by Gail Bowen
I smiled at her. “That question has crossed my mind. But this isn’t about decorating. The man who owned the property died and he left us that house and quite a few more around here.”
“Somebody told me you guys are going to fix up these shit-boxes.”
“That’s right.”
“If I tell you what I know about Number 12 can we go to the top of the list?”
I took out my phone. “Give me your full name and your phone number, and I’ll take care of it.”
Angela gave me her contact information, and then she fell silent. The voices of SpongeBob and his friend Patrick drifted from the house. They were learning to use cuss words. Our granddaughters had gone through a SpongeBob phase, and I remembered the episode well.
Beside me, Angela lit a fresh cigarette. “I’ve been living here for four years. The only people I’ve ever seen in that house are the cleaners and Nell Standingready.”
“Can you tell me anything about Nell Standingready?” I said.
“She’s nice,” Angela said. “She’s nice to my kids, and she’s nice to me. Some people look down on me because of the work I do, but I’ve got kids and I’ve got Eddie, so I don’t have a choice. Besides, Nell’s daughter, Rosalie, was a prostitute. She was in really bad shape. I heard she had a kid – poor kid, having a mother like that. There are certain things I won’t do, but the word on the street was that Rosalie would do anything for a fix. I haven’t seen her in years. She’s probably dead. Anyway, Nell’s always nice to me. When she makes bannock or hamburger soup, she always brings us some and she makes Jell-O cakes for my kids’ birthdays.”
“Nell doesn’t have any other family?”
“Nobody ever visits her. There’s a picture of a little girl in the living room, but when I asked Nell if she was the girl’s Kookum, she started to cry. People have a right to their sorrows, so I never asked again.”
“Your previous landlord kept files,” I said. “Did you know that he was the one who paid for the cleaners?”
“No. I wondered, but I mind my own business. Not like Eddie. One day when Nell came over with some cookies she’d made for the kids, Eddie asked Nell who the fuck she thought she was having somebody else clean her house. I could see she was mad, but she didn’t say anything. She just handed me the cookies and walked away. Nell really hates Eddie.”
As she had watched Angela being loaded into the ambulance on Labour Day morning, Nell had said that the lake of fire and sulphur burned for the ones who broke the bodies and stole the souls of the innocents. As I looked at Angela’s bruised face, I hoped that Nell was right.
I took a notebook out of my purse and wrote down the address of the Racette–Hunter Centre. “There are classes in martial arts for women at the centre,” I said. “One of the classes meets every afternoon at one o’clock. There’s child care, so you can bring your kids.”
“A class full of women who wouldn’t say shit if their mouths were full of it,” she said. “I wouldn’t fit in.”
“You’d fit in. Most of the women in the class come from our neighbourhood and they’re there to learn to protect themselves. The teacher is a woman named Linda Ironstar. She used to be a sex worker who was in an abusive relationship. She was worried about what her kids were seeing in their home, so she took a class in martial arts.”
“And now she’s the teacher?” Angela said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” I said. I wrote down my phone number. Then I took out the cash card and held it out to her. “I wouldn’t blame you for throwing this in my face, but I don’t know what else to do.”
Angela took the card and her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I could use this to get myself some gym clothes so I could take that class,” she said. “Or I could use it to buy Eddie a big-screen TV to replace the one he broke when he threw it at me. What do you think, Joanne?”
“Your choice,” I said.
She shook her head. “Jesus, Joanne. You really are something else.”
Angela watched as I went down the steps and picked up Willie’s leash. “Are you going to see Nell?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Do you know what sweetgrass is?” she said.
I nodded. “Sometimes the elders brought it to meetings when we were trying to get Racette-Hunter built. The opposition to building a training centre in North Central was fierce. We used to begin meetings with a smoke blessing to cleanse our thoughts.”
“So you know how to smudge.”
“I do.”
“That’s good,” Angela said. “Nell believes someone put bad medicine on that house. She smudges to drive it out.”
