Overexposed

by Michael Blair

  I brushed and flossed and went to bed. Sleep was a long time in coming.

  Reeny still hadn’t returned by Saturday morning. At nine I drove to the studio, where Bobbi and I loaded all our gear into the Liberty (the van was going to be out of commission until Wednesday at least), then drove to St. Helen’s church in Burnaby for our wedding shoot. It was an Italian wedding and it seemed as though every person of Italian descent in the province was there. I counted sixty tables in the reception hall, ten places to a table. That was a hell of a lot of veal parmigiana.

  We weren’t the only ones hired to document the occasion. There was also a videographer, a tough little forty-something woman with hair the colour of an orange Popsicle and sneakers the colour of lime Jell-O whose sound guy kept getting in our way. We kept getting in their way, too, which seemed only fair. She had a vocabulary that would make a stevedore blush, but Bobbi could give as good as she got. I just tried to keep a low profile. By the end of the day, which lasted until midnight, we’d shot sixty rolls of film and were both creaking with exhaustion as we piled the gear back into the Jeep. The reception was still going strong.

  “God, I hate doing weddings,” Bobbi said as she climbed wearily into the Jeep beside me.

  “At least no one slobbered all over you.”

  “Oh no? What about the father of the groom?” she replied. “After his third glass of champagne he was slobbering all over anything even remotely female.” She shrugged and added in a forgiving tone of voice, “He’s a widower,” as if that excused it. Maybe it did. He wasn’t getting it at home anymore. Hell, neither was I, but did I slobber over everything remotely female? Heck no. Well, there was a cute red-headed bridesmaid…

  I arrived home at two in the morning, tumbled into bed, and slept until eight Sunday morning, when I was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing. I groped my way down the hall to my home office to answer it.

  “Gerf?”

  “Tom?”

  “Mumph.”

  “Tom, it’s Reeny. Are you awake?”

  “Reeny? Where are you?” I scrubbed my face with the palm of my hand.

  “I’m in Squamish.”

  “Squamish?” Squamish was a town of about fifteen thousand at the head of Howe Sound, an hour or so north of Vancouver, about halfway to Whistler. The main industry was logging. It was also a popular rock climbing area, for those so inclined. “What — what’s in Squamish?”

  “Besides trees and rocks?”

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  “Not much,” she said. “I stopped to buy gas.”

  “Chris was here on Friday looking for you,” I said. Among other things. “Why didn’t you meet him?”

  “I don’t know. I thought about what you said, that if he gave a damn about anyone but himself he would-n’t have sold Pendragon out from under me.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Whistler. My agent has a condo there she lets me use whenever I want. I had to get away for a couple of days, think some things through. There are some decisions I have to make.”

  “Chris checked with the studio. They told him they didn’t know where you were.”

  “Of course they did,” she said. “That’s standard practice. They weren’t happy about me taking the time off, but I’m seriously considering telling them to write me out.”

  “Write you out?”

  “Of the series. Either kill off my character or find someone else to play her. My stunt double looks enough like me to be my sister and is more than adequately equipped — and willing to display her equipment. She can act, too.” She paused, then said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m fine. Why?”

  “You’re not angry with me?”

  “No,” I replied, a little surprised myself. “I was worried about you, but I’m not angry. I’m relieved you’re okay.”

  “As long as you’re not angry with me. I — ” She was interrupted by the bleat of a car horn. “Oops, gotta go,” she said. “I’m blocking traffic.” I heard the rackety sound of the Porsche’s engine starting. “I’m going to talk to the producers this morning, then head over to my parents’ place. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  She disconnected. I put down the phone and I took myself back to bed, for some reason feeling inordinately pleased with myself. At ten I was awakened again by the telephone. It was Hilly.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hiya, Scout. What’s up?”

  “Are you going to meet us at the airport?”

  “Um, wasn’t planning to. Your mother didn’t give me the impression she wanted me to. But I will, if you want. Just give me the flight number and arrival time.”

  “I don’t know the flight number, but I think we get there about nine o’clock.”

  “Okay, fine. What day?”

  “Um, today.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Your mother said you wouldn’t be arriving till next week.”

  “She told you that last week, Daddy.”

  “It was Thursday,” I protested.

  “Will you meet us?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “She’s making me bring Beatrix and Harry in a cage, as cargo.”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s how dogs and cats have to travel. Why not ferrets?” The first time Hilly had brought Beatrix to Vancouver, she’d smuggled her onto the aircraft inside her shirt — different times — but she’d left her at home for the previous two visits, since she’d stayed only a few weeks each time. “They’ll be okay,” I said.

  “How’d you like to travel in a cage?” she said.

  “I feel like that every time I fly. Is your mother there? Can I speak to her?”

  “Sure,” Hilly said. “Mom!” she bellowed into the phone. “Dad wants to talk to you!” At a more reasonable volume she said, “Bye, Daddy. See you tonight.”

  There was a click and my former spouse said, “Yes, Tom. What is it?” Her voice was glacial.

  “You could have told me you were arriving today.”

  “Didn’t I? Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “Is it a problem?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Well, then, what difference does it make?”

