“There was a client — a would-be client,” I amended, “who was jerking us around, and when we told him we weren’t interested in taking him on, he got pretty mad.”
“Mad enough to do this?” the cop asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Damn right,” Bobbi said.
“Not that there’s much we can do,” the cop said, “but give us the particulars anyway.”
We gave the cops Willson Quayle’s particulars. Back upstairs I called the insurance company and the CAA. When the CAA came, I had the driver tow the van to a garage on 4th in Kitsilano, not far from Granville Island. I would have hitched a ride home in the tow truck, but while I was waiting for the CAA, a woman named Beverley Wong had called.
“I’m the vice-president of marketing at Rainy Day Toys,” she’d said. “I want to ask you about an invoice you sent.”
“What about it?”
“We don’t normally pay for proposals.”
“And we don’t normally bill for them,” I said. “But neither are we normally jerked around quite so much by prospective clients.”
“How, precisely, did we jerk you around?”
“Not you, precisely,” I said. “One of your employees. Willson Quayle.”
“Ah,” Beverley Wong said knowingly.
“Frankly,” I said, “I didn’t really expect you to pay for the proposal. Not that I wouldn’t be pleased if you did. I was trying to make a point.”
“Ah,” she said again. Her voice was cool.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I said. “But there was no way we could meet the deadline.”
“I understand,” Ms. Wong said.
“You’ll pay the bill?” I said hopefully.
“In point of fact,” she said, “I was wondering if you’d be open to a proposition.”
“I might be,” I said warily.
“We still need someone to do the product photography,” she said. “Plus some location photography at the film studios. Three or four days’ work at most.”
“No website design, no streaming video?”
“No,” Beverley Wong said. “Are you interested?”
“Yes,” I said. “As long as we don’t have to work with Willson Quayle.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said. “Mr. Quayle is no longer with us.” She made it sound as though he had passed away. No such luck. “We let him go,” she added.
We ironed out a few more details, including replacements for the MIA Virgin dolls, then I told her I’d get back to her by the end of the day with an estimate.
“Seems okay,” Bobbi said as she looked over the estimate. She handed it back to me. Her enthusiasm was underwhelming.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I think we should let D. Wayne go.”
“Go where?”
She smiled thinly. “You know what I mean. We can’t afford to have him sitting around twiddling his thumbs.”
“He keeps himself busy,” I said. “And he’s brought in work too. Besides, if we get busy, we’ll need him.”
“What about Mary-Alice?”
“What about her? She’ll be working strictly on commission from her doggie people.”
“Who’s going to teach her how to use the equipment?”
“I thought maybe Wayne.”
That brought a smile to Bobbi’s face.
I faxed the estimate to Beverley Wong, then left for home. It was four-thirty. I walked to the dock at the foot of Hornby and took the Aquabus across False Creek. I started to get off with the other passengers at the dock by the Public Market, but the driver, a pretty young woman in jean shorts and a cut-off T-shirt, told me to stay aboard, that she was returning to the depot. The ferry depot was adjacent to Sea Village, next to the floating real estate office that rents a mooring from us, us being Sea Village Inc. I was grateful for the offer, because as I was about to disembark I had espied Carl Yeager and the Missus standing on the quay above the ferry dock. Fortunately, they didn’t appear to have espied me.
“Thanks, Heidi,” I said as the little ferry burbled away from the dock.
“My pleasure,” she said. She grinned down at me from her stool in the wheelhouse. “Found any more dead bodies lately?”
“Geez, does everyone on the island know about that?”
“You act like you’re surprised,” she said as we putt-putted past the huge yellow barges of sand and gravel tied up by the Ocean Cement plant.
I wasn’t, though. Granville Island was a small community. Pretty much everyone knew everyone else’s business. My Sea Village neighbours and I were the only full-time residents, and sometimes it was like living in a fishbowl — not much privacy for the little fishes unless they hide in their tiny sunken galleons.
Heidi deftly manoeuvred the boat up to the ferry depot dock, stepped off, and secured the lines. As I dis-embarked, she said, “Heads up, Tom,” and thrust her chin in the direction of January Jack Pine’s makeshift houseboat in its semi-permanent mooring between the depot and the real estate office. Barry Chisholm, holding a clipboard and dressed in his tight black biking shorts and garish Lycra shirt, stood on the dock by Jack’s houseboat, an old wheelless Airstream trailer mounted on pontoons. Jack stood on the rear deck, leaning on a mop.
January Jack Pine was in his mid to late sixties, a full-blooded Squamish Indian, he said, who earned his living as a part-time poet, painter, and actor. His dark, hawkish features were set as he glared at Barry Chisholm.
“Hey, Tom,” Jack said when he saw me. “This fella’s circulatin’ a petition to stop the film shoot next week. He doesn’t seem to hear so good, though.” He leaned toward Barry and carefully and loudly enunciated, “I ain’t gonna sign.” He straightened. “Maybe you can make him understand.”
“What’s the problem, Barry?” I said.