The new-mown-hay scent of sweetgrass did indeed meet me when Nell Standingready opened the door to Number 12 Rose Street. She was wearing a turquoise blouse, a long grey cotton skirt, and beaded moccasins. When I’d seen her previously, Nell’s steel grey hair had been in a single braid that reached almost to her waist, but that morning her hair was loose. She did not greet me, nor did she invite me in.
I took the initiative. “I’m Joanne Shreve,” I said. “I’ve come to ask you about your house.”
“I don’t talk about this house,” she said and her lips set in a line.
“If you’d rather I just showed myself around, that’s fine too.”
She reached her arms out as if physically barring me from crossing the threshold. “Nobody comes in my house.”
I took a step nearer her. I kept my voice gentle. “I know this is your home, and nobody wants to change that, but my husband and I now own this property and a number of other properties on Rose Street. I just want to see the house, so I’ll know what repairs need to be made.”
Nell Standingready’s voice was a growl. “Get away,” she said. “The house is fine.”
“You don’t have to let me in now,” I said. “But if I send a written notice, I’ll have the legal right to enter the house when I come back tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened, and for the first time I saw fear. “Leave us alone. The house is fine. Just go.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But if you don’t let me in, I’ll come back tomorrow with the police.”
“No,” she wailed. Her body swayed, but when I reached out to steady her she backed into the hall, moved slowly towards the living room, and collapsed into an old armchair. She was breathing heavily. On the table beside her was a framed photograph of a child. A braid of sweetgrass smouldered in a bowl beside the photograph. The smell was overpowering.
“Just leave us alone. Please.”
“I’ll just have a quick look at the house, and I’ll be gone.”
“No … no …” She was keening.
“I won’t be long,” I said. I moved quickly. In the files, I had seen pictures of the other houses Cronus owned. Many of the photos were stomach-turning. I didn’t remember seeing any of Number 12. The house was in good shape: no black mould, broken windows, or hanging screens; no holes in the plaster, blistering paint, or peeling wallpaper; no blood or feces on the walls. The place was shabby but neat as a new pin. Between them, Nell and SPOT-LESS did a good job. The appliances in the kitchen were decades old, but they shone. The counter was clean and the deep red linoleum floor was swept. The bathroom on the main floor was small but immaculate. Upstairs there were three bedrooms with mirrored ceilings. As Angus said, each bedroom had its own bathroom.
The door to the basement was just off the kitchen. The steps were steep, and I was grateful for the railing. The space I came into felt small and crowded. In addition to the furnace, a washing machine, two laundry tubs, and a dryer were jammed together strangely close to the stairs. For a moment I looked around, confused. Then I realized that the rear half of the cellar – the space Angus said might have been a recreation room – was walled off. I could see no door in the blank wall.
Nell Standingready’s voice from the top of the stairs was a wail. “Now you’ve seen it. Go.”
“What’s in there?” I said.
W
hen she didn’t answer, I came up the stairs and faced her. “Nell, you have to help me. Bad things have happened, I know. But more bad things are happening, and I think somehow they’re connected to this house. Why did you attend Cronus’s funeral?” Nell didn’t answer, only retreated into the kitchen. I followed her. “When we looked at the deeds for all the property he owned, there were list prices for all the properties except this one. 12 Rose Street was marked ‘Not For Sale at Any Price.’ Do you have any idea why?”
She teetered and then sat heavily on a kitchen chair. I feared I’d pushed too hard. I went into the living room and picked up the photo of the little girl. The child wasn’t smiling, but her black hair was neatly cut in a Dutch bob, and her eyes were bright with intelligence and life. When I sensed that Nell Standingready had come into the room, I put the photo back down beside the smouldering sweetgrass.
“Do you know how to smudge?” Nell asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Nell picked up the braid of sweetgrass and an eagle feather and fanned the smoke. I swept my hands through the smoke, touched my hair, my eyes, my ears, my heart, and my body – purifying myself. Nell put down the bowl with the sweetgrass and picked up the photograph of the child.
“Your granddaughter?” I said.
Nell nodded.
