“I’m very sorry,” I said, wondering if I shouldn’t do more. What I wanted to do was hold her, comfort her, but I wasn’t sure how she’d react. She sniffed, so I got up and fetched a box of tissues from the downstairs bathroom. I handed it to her, then sat down on the sofa, just in case. She took my hand, squeezed briefly, then let go.
“He was a gambler,” she said. “An addict, I suppose. He got hooked doing research for a script about professional poker players. In the time we were together he went through all of his own money, such as it was, and most of mine. I suppose I thought I could change him, save him, and that loving him was enough. It wasn’t, of course, and after he killed himself the guilt almost killed me too. I had a breakdown and got pumped full of drugs by a quack who made his money writing prescriptions for film industry people. I was fired from the film I was working on. I had no money, no job, no place to go.”
“What about your family?”
“Oh, my parents and my brother tried their best, but they didn’t really know what to do. We’d never been particularly close. We’re closer now, though, which is about the only good thing to come of the mess I’d made of my life.” She paused, looked at me, and said, “But I don’t think I’d have made it at all if I hadn’t met Chris. He cleaned me up, put me to work on Pendragon, and helped me get myself back together again. And he pushed me into auditioning for the part on The X-Files.” She blew her nose into the tissue. “I just wish I could have been there for him after those men took Carla Bergman and left us taped up on Pendragon, but — well, I wasn’t in very good shape myself after that, was I?”
“I doubt it would have made any difference,” I said. Any more than it had with Larry, I added to myself.
She looked at me for half a dozen heartbeats, expression pensive, then took a deep breath and said, “I hate to ask you this, but are you doing anything important tomorrow?”
“I had hoped to clean the bathrooms,” I replied. “Why?”
“There’s someone else I want to speak to and I’d really appreciate it if you’d come along.”
“Okay, sure.”
She stared at me, half-moon eyes rounded. “Really?”
“Really. What are friends for? Besides, I hate cleaning bathrooms.”
chapter ten
Sunday morning Reeny slept late, until half-past seven at least. I was feeling virtuous, having been up for at least half an hour when she came downstairs. Her hair was still wet from the shower and tied back from her face, accentuating the shape of her cheekbones. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, which made her look fresher, younger somehow. Her jeans were faded, frayed at the cuffs, and soft from countless washings. The sleeves of her long, loose-knit cotton sweater hung to her fingertips. Her feet were bare. She had beautiful feet, long and lean and shapely.
“G’ morning,” she said cheerfully, heading for the coffee pot.
“Morning,” I said around a mouthful of cereal. She poured a cup and tasted it. I said, “It’s not as good as yours, I’m afraid.”
“It’s better,” she said. She leaned against the edge of the counter. “Did you mean what you said last night, about helping me look for Chris? You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
“Yes and no,” I said ambiguously.
She smiled, drank some more coffee. She looked down at her feet. “What are you staring at?” she asked.
“You have beautiful feet, you know.”
“Of course,” she replied with a throaty chuckle, wriggling her toes. “All the men tell me that.”
“You’re not running today?”
“Sunday’s my day off. From running, anyway. I still have some reading to do. We start shooting again on Tuesday.”
She went to the fridge, reached for the door, then hesitated. She scraped a fingernail across a sticky scab on the pebbled vinyl surface of the freezer compartment door. “Your fridge has leprosy.”
“Adhesive from double-faced tape,” I said. “It comes off with Windex. Sort of.”
“Why don’t you use fridge magnets or sticky notes like everyone else?” she asked, opening the door.
“Fridge magnets don’t like the vinyl coating and I just never got into the habit of using sticky notes.” I reached into the old wood salad bowl on the counter, fished out the roll of double-faced tape. “This stuff has been a staple around photo studios for years. It’s a lot cheaper than sticky notes and there are always scraps of paper around, courtesy of Canada Post.”