“I don’t want that filth filmed in my neighbour-hood,” he said.
Jack snorted. I said, “Thing is, Barry, this isn’t your neighbourhood, is it? You don’t live here.”
“I work here,” he said.
“No, you don’t. You work at the art school.” I pointed toward the buildings that housed the Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design. “These docks are private property. You have no right to even be here unless you’ve got business here.”
“I’m on God’s business,” he said huffily.
“That still doesn’t give you the right to trespass on private property and harass people. Besides, have you seen any of the programs? How do you know they’re filth?”
“I’ve heard about them,” he said. “They’re nothing but sex and profanity.”
“Don’t forget the violence,” I said.
“You’re mocking me,” he said.
“No shit,” I said. “Go away, Barry.”
He went away scowling.
“Even told him I got a job as an extra,” Jack said. “Your friend Reeny put in a word for me. Keeper, that one.”
I agreed. I only hoped I got the chance.
I knew the moment I let myself into the house that something was wrong. The front of the writing desk in the hall was open, the little drawer missing and pigeonholes empty, contents on the floor with the drawer. I went into the living room. It looked as though the house had capsized then righted itself. All my books and magazines and CDs had been spilled out of the bookcase onto the floor of the living room. The cupboards of the sideboard in the dining room were open and the drawers had been pulled out and dumped. The kitchen had received similar treatment. Even the refrigerator door had been left open.
I started up the stairs before it occurred to me that whoever had turned the place upside down might still be there. I beat a quick retreat to the kitchen, where I picked up the cordless telephone and dialled 911.
“Fire-police-ambulance,” a female operator said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Someone broke into my house.”
“Are they still there?”
“I don’t
know. I don’t think so.”
“If you’re not certain,” she said, “go outside and wait for the police to arrive.”
“I’m on my way,” I said, carrying the phone out onto the dock. Daniel, I knew, was on a job site and wouldn’t be back until later in the evening. I went next door and knocked on Maggie Urquhart’s door.
“Name and address, please,” the 911 operator said. I told her. “Do you want to stay on the line?” she asked.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I said.
“Very well. The police should arrive within fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be next door at number eight,” I said, and disconnected.
Maggie wasn’t home. Neither, apparently, was Harvey. He usually woofed his fool head off whenever anyone knocked at Maggie’s door. Maybe I should have hired him to house-sit, I thought as I sat on Maggie’s front step and watched my front step, waiting for the police to arrive and/or the intruders to leave, if indeed they were still there, which, as it turned out, they weren’t.
“Okay,” Constable Mabel Firth said after she and Baz Tucker had checked out the house. “All clear. You can come in now.”
I went in. “You could have at least tidied up a little,” I said gloomily.
Baz Tucker made a face. Mabel smiled. “Better look around,” she said. “See if anything’s missing.”
No room had been spared. The intruder, or intruders, had gone through the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, my bedroom, my home office, and the spare room, currently occupied by Reeny, leaving each looking as though it had been struck by the proverbial tornado. He — or they — had ransacked the clothes closets, the upstairs hall linen closet, and the cupboards and medicine cabinets of both bathrooms. All the beds had been stripped, and the mattresses up-ended, but fortunately they hadn’t been slashed.
Nothing obvious had been taken, though, not the reasonably recent stereo system in the living room, nor anything from my pitiful collection of CDs, nor the approaching-obsolescence laptop computer in my home office, not even the moderately expensive pasta pot I’d received as a birthday gift. They hadn’t found the little safe set into the floor of the kitchen pantry, nor did it appear that the bilge hatch under the carpet in the front hall had been opened, but there was nothing of any value in either the safe or the bilge. Especially the safe.
Mabel filled out a report, citing burglary as the motive, even though nothing seemed to have been stolen and there were no obvious signs of forced entry. The front door had been locked when I’d got home and all of the downstairs windows were secure. Mabel examined the front door lock, looking for evidence that it had been picked. She showed me some scratches that may have been made by a lock pick. On the other hand, they may have also been made by a key.
“Who has keys?” she asked.
“Besides me, only Daniel Wu and Maggie Urquhart.”
“What about your houseguest?”
“Right. Reeny, too, of course.”
“And there’s no way to get up to the roof except through the house?”
“Sure there is, but I think the neighbours might have noticed a helicopter hovering over the house.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a ladder. They could have posed as workmen replacing a broken window or installing a satellite dish. Does this have anything to do with the guy who died on your roof?” she asked. “What Sergeant Matthias had us looking for the other day?”
“Yeah, I think it must,” I said. “In fact, I think the intruder might have been a woman named Monica Hollander, although that probably isn’t her real name.”
Mabel made a note in her book, then wrote the number of the report on the back of a card. “Give this number to your insurance company if you need to make a claim,” she said.