“She’s lovely,” I said.
“She’s dead.” Nell gazed at the picture for a very long time. Finally, she placed it back on the table. “Her name was Ellen,” she said, and the agony in her voice knifed my heart.
When I got back in the Volvo, I had to rest my head on the steering wheel and take some deep breaths before I felt ready to drive. I checked Canada 411 for the address of SPOT-LESS. Their office was at Winnipeg and 8th – not far at all. Within ten minutes I was climbing the stairs that led to a warren of offices over Simply Pho You, a Vietnamese restaurant that promised the most savoury pho in the city.
The smells of the restaurant followed me as I peered at the names on the frosted-glass windows of the dingy offices, searching for SPOT-LESS. It was at the end of the hall and it was a compelling advertisement for the calibre of the services it offered. The paint on the company’s door was fresh; the frosted-glass windows were bright, and the brass doorknob gleamed. The office itself was tiny. Seemingly, SPOT-LESS didn’t encourage walk-in customers. The single welcoming note in the space was a flourishing salmon geranium on the counter that separated visitors from employees. There was no chair for those of us on the wrong side of the counter.
When I’d entered the office, the bell over the door tinkled, and a man who looked to be in his eighties appeared. Age had whittled him down. He was no taller than five feet, but he was dapper: his thinning white hair was neatly combed; his black turtleneck and slacks were nicely fitted to show off his trim physique, and he had splashed on the Old Spice lavishly. His old blue eyes were quick to take my measure, and when he spoke, his voice was high and querulous. “State your business,” he said. “I’m a busy man.”
“Actually, my business is your business,” I said. “My name’s Joanne Shreve. My husband and I inherited Cronus’s properties in North Central. We’d like SPOT-LESS to give all the houses a thorough cleaning. Thirty-six properties in all. I’ll send you the addresses this afternoon. It’s a large job. Can you handle it?”
He turned on the charm. “You bet your sweet bippy we can,” he said. He reached his arm across the counter for a handshake. The counter was high, so it was a stretch. “The name’s Harold Haney, Mrs. Shreve. I’ll have to hire some casuals, but we can be on the job by the end of the day. Time and half for my people if they work the weekend.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “We want the job done quickly, and I was impressed by your work at 12 Rose Street.”
He sniffed the air. “Sweetgrass,” he said. “You were at the house.”
“I just came from there. I met Nell Standingready.”
Harold Haney narrowed his eyes. “She let you inside?”
“I needed to get an idea about what repairs were necessary,” I said. “But the fact that I was inside her home upset Nell so I just went through the house quickly and left.”
“Did you see the entire house?”
“Yes, and I saw how the basement was blocked off. Mr. Haney, before I left Nell smudged me with sweetgrass. I’m familiar with the ceremony. Nell was purifying me, cleansing me of something bad in the house.”
Harold Haney nodded. “She does that every time the wife and me finish cleaning,” he said.
“When did Cronus block off the basement?” I asked. “I have his records, so I can find out when the construction took place, but you could save me some time.”
Harold Haney’s face pinched. He took his time deliberating. It was clear he didn’t want to disclose anything, but I was now a client and a major one. In the end he decided to open up. “The work was done about ten years ago,” he said. “I don’t remember the date, but I remember the company had to rush to beat the snow.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll go through the file and find the exact date. Mr. Haney, there were no structural repairs on any of the other houses. From what I can see most of them are in far worse shape than 12 Rose Street. Why was Number 12 the house that was ‘improved’?”
“Because that was the party house.” He spat out the words.
“A lot of Cronus’s houses are party houses,” I said.
“Not like that one was,” he said. “12 Rose Street was for perverts – rich perverts. They could do whatever they wanted there. It was a private house with thick doors and a bouncer. You couldn’t get in unless you knew someone.”
“A sex club,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And SPOT-LESS did the cleaning.”
