WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Well … ’ I tap my nails on my coffee cup. ‘I’d like to see the aurora borealis. And be part of a dog-sled race. And eat a whole maple syrup pie.’

  ‘One of those I can make come true right now.’

  He summons the waitress but then surprises me by requesting the bill.

  ‘So I take it we’re not going with the maple syrup pie option?’ My heart slumps a little.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, throwing down a flutter of notes as he gets to his feet.

  ‘Th-thank you for dinner!’ I stammer after him. It really was perfect. ‘Where are we going exactly?’

  ‘Give me five minutes and all will be revealed.’

  ‘All?’ I repeat, slightly concerned.

  But this time he doesn’t reply.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  No sooner are we out on the street, he turns to the left and strides confidently down the hill. Meanwhile I am still inching along, making sure I have something to grab at should I skid on the ice.

  ‘You’re like a little old lady,’ he laughs as he turns to check on me.

  ‘Oh don’t!’ I call back. ‘The other day I had an OAP help me across the street!’

  ‘I think we need to set up a zipline between the buildings so you can get around a bit faster.’

  ‘Sounds more like your style.’

  He smiles as he returns to my side. ‘You know, a guy actually walked on a tightrope between the top floor of Château Frontenac and the Price Building over here …’ He points to a stunning Metropolis-style skyscraper with a Kryptonite green glow at its peak.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I gawp up at where he would have tiptoed across.

  ‘Took him fifteen minutes. No safety net.’

  ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘No!’ he chuckles. ‘It was a Frenchman, on official business – part of the four hundredth anniversary celebrations for the city.’

  ‘Ohh.’

  ‘But I think I might have a quicker way to transport you.’

  Before I can speculate on what that might be, he bends down, throws me over his shoulder and jogs down the street with me squealing all the way.

  We’re practically back at my hotel when he sets me down.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I grip at my heart. ‘That was crazy!’

  I’m still experiencing the sensation of being jiggled upside down and grabbing at the cashmere of his coat when he takes my hand and leads me away from my auberge, towards the art deco doors of the Hotel Clarendon.

  At which point I dig in my heels.

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘They have a room with a particular view … ’

  I know I probably should walk away but curiosity gets the better of me, and we are so close to my auberge I feel as if I have my own safety net of sorts.

  ‘Coming in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. With only the faintest echo of Laurie’s caution to misbehave with the right person …

  The lobby is creaky with historic charm – vintage luggage trunks, potted palms, even one of those wrought-iron reception cages. I half expect Hercule Poirot to be studying us from behind a newspaper.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he greets the receptionist. ‘Do you have room 409 available?’

  She checks and tells him yes.

  He takes out a bundle of notes. ‘How much?’

  ‘How many nights?’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘Er,’ I tug at his sleeve.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll only be there an hour.’

  ‘Oh great!’ I roll my eyes – way to make me feel like a prostitute.

  ‘Do you need any help with the baggage?’ the receptionist asks.

  ‘No I can manage her.’ He winks at me.

  I go to reprimand him but realise I don’t even know his name – not that he’d even tell me his real one. Besides, he’s already at the lift.

  Again I hesitate.

  ‘Trust me,’ he says, holding the door for me.

  ‘Well that’s just the problem,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t.’

  Room 409 is warm, spacious, and dressed head to toe in a soothing sage. Deliberately avoiding the bed, I make a beeline for the old-fashioned desk and peer out of the window to its right – there’s my darling Auberge Place D’Armes! I can almost see myself over there, sitting alone with my laptop in my fleur-de-lys attic, had the evening taken a different turn.

  I hope I’m not crossing into dangerous territory here. I suppose I could always grab an icicle off the eaves and wield that in lieu of a knife.

  ‘Come join me in the bathroom!’ I hear him call to me.

  ‘What kind of an offer is that?’ I frown, peering tentatively around the doorframe.

  He’s patting the closed toilet seat. ‘Come sit!’

  ‘You know there’s a sofa out here?’

  ‘But this is the best view.’

  I must be in his thrall because I do as he says, albeit perching on the very edge.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Open the curtains.’

  I lean forward and swish them apart. Down the street I see Simons department store and Le Sachem – the First Nations shop where I stocked up on incense sticks and pondered the appeal of earrings with mink baubles. I see the black night sky and then what I think are streaks of city colour reflected on the water … Only instead of your typical streetlamp yellow a luminous purple seeps into emerald green then merges with vivid orange, now electric blue …

  ‘You’re looking at the aurora borealis.’

  I twist back to face him. ‘I thought we had to be out in the wilds to see that?’

  ‘Not this one – that is the name of the city’s light installation. The colours are playing on the grain silos at the Old Port.’

  I lean closer. I can just about discern the towers now. The merging and changing of the colours is hypnotic.

  ‘I like the purple best,’ I tell him.

  And then his thigh starts vibrating.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he says, consulting his phone and stepping into the other room.

