of garlic bruschetta, which was new to them. They ordered two bottles of Chianti and later a third while they proceeded to become progressively more loquacious and, in Mr. Li’s case, almost mellow.
Between courses they pushed the silverware aside and spread the topographical map and their notes out on the glass tabletop and quizzed Landesberg on the exact boundaries of the property, the municipal tax rates, and the chances of the road to Gravenhurst being improved.
Landesberg answered their questions to the best of his ability. “Anything else? The geologist’s report was clear to you?” he enquired, as the waiter set down their plates of ravioli. He always tried to be honest and above-board in making his sales; he didn’t like to think they were buying the mine under false pretenses. Nobody had yet mentioned gold and he wondered again if they realized the mine was no longer gold-rush material.
“Yes, yes.” Li waved the question aside. “All clear and satisfactory.”
Silence fell as everyone started eating. Landesberg was tempted to try the house again. But what kind of signal would that send if he left the table to make a phone call? He knew from experience that clients liked to feel all-important, and he’d heard that Chinese people, more than most, were sticklers for good manners. Besides, if there was a problem, wouldn’t he have heard by now? He picked up his fork.
They were into the tiramisu and the peach liqueur when Li called up a photograph on his mobile showing two smiling women in the garden of a house. “Wife and daughter,” he said. “At my home in Chengdu.”
Landesberg leaned forward and studied the house with its red-tiled roof. No poverty there. “You’re in mining back in China, too?”
Was it his imagination, or did spoons hang poised in the air for an instant? Li barked a guttural word at Chang.
“Farming” said the lawyer. “My client is in farming.”
“Really.” What kind of farming, Landesberg wondered and how had he gone from growing things to mining, but he didn’t want to appear nosy.
“There…” Li’s stubby finger pointed as though there’d been no interruption—the baby in the arms of his daughter? That was his grandchild; a boy, he added with unmistakeable pride. He was homesick, realized Landesberg through the haze of goodwill induced by the liqueur on top of the wine, on top of the whiskey.
“And you, Missa Lanbeg?” asked the young woman. Mei was her name, pretty. She had spelled it for him. “You have wife? Kiddies?”
He’d had a wife, but she died, he told them.
“Ah.” The various pairs of eyes regarding him were bright with sympathy in the diffused lighting.
“A car accident. White-out. Snow,” he explained, gesticulating while Chang translated. ‘I should never have let her go out that night,’ he almost added so they’d know whose fault it was. But he restrained himself. He’d had five years to discover painfully that confession laid too great a burden on the listener. Besides, these were clients and he was a professional, he reminded himself, as he struggled to dam the maudlin effects of the wash of alcohol threatening to swamp him. “I have a son, too. A computer analyst in Toronto.”
“Ah. Computers.” Li nodded, impressed. “Grandchild?” he asked, stroking a thumb over the image on his screen.
“No. Not yet.” Probably never and a good thing, judging by the girlfriends Wayne brought home on his brief infrequent visits. Girls in barely-there skirts and tight tops who drank and swore like men—he did his best to keep them away from his mother. But what did he know? “Anybody for more peach liqueur?” he prompted.
Shyly the young man who’d chased the plastic bag called up photographs
of his own: a sky-blue Kia, a girlfriend in a ruffled pink dress. In the end it was David Chang who looked at his watch and then at Li. The day was drawing to a close. Landesberg would be informed of his client’s decision in due course. But he didn’t think he was giving anything away when he said chances of an offer looked good.
“Great. You have my card. Call anytime.”
Landesberg beamed his pleasure, euphoric to think he’d gotten through the day without mishap. The generator had worked like a charm, nobody had tripped on the rocks or bumped their heads in the murky confines of the mine, the fine weather had held, and the float plane had been waiting for them at four. Not like the time he’d shepherded a bunch of Americans up north to look at a moribund paper mill and the return plane had been delayed three hours because of thunderstorms. Best of all, nobody had quibbled about price, unlike the same Americans who’d accused the seller, a ninety-year-old widow, of being a shyster. Even the meal was paid for. Chang was up at the cash register now with a credit card; he’d insisted. Landesberg raised the last of his peach liqueur.