“My wife and me did the cleaning,” he said. “Cronus and I went way back. SPOT-LESS did a lot of work for Cronus’s father. He was a piece of work – deacon in the church but meaner than a junkyard dog. When Ron Jr. was in high school, Ron Sr. started sending him to collect rent money from delinquent tenants. If Ron Jr. didn’t come back with the money, the old man would beat the hide off him. By the time he started buying houses in North Central, Ron Jr. had learned the business. When the opportunity to screw Ron Sr. came, Ron Jr. didn’t hesitate. He cleaned the old man out, changed his name from Ronald Mewhort Junior to Cronus, and never looked back.
“Over the years, Cronus was generous in sending jobs our way. The woman who ran the sex club paid Cronus a bundle to renovate and rent the house at 12 Rose Street and Cronus paid SPOT-LESS a lot of money to the keep it clean. Everything had to be confidential and Cronus didn’t trust anybody else to keep their mouth shut.” Harold Haney shuddered. “My wife and I saw some terrible things. We never spoke of it. Not even to each other.”
“But the club closed.”
“Yes.”
“When did it close?”
His mouth hardened. “I don’t remember. It was a while back.”
“But you still clean the house every two weeks. Why?”
“Because that’s the way Cronus wanted it.”
“Tomorrow, I want you to start on Number 15 Rose Street. After the house has been cleaned, I want you to make a list of everything that has to be done to make it safe and warm.”
“Consider it done,” he said, and he gave me a smart military salute. “I’ll need your address for the billing,” he said. I gave it to him and started to leave, but Mr. Haney stopped me. “One more thing,” he said. “Was there a good turnout at the funeral?”
“No,” I said. “Just six people.”
“I should have been there,” he said. “Cronus was always decent to the wife and me. But I’m a coward. I’m afraid of death.”
“Most of us are,” I said. “But Cronus wasn’t. I don’t think he had any regrets at the end, and he died bravely.”
When I reached the door to Simply Pho You, I went in. Zack once told me about a former Supreme Court Justice who said practising trial law was lik
e skating. The secret to skating was finding the balance between pushing and gliding; the secret to trial law was finding the balance between action and reflection. Lately, all I’d been doing was pushing. The prospect of reflecting over a bowl of the best spicy beef pho in the city was seductive.
The pho was excellent: the vegetables and the noodles had crunch, the beef slivers were tender, and the broth, redolent of cinnamon, star anise, basil, and red chilies, was comforting. It was restorative. So was the chance simply to sit and reflect. That morning had convinced me that Cronus had died because of something that had happened at 12 Rose Street. A private sex club where any fantasy could be fulfilled was fertile ground for tragedy. Slater Doyle’s panicked call on his cell after Zack’s reference to foundations was a slender reed to cling to, but I had an idea about how I could use it.
I’d scheduled a press conference the next morning for Zack and Brock to talk about Peggy Kreviazuk’s allegations that the city’s affordable housing allotment had ended up in Lancaster’s bank account. Our original choice of venue for the press conference was Racette-Hunter. Zack and Brock had spent over a year wheedling, cajoling, appealing, and pressuring the public and private partners that had to come together to make the community centre a reality. They had succeeded, and the financial records of Racette-Hunter were available to anyone who cared to see them. The contrast between the transparency of Racette-Hunter’s bookkeeping and the murky accounting practices at City Hall would have been dramatic.
But I couldn’t shake the image of Slater Doyle’s discomfort when Zack assured Nell Standingready that her house would have a firm foundation. I took a toonie from my change purse. It was time for a coin toss. Heads was Rose Street; tails was Racette-Hunter. When I saw the Queen’s profile, I phoned Milo and asked him to move Brock’s Wednesday morning press conference to the sidewalk outside Number 12 Rose Street. One of Milo’s many strengths was that once a decision was made, he never questioned it. That day, he simply said, “Got it,” and broke the connection.
I’d just finished paying my bill and picking up Simply Pho You’s takeout menu to add to our family’s collection when Peggy Kreviazuk called me. Her voice was controlled, but I could hear the tension. “Joanne, I’ve called the police, but I thought you and Zack should know I’ve been the victim of a home invasion.”