  I kneel closer to the window, arms resting on the ledge, looking like a little kid saying her goodnight prayers to the stars. In my mind my black coat becomes a white nightie and my hair coils into ringlets. If I squint a little I can see Peter Pan swooping and prancing around the snow-spangled rooftops.

  ‘What’s that other building down there, the one that’s all lit up with pink?’

  I wait for a response but none is forthcoming.

  ‘The one on the corner.’

  Again, nothing.

  I go to call his name but realise I still don’t know it.

  ‘Oh Master of Disguise!’ I get to my feet. ‘Did you fall asleep in there?’

  I peer into the shadowy room. ‘Hello?’ I turn on the lights just to be sure he’s not hiding. And then check the wardrobe and under the bed.

  Nope, he’s definitely gone.

  I sigh. What did I expect? This is entirely in keeping with his behaviour to date.

  I look at my watch. It’s pretty late. I wonder if I should wait here – he might have needed to step outside the building to take the call; lord knows his conversations would need to be private.

  I wander back to the desk and pick up a be-ribboned package of chocolate-covered cherries, or ‘cerises enrobées de chocolat noir’ as the French far more seductively describe them. I’m thinking these will make a very nice going-home present when my phone rings.

  ‘Talk about leaving a girl hanging—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve had such a busy day.’

  ‘Jacques!’ I gasp.

  ‘We had a big group in for a night ride, I’m only just getting back now.’

  ‘Oh-h,’ I croak, still too surprised to form a whole word.

  ‘Sorry, it was a bit noisy out there, I’m inside now.’

  Just as well he couldn’t hear me. Or see me for that matter – just how would I explain my current situation?

  ‘I missed see
ing you today.’

  My heart dips and swoops. I can’t believe he said that!

  ‘Me too,’ I smile into the phone.

  ‘I was wondering if you might be free for dinner tomorrow night?’

  A huge grin takes over my face. ‘Yes!’ Oh my goodness! ‘I’d love that!

  ‘I have a six p.m. meeting in town so I could pick you up after that?’

  ‘Fantastic! In fact, let me give you the address of Gilles’ studio. We’ll be going through the photos and I’m not sure how long it’s going to take but you could come along and help us put names to the dogs’ faces … ’

  ‘Sounds like fun!’

  ‘Marvellous!’

  ‘So,’ he sighs. ‘Sleep well!’

  I will now! I think to myself.

  There’s just the matter of transferring back to my own hotel room.

  As I descend in the lift I wonder if I need to officially check out? But what if he does come back? I don’t want to do him out of a room he’s already paid for.

  ‘Oui madame?’ the receptionist responds to my hovering.

  ‘Did that man I was with say anything before he left?’

  ‘I didn’t see him leave, madame.’

  I nod. Of course not. ‘So no message for room 409?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Well, here’s the key.’

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘He was just showing me the lights on the grain silos.’

  She nods. I’m sure she’s heard it all before.

  I step out of the heavy doors and into the frisky chill of the night. It actually feels good. Cleansing. I edge back to my hotel with a very different mindset to how I began the day. Earlier I was verging on melancholy but now I have so much to look forward to, I feel so very lucky. A real dinner date with Jacques! I wonder where we’ll go? Not that it matters, I just love to be in his company …

  I’m settling into my bed when I hear the jangle of an alarm followed by sirens. But I don’t even bother putting in my earplugs – the mood I’m in, it sounds like the sweetest lullaby …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I breakfast on pious oatmeal and purifying green tea and then, with half an hour to spare before Annique picks me up, decide to take a closer look at the pink-lit building from last night. (From my guidebook I’ve deduced that it is the Musée de L’Amérique Français, the oldest museum in all of Canada, set on the site of an old seminary or theology college.)

  I step out with enthusiasm but can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt when I see the Hotel Clarendon squaring off at me on the street corner. I have to say I hope that’s the last I see of Mal, as Laurie nicknamed him during our early morning exchange.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if he’s flying your plane home tomorrow!’ she teased.

  ‘Oh don’t!’ I wailed. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him turning up as a stewardess.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you fell for his, “Come up and see my aurora borealis” line! It’s even worse than etchings!’

  ‘I know.’

  I’m starting to feel a bit sordid about our fraternising last night. If only I’d known Jacques was going to ask me to dinner, I would’ve been more than happy with a slice of quiche and an early night.

  I turn the corner and then immediately stop in my tracks. The building has been cordoned off and there are police and TV crews bustling outside.

  I actually recognise one of the policemen and quickly backtrack, not wanting to get myself a reputation as a crime scene regular. That’s when I find myself looking up at the Hotel Clarendon, and the window looking down on this very spot. The window I was standing in last night. Slightly regret chatting to the receptionist now, drawing extra attention to the fact that Mal had gone scuttling out into the night. And then I realise he could be up there right now and I give a little shudder.

  Not sure quite what else to do, I scuttle back into my auberge Reception.

  ‘Gosh, there’s a lot of commotion outside,’ I breeze innocently. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘There was a cambriolage … ’ The receptionist clicks her fingers trying to think of the word.