  “No difference at all,” I replied. I sighed. “Give me the arrival time and the flight number and I’ll meet you.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Hilly wants me to. Besides, you can hardly take Beatrix and Harry to your hotel, can you?”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” Linda said with a sigh, as if talking to a child, and a slow child at that. “I was going to leave them at the airport until you could pick them up.”

  “Mo-om!” Hilly piped indignantly.

  I spent the rest of the morning tidying, eliminating the last signs of the break-in. The visible ones, at least. The sense of having had my space violated would undoubtedly linger for some time. I did the laundry and made up the hide-a-bed in the office. Hilly would have to camp out there for a while, although I was sure that as soon as Reeny learned that she was putting Hilly out of her room, she would probably vacate to a hotel. It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, it might not be a bad idea for Hilly to spend the week with Linda at her hotel. I wasn’t sure how to suggest it, though; I had no doubt that as soon as I told Linda about the dead man on the roof and the break-in, she would insist that Hilly go with her to Australia.

  I briefly considered not telling Linda about either the dead man or the break-in, but rejected the idea almost as soon as it formed. I’d always tried to be a responsible parent, and if there was the slightest danger, I couldn’t in good conscience expose Hilly to it. As much as I would miss her, perhaps it would be a good idea for Hilly to go to Australia with her mother after all. She could always come back if she didn’t like it.

  After lunch I opened the bilge hatch under the front hall carpet and dug out the cage I’d bought for Beatrix when Hilly had first brought her. It was about thirty inches square
— a little over seventy centimetres, for those of you who have successfully made the transition to the metric system. Was it big enough for two ferrets? Beatrix had seemed happy enough with it, as far as I could tell that a ferret was happy, but she’d had it to herself and hadn’t really spent very much time in it, generally only when it was necessary to leave her alone in the house. If Hilly went to Australia, leaving Beatrix and her beau in my care, they would have to spend a lot of time cooped up in the cage. Perhaps I should look into what was involved in shipping them to Australia, quarantine requirements and such. Some countries, fearful of importing diseases, have very strict animal quarantine requirements, sometimes as long as six months. If such was the case in Australia — I had no idea what Canada’s requirements for domestic animals were — it hardly seemed worth the effort. Nor did I think Linda would approve.

  Vancouver International Airport is situated on Sea Island in the Fraser River delta, about a twenty-minute drive, in favourable traffic, from Granville Island. Along with Richmond and the eponymously named Municipality of Delta, Sea Island is composed of ten thousand years’ accumulation of silt, absolutely flat and perfect for an airport, except that when the Big One hits, as those who are expert in things seismic say is inevitable, liquefaction will turn the island to the consistency of butterscotch pudding and everything with a specific gravity greater than peanut butter will sink until it hits bedrock. I entertained myself with these cheerful thoughts as I left the Liberty in short-term parking and went into the arrivals concourse. It was not quite nine and Hilly’s flight was due any time. As I checked the monitors, however, the ETA was at that very minute updated, delayed half an hour. I went off in search of a cup of coffee.

  Forty minutes later I was checking out the covers of the latest crop of glossy men’s magazines, marvelling at the scantily clad, surgically enhanced, and lovingly air-brushed wonders thereon, when the monitor was updated for the third time since I’d arrived, indicated Hilly’s flight had finally landed. I wandered down to the arrivals concourse.

  Airports are the best people-watching places I’ve ever found. As I waited behind the security barrier by the exit from the arrival gates, I saw a twenty-something man with what appeared to be a surfboard encased in bubble wrap and tape; a tiny woman in her seventies towing a suitcase she could have lived in; and a young man and woman so joyous and passionate in their reunion I half expected them to throw themselves onto the terrazzo and make love right then and there. Then my daughter and my former spouse came down the stairs and into the concourse.

  I hadn’t seen Linda in five years and almost didn’t recognize her. Gone were the luxurious locks of dark chestnut hair I remembered. Her hair was now a light reddish-blond, short and simply cut, almost identical to Hilly’s. I was struck by how much Hilly took after her mother. At fourteen she was already taller than Linda by an inch, and although her face was still softened somewhat by residual baby fat, she had definitely inherited Linda’s strong cheekbones and determined chin. Linda’s figure was more mature, of course, but they were both slim and athletic.

  Hilly spotted me first, naturally. She waved, called, “Daddy!” and pointed me out to her mother, who squinted approximately in my direction. My former spouse was quite nearsighted, but for some reason couldn’t wear contacts and refused to wear glasses in public unless absolutely necessary. They made her look frumpy, she contended. I’d always thought she looked very sexy in glasses, ever since the first time she’d left them on when we’d made love.

  I hugged Hilly and held Linda’s hand while she coolly kissed me on the cheek. I told her, with some sincerity, that she looked well. She put her glasses on — they were small, with sleek rectangular frames that went well with her cheekbones — and, with somewhat less sincerity, returned the compliment.

  “Is this all your luggage?” I asked hopefully. They both had matching carry-on cases with extensible handles. Linda made a sound with her tongue, as though it was the stupidest question she’d ever heard in her life.

  “We have to go to the special cargo counter to get Beatrix and Harry,” Hilly said.