“Let me be the first to wish you good fortune.” Chinese people were great believers in good fortune, he knew that much. “Here’s to finding new veins of gold.”
“Gold?” Li raised his shrewd face.
“In the mine. If you buy it…”
Li began to laugh. “No, no. Is old mine. Tired. No more gold. We use for growing mushrooms. Happy Long Life Mushroom Company.” He pointed around the table to the logo on their white T-shirts.
A mushroom growing operation in a mine? Everybody was laughing now, so Landesberg joined in, not sure whether they were laughing at the idea or at his confusion. Fleetingly he wondered whether they were pulling his leg. But what did it matter, as long as they bought the place?
In the parking lot of the motel he shook hands all around and, bowing, they wished one another well. He thought Mei smiled at him with special warmth.
Landesberg waited until the others piled into the lawyer’s Lexus and the taillights were disappearing down the street before he hoisted himself into the Buick and started the engine. With a shock he noted the time on the dashboard clock was nine fifty. How had it gotten to be so late? The realization that he hadn’t talked to his mother once over the course of the day struck him with sudden vivid force. He felt a hot flush of anxiety. Waiting for the light to change at the intersection, he dialed again. After eight rings he lost count and disconnected.
Now he really was worried. He put his foot down on the accelerator, praying no cops were around. Those final peach liqueurs had put him so far over the limit, they’d confiscate his license on the spot. He didn’t even like the stuff, for crying out loud—it was the kind of drink his mother used to serve on her bridge nights. Weaving the big Buick past the dimly-lit houses of a residential neighbourhood already made gloomy by a canopy of old trees, he fended off a host of unpleasant images.
His mother lying at the foot of the stairs, moaning. Or in the hospital, hooked up to life support. Perspiration prickled on his back and he told himself to get a grip. They were probably asleep—his mother in her bed and the Helping Hands woman nodded off on the sofa in front of the television. The sofa was the large old-fashioned kind with velvet cushions you could sink into and he’d succumbed himself many a night. God only knew where they’d left the cellphone. That was the trouble with those things, they were too easy to lose. Or to dispose of, like the time his mother had absent-mindedly put it in the fridge. Or the time she’d thrown its predecessor into the toilet. As punishment for his not answering her call, she said.
But when he swung the Buick into his driveway, he knew he’d been kidding himself. There was no natty little white Helping Hands car parked in front of the garage. No porch light shone and no sliver of light showed between the drapes. The drapes weren’t even drawn, he noted. He killed the engine and tumbled out of the car. Plunging up the front steps in the dark, he barked his shin and cursed himself for being an irresponsible drunken fool. A square of white paper glimmered on the front door.
It looked like a sheet from the pad he used for his grocery lists. Somebody had written on it and taped it to a panel. He tore the paper free and leaned over the porch railing with it in order to make out the words by the light of the street lamp. Startled, he realized he was reading his mother’s school-teacher printing. “To the Helping Hands lady. Sorry. Change of plans. We won’t be needing you today after all.” It was signed M. Landesberg.
A creditable job she’d done, too, of forging his signature. Creditable enough to pull the wool over the eyes of whoever they’d sent from the agency. It still didn’t explain why his mother hadn’t answered the phone herself. Landesberg groaned, stuffed the note in his pocket and tried the doorknob.
It was locked, and he’d been forced to stumble back down to the car to wrench his key-ring out of the ignition before he could get into the house.
8.
“IS THAT EVERYTHING?” Peter Cormier tossed her new carry-all bag into the back of the Corvette and held the passenger door open. “Be just like you to leave something behind.”
“I didn’t.”