Reeny breakfasted on a banana and a tablespoon of peanut butter, washed down with a glass of orange juice. She then excused herself and, although it was still raining, took her second cup of coffee up to the roof deck to do her reading under the awning. I busied myself with housework until ten or so, doing the laundry, vacuuming and dusting, washing the kitchen floor, scrubbing the patches of adhesive off the fridge. I even cleaned the bathrooms. I generally liked housework. A mindless activity, it left my mind free to wander. That morning, however, my mind wandered into places I’d just as soon have avoided.
Truth be known, I was indeed having second thoughts about helping Reeny in her quest. I was afraid that if she found Hastings, she wouldn’t spit in his eye, that despite her uncertain denial, she was still in love with him. On the other hand, if she didn’t find him, I was afraid that she wouldn’t find the closure she was hoping for and that any chance I might have at building a relationship would be doomed from the get-go. On top of all that, I wasn’t particularly keen on crossing paths with Carl Yeager and the Missus again, who would likely also be looking for Hastings; their good thug/bad thug routine was wearing thin.
At ten I called Hilly in Toronto and spoke with her for a few minutes. No, her mother hadn’t pressured her into changing her mind about going to Australia, she’d just reconsidered, that’s all. Yes, she was sorry she wouldn’t be spending the year with me, too, but how would I like to look after Beatrix and Harry for her?
“Harry?” I said. “Who’s Harry?”
“Beatrix’s new boyfriend.”
“Ah,” I said. “Harry and Beatrix. As in Potter.”
“Anyway, would you?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.
“Don’t hurt yourself. Daddy, I gotta go. See you in a couple of weeks, okay?”
“You bet, Scout.”
I hung up with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t from hunger.
“You’re sure you’re all right with this?” Reeny said as I zapped the Liberty. The first time I’d used the remote keyless entry key chain what’s-it, I’d inadvertently hit the panic button. The Liberty’s horn had wailed and the lights had flashed for a couple of minutes before I’d figured out how to turn it off.
“Of course,” I said as we got in out of the rain. A promise was a promise.
From Granville Island, we headed west on 4th before cutting down to Point Grey Road at MacDonald. Our destination was the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club, near Jericho Beach Park. We were going to see a man named Timothy Fielding, who worked in one of the bars in the clubhouse. There were three of them. Bars, that is.
“He’s Chris’s cousin,” Reeny had explained. “I spoke to him right after Chris disappeared, but not since. He and Chris used to be in business together.”
“What kind of business?” I’d asked, but she didn’t know. “You didn’t tell me why you wanted me to come with you,” I said as the wipers batted at the rain.
“Didn’t I?” she said innocently.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Tim’s another one of those guys who suffers from the delusion that all women find him utterly irresistible,” she said.
“Like Will Quayle.”
“But not nearly as good-looking. Tim’s downright homely, in fact, but he doesn’t let that stop him from hitting on every woman who comes within range.”
“So you figure that having another man along might be a deterrent.”
“Are you insulted?”
“I’m n
ot sure,” I said.
“And I’m not sure it’ll work,” she replied.
The Royal Vancouver Yacht Club was founded in 1903 in Coal Harbour, where it still keeps the power yacht fleet, mostly in covered boat shelters, but in 1927 the club built a new clubhouse and marina next to Jericho Beach Park on English Bay. I wasn’t sure we’d be allowed in, but no one tried to stop us. Reeny looked quite nautical in a bright red squall jacket, pale yellow turtleneck, and off-white cotton slacks. I’d worn my second-best pair of khakis, now my best pair, thanks to Barry Chisholm, a blue oxford shirt, and a green Mountain Equipment Co-op shell. The rain had driven most of the fair-weather sailors indoors, and all the bars in the big, three-storey clubhouse were doing a booming business. Reeny had called ahead and Fielding had agreed to meet with us during his two-o’clock break on the second-floor terrace overlooking the marina. We were a few minutes early.
“I really appreciate this,” Reeny said. We sat on the nearly deserted terrace, under an umbrella. The rain had almost stopped.
“As long as I don’t have to pay for the drinks,” I said, studying the beverages menu in the little plastic easel.
A man in black trousers, black vest, and white shirt emerged from the clubhouse. He was carrying a steaming mug of something in his left hand.
