Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  There were five councillors for Laingford, but of course, only four of them were present. The fifth, Vic Watson, was represented by an empty chair and a nameplate. Councillor Stephanie Barnes, who looked about twelve (I think she was in her early twenties, the youngest person ever to be elected to council in the history of Laingford), placed an ostentatious bunch of roses on the table behind Vic’s nameplate before she sat down. This caused a mild sensation in the audience, and I risked a look over my shoulder at Sophie Durette. Sophie was not amused.

  The others were Andrew Jackson, who represented Cedar Falls and area and was effectively “my councillor”, Tom Southwell and Bernie LeBlanc. Bernie and Tom had been councillors since the dawn of time and were both well into their eighties. I have no idea what kind of careers they had enjoyed before retirement allowed them to dive headfirst into the delights of municipal politics. Andrew, who ran a marina on Stanfield Lake (in lovely downtown Cedar Falls) was middle aged, and liked to speak for the “working family man” on controversial issues. Stephanie was a young dot-commer who had sold her search engine company, “WooHoo”, to some multinational corporation for untold millions and now lived by herself in a mansion next to the Elliot’s Mooseview Resort. Rumour had it that she drank, a little.

  In addition to the councillors, the Town treasurer was present, one Richard Wayman, according to his nameplate, and next to him was the Town clerk, a sour-faced woman called Frances Berry, who was dressed from head to toe in red, with long, nasty-looking fingernails painted to match.

  Phyllis Lunenburg banged her gavel on the little wooden gavel-thing, and the meeting began.

  Nineteen

  Let our valet parking service make your grocery shopping experience something special. Not only will we park you car for you, we’ll also load your purchases and wash your windshield! At Kountry Pantree, the customer is King!

  —A sidebar in the Laingford Gazette classified section, right next to the auto ads

  “Before we get dowd to buisdess,” Lunenburg said, “I want to express, od behalf of council, our condolences to the fabily of councillor Vic Wadsod. Let’s all stad and have a bobent of silence.” We did so, although the solemnity of the occasion was marred slightly by a monstrous sneeze that shook the mayor from head to toe. Nobody could fake a cold like that.

  “She should be at home in bed,” George muttered.

  “She’s gonna wish she was,” Susan muttered back.

  The first order of the meeting was the adoption of the agenda, which would only take a moment (or bobent, as the mayor would have it). Susan raised her hand.

  “We don’t take comments from the floor this early in the meeting,” Lunenburg said. (I won’t keep substituting the letter “b” for all her “m” sounds, but you get the picture.) Susan stood and spoke anyway.

  “I would just like to respectfully point out,” she said, “that the name of our organization is the League for Social Justice, not Socialist Justice, as it is spelled here on the agenda.”

  “I thought it was the same thing,” Bernie leBlanc said. “Communists, the lot of youse.”

  “Bernie, that will do,” Lunenburg said. “Strike that from the record, please, Emma,” she said in an aside to a young lady who was busily typing on a laptop in the background. I heard a little snicker from Calvin Grigsby and saw him scribble something in his notebook. Bernie’s remark may have been struck from the public record, but I would bet it would appear in the Gazette, nonetheless.

  “Point taken, Ms. Kennedy,” Lunenburg said. “It will be amended in the minutes.” Susan sat down again.

  “That was a deliberate mistake,” she whispered to George. “I just know it.”

  Item Two was the disclosure of pecuniary interest, which didn’t mean a thing to me. “I have an interest to declare,” the mayor said. “In the matter of the Kountry Pantree project, I will be handing this meeting over to Andrew Jackson, the deputy mayor, and I will be leaving the room.” Another mild sensation in the audience, although none of the council members, nor the KP party, I might add, looked particularly surprised.

  I leaned over George to talk to Susan. “What does pecuniary interest mean?” I said.