The only thing Marigold Green was leaving behind was her friend Lynn. Her eyes filled with tears as she settled into the leather bucket seat and fumbled for the seat belt. They hadn’t found the body yet. Constable MacCrae had explained in a patient voice that it might be months before they did. The canoe had washed up empty kilometers downstream and the assumption was that Lynn Harmer had drowned. If the shot hadn’t already killed her. Either way, her body would have been swept along by the river current and might have become wedged between the rocks of some rapids or snagged on a submerged tree limb. Marigold shook her head to free herself of the gruesome image. She was a laboratory technician. She knew what happened to decomposing flesh under water, but Peter didn’t want to hear her talk about it. Maudlin, he called it. He’d never liked Lynn.
“God, Mar! All that crying is doing my head in,” he said, sliding behind the wheel.
He was good-looking in a superficial way, with fair hair and grey-blue eyes and a thin-lipped effeminate mouth. His forehead, below a head already balding at thirty-seven, tended to crease easily into a frown, especially when he was looking at Marigold. Peter Cormier was the closest thing to family Marigold had known since her mother passed away. The sight of him strolling into the ward this morning, slim and confident in a blue sports coat and the tie she’d given him last Christmas, had prompted her to burst into tears, embarrassing him in front of the other patients. He said she had a knack for doing that, embarrassing him. The nurses, exchanging smiles, assumed he was her boyfriend.
“I’m not.” She fidgeted in the seat as the Corvette purred to life. Even after five days, her bruises made it hard to get comfortable. “I can’t help it. The doctor said tears are the result of shock. Shock and still feeling weak.”
“But you’re better now, aren’t you?” He waited impatiently for a chance to pull out and join traffic. It was Friday, bound to be a busy day on the 401 and the sooner they were on their way, the better. The Huntsville General loomed behind them, looking in Peter’s opinion, more like a prison than a hospital. “God knows, they kept you in there long enough.”
“Yes, I’m better. I can start work again on Monday, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Prison or not, the staff at the General had treated her kindly, like a celebrity in fact, because of her ordeal. Even the man from the Algonquin Park Outfitters—Paul somebody—had looked in to see how she was getting along. The carry-all was a gift from him, so she wouldn’t have to take her belongings home in a plastic bag like a refugee, he said. Of course she’d lost everything when the canoe went missing, but it was surprising how much she accumulated at the hospital. Aside from slippers and pajamas, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some lovely cream for her sunburned face, the nurses bought her a little stuffed moose for a mascot.
She’d kept it beside her on the pillow. Marigold was not used to people making a fuss over her.
“Darn right, I’m hoping. Hussein can’t keep up. Twice last week we had to turn down work.” It couldn’t have happened at a worse time for Cormier Lab, what with his loan falling due at the bank and Darlene stepping up her campaign to push for a Caribbean cruise. “You realize this whole mess would never have happened if you’d listened to me?”
“Yes.”
“I warned you it was a dumb idea. Letting that butch friend of yours talk you into a canoe trip. When the closest you’ve ever come to the wilderness is a weekend at Grand Bend.”
“We prepared. Took a survival course and everything,” said Marigold stubbornly.
“And look where it got you.”
She didn’t trust her voice with a reply. Besides, what could she say? She knew it was wrong to let Peter browbeat her, but in this case as in so many others, events had proved him right. She’d gone against his advice and the worst-case scenario possible happened. She supposed he was even right about Lynn, calling her butch, although she didn’t like to talk of such things. Especially when the person in question was no longer able to stand up for herself. What Lynn Harmer cared about was animals, the same as she did. That was how they’d met: at the animal shelter where Marigold worked as a volunteer and Lynn was a full-time attendant.
She stared out the window in unhappy silence. To her London-oriented eyes, Huntsville had a raw northern look. Ungainly two-story buildings of brown wood clambered up the broad slope from the lake. At the foot of the street was the public dock and the McDonald’s where she and Lynn had stopped on their way to the Park. They’d eaten cheeseburgers and fries under swaying baskets of geraniums, and joked about it being their last meal in civilization. The same windy sun sparkled this morning on the water, tossing the flags about and glinting off the boats rocking in the marina, so that she had to look away in order not to start crying again.