“Here he is,” Reeny said, standing. I stood too.
If there was any resemblance between Timothy Fielding and Christopher Hastings, I didn’t see it. I remembered Hastings as over six feet. Fielding was slightly shorter than Reeny. He was younger than Hastings, too, about Reeny’s age, maybe a little closer to my age. He had less hair than I did, and what little he had was a pale reddish blond. His face was pasty and his close-set hazel eyes were shifty.
Fielding set the mug on the table. It contained coffee. Black. It smelled good. I could have used a cup. Reeny and he shook hands. She introduced me by name, without defining our relationship. We shook hands. His grip was firm and strong, but his hand was cold. From that point on he pretty much ignored me.
“You’re looking good, Reeny,” he said. His voice was smooth, but a little oily and ingratiating. “’Course,” he added, “you always did. Thought about calling you a couple of times, but — ” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
Reeny smiled thinly. “How are you, Tim?”
“I’m good,” he said with a smarmy wink.
“Are you still playing music?” she asked. Her words and tone implied an unspoken “at” between “playing” and “music.” He didn’t get it.
“Got a gig this weekend,” he said. “Club in Surrey. Bit of a dive, otherwise I’d suggest you drop by.”
Reeny smiled again, then said, “Tim, have you heard from Chris recently?”
His eyes narrowed. “Like how recently?”
“Within the last month or so,” she said.
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Haven’t seen him since last Christmas.” His pasty complexion pinked and his eyes wouldn’t meet Reeny’s. “Or longer,” he added lamely.
“Then you’ve seen him since he left?” Reeny said. Her face was stiff, her shoulders rigid.
“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted.
“When? Where?” she demanded.
“He showed up at my place just before Christmas last year, outa the blue like. He had some stuff he wanted to sell, asked me to handle the transaction for him.”
“What ‘stuff’?”
“His comics.”
Reeny closed her eyes momentarily, took a breath, and nodded.
“Comics?” I asked.
Reeny said, “Chris had a collection of first edition comic books, some of them quite valuable. His retirement fund, he called them. He kept them in a safe deposit box.” She looked at Fielding. “He needed money?”
“I guess,” he said. He looked at his watch and downed his coffee. “I gotta get back,” he said.
“You haven’t heard from him since then?”
“No.”
“If he was in town,” Reeny said, “where do you think he’d stay?”
“Anyone else asked,” Fielding replied, “I’d say with you. In fact…” His voice trailed off.
“What?”
“There was a guy came around the club a couple, three weeks ago asking about him. I thought at first he was a cop or something, but he talked too good. He was a foreigner, I think. Swedish or maybe German. Get a lot o’ Krauts around here sometimes.”
“What did he look like?” Reeny asked.
“I dunno. Older guy. Grey hair. Sixty maybe.”
I reached into my jacket. As Reeny and I had left the house some impulse had prompted me to take one of the coroner’s office flyers from the desk in the hall. I took it out now and spread it on the table in front of Fielding.
“Is that him?” I asked.
Fielding picked up the flyer. “Yeah, I think so,” he replied, looking at Reeny. “This guy looks dead.”
“He is.”
“No shit? What happened?”
“He died,” Reeny said simply. She took the flyer from him. “You told this man that if Chris was in town he’d probably stay with me on Pendragon.”
“Pendragon?”
“Chris’s boat.”
“I didn’t know that was its name, but, yeah, I might’ve said something like that.” He stood. “I gotta get back to work,” he said. “But how about us gettin’ together sometime, hittin’ some clubs, hoisting a few.”
“Sounds delightful,” Reeny said.
Fielding smiled broadly. “Great!”
“I’ll call you,” Reeny said.
His smile didn’t falter. “Okay.”
“Some deterrent I am,” I said as we walked back to the Jeep.
“He’d’ve been all over me if you hadn’t been there.” She shuddered. “I always feel like taking a long shower after talking to him.”
“He really thinks you’re going to call him.”
“And why wouldn’t I?” she said with a grin. “It’s been ages since I’ve hit the clubs and hoisted a few.”