  “It means that she stands to gain from the business under discussion,” Susan said, her eyes glued to the mayor in a narrow, deadly stare. “It means she’s working for them, probably as their lawyer, though I hardly think that can be legal.” She put up her hand and stood without waiting to be acknowledged.

  “Madam Mayor,” she said, “does this mean that you have been working for the Kountry Pantree corporation all along? Without declaring an interest?”

  “Of course not,” the mayor snapped back. “If I had, I would have declared a conflict back in May, now wouldn’t I? The group has retained the services of my firm very recently on an unrelated matter which is of no business of yours, Ms. Kennedy, and I am declaring an interest now because I like to abide by the rules. And I wish you would do the same and not keep interrupting these proceedings.” Susan sat down again.

  “If she was involved with the legal set-up of the Kountry Pantree at the beginning, when they were starting to get planning permission and zoning bylaws and so on, and didn’t declare an interest, that would make all those things doubly illegal,” she said, almost to herself, though we all leaned in to hear her. Her eyes were shining. “This just adds to what we already know. We can take it to the Ontario Municipal Board, and they’ll have to start all over again.”

  “We will now go into closed session on a personnel matter,” the mayor said. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “A closed session? You mean, like a secret meeting?” I said to Susan.

  “It’s in the municipal rule-book somewhere,” she said. “If they have to discuss something about staffing, hiring and firing and disciplinary actions and so on, it’s not allowed to be public.”

  “Why do it now, when everybody’s here?”

  “Because it makes them feel important, I suppose,” Susan said. “If this was a session in the council chamber, we’d all have to leave, but they’re not going to try and clear the auditorium, are they?”

  Obviously they weren’t, because the council got up from the table and filed out through the side door they had entered by. Emma, the stenographer, followed, carrying her laptop. The audience began talking and moving around.

  I leaned over Calvin Grigsby’s little desk. “You don’t get to sit in on this one, I take it?” I asked him.

  “I wish,” he said. “But if they’re going into closed session to fire somebody, I usually hear about it anyway. It’s just hard to get the facts.”

  “Is that what they’re doing? Firing someone?”

  “So rumour has it,” he said.

  “Who?”

  Calvin looked pointedly over at a small knot of people a few rows back. It was the little group with Theresa Morton, Rico Amato and the young man from the Town office.

  “Brent Miller,” Calvin said, “that thin guy in the blue shirt. He works with the Town clerk, Mrs. Berry. I don’t know what he’s done, but someone I know in the municipal office told me that he was suspended a couple of days ago, with pay, pending some sort of investigation.”

  “Investigation? You mean the police were involved?”

  “God, no. Nothing so official as that. An internal investigation. The worst kind.” He smiled a bit sadly. “I doubt we’ll ever hear the details.”

  “Poor guy,” I said, wondering if it would be tacky to go over there and commiserate. Probably it would, as I didn’t know the man, although Rico was a good friend of mine and appeared to be a good buddy of Brent’s as well. Besides, it was all rumour at this point, so what could I say? “Hi, you don’t know me but I hear you’re being fired. So what did you do?” Not, as they say, done. Anyway, the most important thing right then was to find a washroom. I had to pee in the worst way.

  The line-up for the ladies’ public loo at the back of the auditorium was miles long, as it usually is at the
se things. The queue for the men’s was shorter, but it was still a line-up, and my need was very great. I discreetly asked the hostessy lady at the door if there was another facility I might use. I told her it was one of those “woman’s things”. She responded at once, with a sympathy that I found rather touching.

  “There are more washrooms on the other side of the building,” she said. “Just go out the door the councillors used and turn right.” I went back into the auditorium and headed for the “Authorized Personnel” door, hoping I wouldn’t be seen. Unlike David Kane, I am not one of those people who is comfortable stepping into restricted territory. I needn’t have worried. There was a crush of people around the front row where the Kountry Pantree people were sitting, lots of milling around and schmoozing, and the side door was effectively masked by bodies. I slipped through quickly and found myself in a dimly lit, carpeted hallway.