  ‘A burglary?’ I voice my worst thought.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘There was a collection of bishops’ rings in the museum. Very rare. Very valuable.’

  So now he’s a jewel thief.

  She goes on to tell me that a fake Bonhomme was arrested down by the ferry – a decoy paid to send the police in the wrong direction …

  I think I need to lie down. I go to turn away but then she says, ‘We have another package for you.’

  Oh no. I gulp. I don’t even want to take it. I get the feeling it will only draw me in deeper.

  As I stand paralysed I have a fleeting thought about packing up and leaving a day early, just to escape all the complications, but how could I possibly miss out on my dinner date with Jacques? Just thinking of him now makes my insides melt like brie.

  Besides, I’m sure I’m worrying unnecessarily. Mal wouldn’t want to get me in trouble. We got along. We had a good time. Oh god, am I his alibi?

  ‘No officer, I was in Room 409 at the Hotel Clarendon with Krista Carter, just ask her.’

  That would go down a storm with Jacques, I’m sure.

  ‘Here it is.’ The receptionist presents me with a bubble-wrapped box.

  ‘Thank you,’ I wince, and take the ticking time bomb up the stairs with me.

  For the longest time I can’t bring myself to open it.

  ‘You have to!’ Laurie insists.

  ‘Do I though? What if I took it back downstairs and told them to say I never picked it up. I could change hotels—’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘What if I went back to the Hôtel de Glace?’

  ‘Yes, because you really want him to track you there in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Good point,’ I shiver, imagining trying to get away from him while still wearing my sleeping bag, hopping along like I’m in a sack race.

  ‘The snow sweeping over your footprints, leaving no trace.’

  ‘All right, all right … ’ I begin pacing the floor.

  ‘Listen, if you play your cards right tonight, you could end up back chez Jacques and what could feel safer than that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I concur. Even someone as off-the-wall as Mal is no match for ninety-eight huskies, a Samoyed and a German shepherd that already knows his scent.

  ‘Do you think I should tell him?’

  ‘What – that you were dining with the enemy? Or that you checked into a hotel room with him?’

  Oh cripes. That doesn’t sound good. ‘Could I pretend that I was investigating him, trying to get a handle on his identity?’

  ‘Have you opened that package yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well if you want to do it with me here, you have to do it now. I’ve got a conference call with Miami tourism in five minutes.’

  ‘Florida,’ I murmur. ‘Don’t they have a lot of witness protection relocations there?’

  ‘Krista!’

  ‘Okay.’ I sit down on the bed. ‘I’m doing it.’

  I tear off the bubble wrap and then slowly slide up the lid of the dark blue box.

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  Laurie squeals with impatience. ‘Severed elk toe, what?’

  ‘It’s one of the rings from the collection.’

  She gives a breathy inhale. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Beautiful – pale amethyst in an old gold setting. Kind of like a big cocktail ring.’

  ‘Is it a gift?’

  ‘Wait, there’s a note.’ I open the piece of paper. ‘I’ll trade you the rest of the rings for that email address.’

  ‘What email address?’

  I lean back on the headboard. ‘I made this big deal about having the perfect solution to his hyperactive brain and compulsion to live
on the edge.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It’s actually to do with Cirque du Soleil. They’ve got this charity programme called One Drop … ’

  I give her the lowdown.

  ‘So, you’re hoping he’ll switch over to the good side?’

  ‘Well that was before I started thinking he was really crazy. I don’t want to inflict a psychopath on them.’

  ‘But what if he’s not? What if he does have all this money and he’s just been looking for the right place to spend it?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking!’ I sigh. ‘So what do I do now?’

  ‘You make the trade.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Somewhere public, of course.’

  ‘The note says to meet him at the ski joring event at the Carnival.’

  ‘And what, pray tell, is ski joring?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve been meaning to find out.’ For a second I’m in a daze, and then I gulp. ‘You don’t think I’m in any real danger, do you?’

  ‘Take Annique with you,’ Laurie advises.

  ‘You really think she’s the best bodyguard?’

  ‘At least you know everyone will be looking your way with her around, so there’ll be lots of witnesses.’

  ‘Oh that’s comforting.’

  ‘Listen. I really think he’s all about the thrill. I don’t think there’s malevolence there, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know any more.’

  ‘I think he just did this to impress you.’

  ‘Why would he want to impress me? I’m nobody.’

  ‘These flamboyant types have to have an audience.’

  ‘But why me, Laurie?’

  ‘You say yourself you are one of life’s observers. And you’re curious. He knew you’d pay close attention to him.’

  I sit forward, head in my hands.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘Have a good meeting.’

  ‘And you.’

  This is utterly surreal. And more than a little scary. Is this what happens when you say you want more life in your life?

  Without being conscious of what I am doing, I try the ring on. These bishops must have had small hands back in the day because the fit is exact.

  I walk into the bathroom to admire the most expensive piece of jewellery I’ve ever worn.

  Shame it’s stolen property.