We headed east on Point Grey Road, back toward Kitsilano, the flat pewter expanse of English Bay on our left, shoulder-to-shoulder cottages and condos rising through the trees on our right. The rain had stopped and the cloud cover was beginning to break up.
“What now?” I asked.
“I’m not sure it will do any good,” she said, “but I want to talk to Chris’s mother. You’re welcome to come with me, if you’ve got nothing better to do. You might find it interesting; Mona is quite a character.”
“I thought his mother was dead.”
“His stepmother died in the same accident as his father, but his birth mother is alive and well and living in a seniors’ residence in Vancouver.”
“Why don’t you think it will do any good to talk to her?”
“Mona left when Chris was very young. He didn’t see her again until a few years after his father died and then all she wanted was some money. When Chris’s father died, her support payments stopped.”
“Which side of the family is Tim Fielding from?”
“Hers. Tim is Mona’s nephew, her only sister’s only son. Both Tim’s parents died within a few years of each other. Besides Mona, Tim is Chris’s only family. To the best of my knowledge, though, Tim never visits her.”
“But Chris did?”
“Once in a while. Not often. I went with him most of the time. Fitting punishment, he said, since it was my idea that he visit her in the first place. It wasn’t always very pleasant, I have to admit. Mona can be — well, irascible is putting it mildly.”
“I can’t wait.”
Mona Hastings — she’d never remarried, Reeny told me, or given up the Hastings’ name, which carries a certain cachet in Vancouver, although there was no family connection to Rear Admiral George Fowler Hastings, commander of the Royal Navy’s Pacific fleet from 1867 to 1869, after whom the neighbourhood of Hastings was named — lived in the Collingwood Seniors’ Apar
tments, just off Kingsway not far from Boundary Road. It was a grey and characterless fifteen-storey building, shaped like a lowercase “h” and bordered by struggling shrubbery and neglected lawns. The lobby was clean, though, and there was a doorman behind a Plexiglas-enclosed desk. He bore a freakish resemblance to Albert Einstein and looked old enough to be a resident — perhaps he was. He wheezed alarmingly as he asked who we wanted to see.
Reeny told him.
“Eh?” he said, turning his head and cupping a hand to his right ear. “What wazzat?”
She told him again, louder.
“Yer name?” he asked. Reeny told him that too, twice. He looked at me. To avoid having to tell him twice, I yelled my name. Breathing as though he’d just run flat out up Grouse Mountain, he picked up the house phone and keyed in a number. After a brief wait, he shouted “Mizz Mona” into the phone. “It’s Jerry.” Wheeze. “Jerry. Y’know, the doorman?” Wheeze. “Yeah. I’m jus’ fine, ma’am.” Wheeze. “Um, there’s some people here t’ see ya.” Wheeze. “Uh, hang on.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece, peered through the Plexiglas partition at Reeny. “What’s yer name again?” Reeny told him. He removed his hand and shouted Reeny’s name into the phone. “An’ some guy.” Wheeze. “Okay.” He put down the phone and, wheezing, pressed the button that released the door.
Reeny and I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Mona Hastings was waiting for us in the hall outside her apartment. Unable to hide my surprise when I saw her, I gaped. Mona Hastings was the tallest woman I’d ever seen in my life, six and a half feet if she was an inch, this despite a slight stoop that may not have had anything to do with her age, which I placed at around seventy-five. Her rail-like thinness, emphasized by an ill-fitting pantsuit that had seen far better days, made her appear even taller.
“Reeny,” she croaked. “What a pleasant surprise.” Her voice was like a rusty hinge. “And who’s this with you?” She peered at me through the pink-tinted lenses of rimless glasses.
Just some guy, I thought, but Reeny introduced me by name.
“Come in, come in,” Mona said. “I’ve just made a pot of tea.” She tilted toward her apartment door. For a moment I thought she was going to fall, even started to reach out to catch her, but her feet caught up with the rest of her and she sallied through the doorway, for all the world like a tall ship running before the wind. Reeny gave me a look and we followed Mona into her apartment.
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