After Mabel and her partner left I began tidying up, starting in the kitchen. I checked the contents of the fridge, which had been left open. It appeared that she, if indeed it had been Monica Hollander, had even gone through the freezer compartment, although there was nothing to find therein but a half-empty bin of ice cubes, a box of fish sticks, a bag of frozen baby peas I’d used as an icepack when I’d strained my shoulder, and a couple of Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine microwavable dinners that had been in the freezer since the last time my parents had stayed with me, a year at least, possibly longer. What was the shelf life of a Lean Cuisine? I wondered. I looked for a “Best Before” date but couldn’t find one. Perhaps it had worn off. Nevertheless, while the packaging seemed a little worse for wear, I put them back. Who knew? I might need them soon.
I went into the living room and had begun picking up books and CD cases when I remembered seeing the Yeagers, Carl and the Missus, on the quay by the Public Market ferry dock. Could it have been them, and not Monica Hollander, who’d searched the house? I stopped what I was doing, found Sergeant Matthias’ card, and called him. He wasn’t available, I was told, but he’d get back to me as soon as possible. I went back to my tidying to the accompaniment of the Rolling Stones’ London Years triple CD set.
Mathias called back at a few minutes past six. I told him about the break-in and about seeing the Yeagers on the quay by the ferry landing.
“I’ll pass the word along,” he said. “The arson squad would like to talk to them. They found traces of accelerant on the boat where there shouldn’t have been any. Do you want us to send a team over to dust the place?”
“Do you vacuum and do windows too?” I said. From the sound he made in his throat, I didn’t think he appreciated my sense of humour. “Do you think it would do any good?”
“I don’t, really,” he said. “We’d lift hundreds of prints probably, then we’d have to check them against everyone who’s been in your house recently. And who’s to say whoever searched your place wasn’t wearing gloves? But we’ll do it, if you insist.”
“Forget it. As you say, whoever did it probably wore gloves. I mean, anyone who watches television these days would know to do that, right?”
“Our resources are stretched pretty thin,” he said gratefully.
“Were you able to turn up anything on the other names I gave you?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “No hits on a Jacob or Monica Hollander. And John Doe’s fingerprints didn’t match anything on file here, or with the FBI or Interpol.”
“Have you spoken to Reeny?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“When I told her you wanted to talk to her about the doll, she made it sound like it was business as usual in her line of work.”
“We take stalking pretty seriously,” he said. “So does the entertainment industry. Celebrity stalking is a big problem.”
“I think she’d be amused to hear you refer to her as a celebrity.”
“That may be,” he said. “Nevertheless, I want to talk to her.” He said goodbye and hung up.
chapter fourteen
I was standing in the door of Reeny’s room, looking at the mess, clothing and personal belongings scattered everywhere, knowing I should straighten up before she got home but uncomfortable about going through her things, when I heard a knock at the front door. I went up to the roof deck and peered over the side. My next-door neighbour Maggie Urquhart and a thickset chap I guessed was her new friend George were standing on the dock by the door.
“I’ll be right there,” I called down to them. George’s head snapped up in surprise.
I went downstairs, opened the door, and let Maggie and her friend into the foyer. He was a good three inches taller than I was, and slightly overweight, with thick, short-cropped dark hair and an indoor pallor. He wore a pale green polo shirt with the top button fastened, pressed tan cotton pants cut like jeans, and trainers with very little mileage on them.
“You remember George, don’t you?” Maggie said.
“Yes,” I replied, although I didn’t really, except vaguely. I offered my hand and he took it. His grip was quick and strong. “How are you?” I said.
“I’m just fi
ne,” he said with an American twang.
“Sorry I startled you.”
Maggie chuckled, but George didn’t seem to find it amusing.
“Mabel Firth told me about the break-in,” Maggie said, looking up at me, an expression of concern on her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“I hope you didn’t lose anything you can’t replace,” Maggie said.
“It doesn’t look like the motive was robbery,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” Maggie said. “They didn’t trash your house, did they? Sometimes that will happen when thieves can’t find anything worth stealing. Not that you don’t have anything worth stealing. I’m sure you do. But you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said. “They made a mess, but fortunately didn’t damage anything.”
George cleared his throat. “Were they looking for something?”
“That would certainly seem to be indicated,” I replied dryly, but George was evidently impervious to sarcasm.
Maggie said, “Mabel asked me if I’d seen anyone suspicious lurking around the docks today.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“No, but there was a Zodiac tied up down by Lionel’s. I didn’t see who was driving it, though. I told Mabel about it.”
“It may have just been film people getting ready for the shoot.” I’d found the letter from the production company in the pile of unopened mail. Shooting was scheduled to start Tuesday evening, but the crew would begin setting up in the afternoon. “Would you like to come in for a drink?” I said. “The place is still a bit of a shambles, but I have some Lagavulin left.”
“Well,” Maggie said. I knew her fondness for single malt whisky.
But George cleared his throat again and said, “We were just on our way to dinner.”
Maggie shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps you and Reeny would care to join us. That is, if it’s all right with George.”
“Fine by me,” he said heartily, maybe a little too heartily. “The more the merrier.”
“Reeny’s working tonight,” I said.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” George boomed. “Some other time, then.”
Overexposed Page 18