  I turned right and headed in what I assumed to be the direction of the facilities. Halfway down the hall was one of those soft, accordion vinyl doors, the kind that folds back like a curtain. It was closed, but light streamed out from the gap at the bottom, and I could hear the subdued murmur of voices. This must be where they’re having the closed session, I thought to myself, tiptoeing past.

  “He wouldn’t dare!” a woman’s voice said suddenly, quite loudly. I froze. “That’s classified information, not for public eyes or ears. Goddamnit, I’ll sue the pants off him!”

  “Calm down, Frances,” came the mayor’s voice. “There would be no point suing him, because it would be admitting that there was something funny going on. Better to let him go with a severance package that’ll make him keep his mouth shut.”

  “Isn’t it too late for that?” a man’s voice said. Sounded like Andrew Jackson.

  “If those commies have got hold of it, it’ll be all over the Gazette by Wednesday morning.” That was Bernie LeBlanc.

  “If you call them commies again in public, I’ll tell your wife about that Toronto convention incident,” the mayor hissed.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would, so button your lip. Now, listen, people. The next part of the meeting is going to be tricky, but it will be fine if you all just remain calm and businesslike and stick to the rulebook. No discussion of votes. No discussion of personnel matters. A bland, slightly surprised attitude, as if the whole thing is a bunch of fuss over nothing. Got it?”

  “Where will you be?” someone asked.

  “I’ll be in here, of course, listening on the intercom,” the mayor said. “So don’t try any clever stuff. No grandstanding. Especially you, Franny.”

  “What I don’t get is why we have to let them commies say anything at council at all,” Bernie said.

  “It’s a democracy, so we have to, Bernie.”

  “Huh. Bleeding heart liberals, the bunch of them. Trudeau-lovers.”

  “Trudeau’s dead, Bernie.”

  “Can we get on with it?” That sounded like Stephanie Barnes. “I mean, like, what are we doing about this Brent guy?”

  “We could demote him to bylaws. Make him work with Sam giving out parking tickets,” Andrew said. There was a general chuckle, and their voices lowered.

  “Excuse me, young lady? Can I help you?” A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped about a foot in the air and turned around. It was Tom Southwell, the councillor who, like Bernie LeBlanc, could remember Laingford when the horse and carriage reigned.

  “Ummm, hi. Sorry. Looking for the washroom,” I said.

  Southwell jerked a thumb down the hall. I heard running water, the sound of a recent flush, and headed quickly towards it, muttering my thanks. How long had he been standing there? Did he know how much I’d heard? I couldn’t wait to tell Susan. But first, I had to pee.

  Twenty

  This way to the Kountry Pantree Beachside Patio and play area. Light lunches served daily. Licenced by the LLBO.

  —A sign at the side entrance to the Kountry Pantree complex

  On my way back down the hallway a few minutes later, I noticed that the light from under the accordion door was gone, and everything was quiet. That must mean the councillors had gone back into public session, I thought, and hurried the rest of the way. I didn’t want to miss anything, especially after hearing what had sounded like a cover-up of some sort. Whatever had happened, the mayor had talked about “something funny going on”, and they all seemed to be concerned about what “the commies” were about to disclose. I couldn’t wait to hear it.

  When I got to the little side door which led into the auditorium, though, I found it was locked. I could hear some muffled applause and then the patrician tones of David Kane. Oh, right. The KP presentation was first, anyway. If I banged on the door for someone to let me in at that point, it would be like blundering onstage in the middle of a concert performance. Worse, really, as Kane would assume I was doing it on purpose. I didn’t want him madder at me than he probably was already. I would have to find another exit, I supposed, and then go all the way around the building to the front entrance and back up the stairs, then sneak quietly into the auditorium from the back.