  “Let’s get our luggage first,” Linda said, striding off toward the carousels.

  “Are they, um, sexually active?” I asked, as we loaded Beatrix and Harry’s travel carrier into the back seat of the Liberty beside Hilly; Hilly and Linda’s two massive suitcases filled the cargo area, with scant room left for their carry-on cases.

  “Oh, Tom,” Linda huffed, in an offended school-marm tone.

  Hilly giggled and said, “No, Dad, they’re, um, fixed.”

  The Sunday evening traffic was light on Granville Street, which was probably the only reason that I noticed the grey Toyota Corolla with the wonky headlight that appeared behind us. There were two passengers in the front, but I couldn’t tell if they were the same two I’d accosted on Granville Island the week before. I was so intent on watching the Toyota that I almost ran a red light, hitting the brakes and screeching to a halt half a car-length into the intersection.

  “I see your driving hasn’t improved,” Linda said dryly, removing her hand from the dashboard and straightening her glasses.

  “Sorry,” I said, reversing and backing out of the intersection.

  I’d caught the driver of the Toyota by surprise, too, causing him to swerve into the right lane to avoid rear-ending us. The Toyota now sat beside us, idling self-consciously. I leaned over and peered past Linda through the passenger side window, but between the Liberty’s window tinting, the reflection of the streetlights, and the higher vantage point, I couldn’t make out the driver. When the light changed, the Toyota sped away through the intersection. I followed at a more leisurely pace.

  “What’s going on, Tom?” Linda asked sternly. “Who was in that car?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Which is it? You don’t know who was in that car or you don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Neither,” I said. “Both.” She glared at me. I took a deep breath. “I think it might be a good idea for Hilly to stay at your hotel this week.”

  “Of course,” Linda replied. “But why do you think it’s a good idea?” Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What have you got yourself into this time?”

  “I’m not sure.” I took another deep breath and told her about the dead man on my roof.

  “Oh, for god’s sake, Tom,” Linda said.

  “Cool,” Hilly said. “Sort of,” she amended.

  “There’s something else, too, isn’t there?” Linda said. I told her about the break-in. “Oh, for god’s sake, Tom,” she said again, with considerably more feeling, however. “And the car?”

  “It’s not the first time it seemed to be following me.”

  “Well, you’re right about Hilly staying with me at the hotel,” Linda said. “And if you think I’m going to let Hilly stay with you while Jack and I are in Australia, you’d better think again.”

  “Mo-om!”

  “No argument, young lady,” Linda said. “You’re coming to Australia and that’s that.”

  “As difficult as it is for me to say this,” I said, “I think your mother’s right.”

  “Da-ad!”

  With Linda and Hilly and their luggage safely tucked away in the Sylvia Hotel on Beach, a stone’s throw from the western entrance to Stanley Park, I drove back across the Burrard Street Bridge with Beatrix and Harry, their little pink noses poking through the wire grille of the travel carrier strapped into the seat beside me, black eyes watchful. The Sylvia’s night manager had been adamant: Sorry, no pets, even if they were cute as hell. It was 11:15 when I parked in the row of spaces reserved for residents of Sea Village. I unloaded Beatrix and Harry’s travel carrier and didn’t notice the grey Toyota Corolla with the bashed-in front fender parked on the other side of the guardrail until the passenger door opened and a tall black man climbed out and said, “Excuse me, sir. A word, please.”

  His voice was soft and apologetic, with a tr
ace of what sounded like a British accent but wasn’t. He was a handful of inches over six feet, long-limbed and whip-thin. A shorter and much broader man got out of the driver’s side of the car. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to; there was an almost palpable aura of menace about him.

  “Have you been following me?” I asked, voice hoarse with tension.

  The black man bowed his head briefly. “Yes, we were. Our apologies. I must say, however, that that was a rather nasty manoeuvre you pulled earlier. If Mr. Rogers’ reflexes were not what they are, we surely would have added to the damage our vehicle has already sustained. As it is, the car hire agency is not going to be pleased with us.”

  “Mr. Rogers?” I said. “And I suppose you’re the Friendly Giant. Or maybe you’re Mr. Dressup.” He was wearing a flowing yellow shirt, loose green trousers, and sandals with socks. Mr. Rogers was wearing a tight, slightly shiny business suit, shirt, and tie. He wouldn’t have looked any less threatening in a cardigan and slippers.

  “The references are unfamiliar to me,” the black man said. “My name is Evans.”

  “Rogers and Evans. Right. Where’s Gabby Hayes?” Mr. Evans stared blankly at me. Mr. Rogers coughed. It might have been a laugh, but there was no humour in the hard sound. “Why are you following me?” I asked.

  “We are curious about your relationship with Conrad Eberhardt,” Mr. Evans said.

  “Who?”

  “Possibly you know him by another name.”

  “Or two,” I said. “But if you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about, we don’t have a relationship.”

  “We believe Mr. Eberhardt may have entrusted to your care something that belongs to our employers.”

  “Assuming we’re talking about the same person, all that Mr. Eberhardt entrusted to me, in a manner of speaking, were his mortal remains. And that was unintentional, I’m sure.”