  The corridor led to a staircase and I took them two at a time. At the bottom, there was not, as you’d expect, a door leading outside, just another hallway leading off into the interior of the municipal offices. I was beginning to feel like a rat in a maze, and a panicky one at that, seeing as I had absolutely no business being there. Most of the office doors were closed, but there was one on the left that was wide open, with a light on. I could hear a noise that was vaguely like a vacuum cleaner, and figured that there must be a night custodian on the job. I poked my head in to ask where the nearest exit was.

  The Honourable Phyllis Lunenburg looked up, startled. She was standing behind a large square bin with a machine on top, which hummed. She held a thick bundle of papers in her hand and was in the process of feeding one into the maw of the machine. With a mangled, munching sound, the machine gobbled it down.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, noting that she continued feeding the papers into the shredder, one-by-one. “Can you tell me how to get out of here? I seem to be lost.” I had to raise my voice, as the shredder in action was a noisy sucker.

  “End of the hall. Turn left,” she said.

  “Catching up on some paperwork?” I said. I couldn’t help it, it just popped out.

  “That’s right,” she said, putting the papers down and striding over to the door with a determination that made me back up into the hall. “A personnel matter. Strictly confidential.” She closed the door firmly in my face. I stood there dazed for a second and heard the shredder start up again. Whatever she was doing, being interrupted didn’t seem to phase her one bit. Her confidence spooked me. Hadn’t I, a taxpayer, just caught her in the act of destroying documents that could have been connected to the Kountry Pantree project—perhaps something incriminating? Or was it just personnel files of some sort, something to do with Brent Miller? If so, why was she bothering to shred them?

  Not that I could do anything about it, I thought, as I ran down the hall, found the exit door and crashed outside. Even if I could convince Susan, or even Becker, (if he’d bothered to show up), that she was destroying evidence of some sort, by the time someone went to investigate, all the papers would be confetti.

  I raced round the side of the building, in the front door and up the stairs. At the top I paused to catch my breath, and my hostessy friend, who was still sitting at her station, looked at me with concern.

  “Are you okay?” she said. “Did you find the ladies’ room?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Just got locked out. Had to come around. Did I miss much?”

  “Well, the Superstore people are just finishing up their presentation, I think,” she began, but I didn’t wait to hear the end of it.

  It was crowded at the back of the hall, people standing three deep near the doors.

  “You’re late,” said a voice in my ear. It was Becker, leaning aga
inst a pillar with his arms crossed.

  “Actually, I was here from the beginning,” I said. “I got stuck in back by mistake.”

  “Shhhh,” the man beside me said.

  Up at the front, David Kane was narrating what looked like a slick, Ontario Tory-style television commercial playing on the screen, complete with upbeat music. This was the power of modern media, I supposed. The people around me were gazing at the screen with their mouths half-open, mesmerized.

  “The Kountry Pantree Complex will offer Laingford an increased consumer base that will create a spinoff economy for neighbouring businesses,” Kane said. On the screen, a picture of a full parking lot dissolved into a photo of Downtown Laingford in the busy season. The happy music contained, for one tiny moment, the “cha-chinggg” of a cash register. I wonder how many people consciously heard it. Maybe lots of us did, but were too stunned by its overt greed to comment.

  “In addition, we’ll be creating a special Kountry Pantree beachside fun area,” Kane continued, “with a sand beach, pedal boat rides and a full-time lifeguard.” The screen showed an artist’s rendering of something that looked like a theme park, with a number of buxom, bikini clad babes in the foreground. “When the whole project is complete, we’ll be providing over two hundred full time jobs and probably about a hundred part-time positions as well.” Picture of happy, healthy, clean cut teenagers.

  “A similar project in the town of Beswick, in Southern Ontario, has resulted in quite a boom, economically speaking,” Kane went on. A graph appeared. “One year after the Beswick Magic Mart was built, the unemployment rate went down four per cent, new home building stats increased significantly and the town got a new arena.” Picture of a minor hockey team holding up a trophy.