by Joan Boswell
“Do you ask who they are?”
“Yes, they won’t say.” She shuddered. “Then there are the calls where someone breathes heavily—I’ve had those too. I’m convinced they aren’t random, that someone wants to scare me, to stop me from searching for my brother.” Again her gaze focused on the toddler. “I’m afraid for Elizabeth. Her daycare is secure, but I’ve warned them to be extra careful, not to allow her to leave with anyone but me.”
If there had been more calls, and they did relate to Danson’s disappearance, it was another reason to worry and to take the problem seriously. “Is it happening more often than usual?”
“Maybe I’m exaggerating the number, but it has been happening. The breathers upset me the most.”
“Creepy. Have you reported them to the police or thought about getting an unlisted number?”
“I have, but what about Danson? What if he needs help, and when he calls the number, is no longer in service? No, I couldn’t do that.”
“Would your mother know where he is or what he’s doing?”
“Poppy!” Candace’s eyebrows rose. “As I said, Poppy lacks the maternal gene and the ‘worry’ gene. She figures things will work out, and for her they usually do. Right now it’s even more unlikely that she knows anything or has talked to Danson about anything serious.”
“Why is that?”
“Something’s preoccupying her or maybe them. Alberto, an Argentinean, is Poppy’s business partner. I’m sure he’d like to be more than that, but Poppy has had a long-term relationship with someone. We’ve never met him, and she’s been careful not to mention his name. Recently I’ve had the sense that something has happened to him or to their relationship, because she’s seemed sad. From a lifetime of experience, I can tell you Poppy doesn’t spill the beans until she’s good and ready. Worrying about Danson isn’t on her agenda at the moment. When I tried to talk to her about him, she fluttered her hands dismissively and said, ‘Danson will be fine.’” She paused. “Families. Always something.”
“I only have my mother, who’s an accountant determined to save the environment. She’s in Halifax. Although we talk once a week, if she isn’t off on an ecological tour, it’s a tenuous connection. She’s obsessive about her causes and isn’t interested in my life. I’d give anything to have a close family. I envy you.”
Candace’s eyes widened. “You’re right. Because I’m always worrying about Poppy, Danson or Elizabeth, I sometimes forget how much I love them. Poppy and Alberto are coming to dinner tonight. Join us and see what information you can winkle out of them.”
“Tell me about Alberto.”
“I don’t know much. Spanish is his first language, and he isn’t that fluent in English.” She grinned. “Poppy talks for both of them. She and Alberto own and run a dance studio on Queen Street west and compete professionally in ballroom dancing. They specialize in Latin American dances, particularly the tango. That’s another reason she isn’t worrying about Danson. She and Alberto are flying to Vancouver this coming week for a major dance competition.
“They’re business partners. They don’t live together because Poppy adores Siamese cats. Certainly the current two, Bubbles and Smokey, run the show. Alberto’s allergic to cats. He can’t spend five minutes in Poppy’s apartment without grabbing for his inhaler. Poppy would not give them up. She once said her cats provided continuity and kept her anchored to reality.”
When she heard the cats’ names, Elizabeth shouted, “Bubbles, go see Bubbles?” When no one responded, her voice rose and became more insistent.
Candace stopped talking, bent down to Elizabeth’s eye level and smiled at her. “No sweetie, not today. Poppy’s coming up for dinner, but she’s not bringing them. You have MacTee—you don’t need the cats.” She looked up at Hollis. “Use your detecting skills and find out what the hell is going on with Poppy. She loves an audience. Not surprising, considering what she did for years.”
People and the details of their lives fascinated Hollis. She supposed that was why she’d taught social history, the story of ordinary people. In intimate conversations, she’d found that there was a confessional pattern. Individuals wound their way into a tale, always aware if the listener lost interest or found intimate details shocking. She found that revelations grew increasingly significant if she didn’t comment but listened attentively. Some Americans surprised her, because they readily revealed the most private details on the shortest of acquaintances.
“What did Poppy do before?” Hollis asked.
“Right now she not only dances in competitions herself but also designs and sews costumes for other ballroom dancers.” A faint smile twitched at the corners of Candace’s lips. “Not for those with whom she competes. There’s a strict code the dresses must conform to, or the wearer is disqualified.” She twirled a strand of Elizabeth’s fine hair around her finger. “But these are second careers.” Her eyes danced.
A big revelation was coming.
“What was the first?”
“Exotic dancer,” Candace said with raised eyebrows. “Bet you weren’t expecting to hear that.” She grimaced. “Thirty years ago, I don’t think it was quite so awful—more like old-fashioned burlesque.” Her eyebrows rose, “At least that’s what I choose to believe. I do know lap-dancing wasn’t allowed.”
Hollis stretched her mind around the idea. You seldom thought about parents’ younger lives.
“Poppy also creates outfits for people for special occasions—Mardi Gras, Hallowe’en, fancy dress balls. She’s talented. If the arrival and departure of UPS trucks is any indication, she does a steady business.”
“Is the dance studio profitable?”
“Something must be. She lives well. Three or four years ago she made a great fuss about buying an expensive fireproof safe. Said she needed to protect her valuables. When I asked what that meant, she winked and said it was better for me not to know.” Candace shrugged. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s something I don’t want to hear.”
Hollis revised her view of Candace’s mother. Who thinks that a friend’s middle-aged mother has been an exotic dancer, let alone has secret sources of money? Given this information, she wondered to whom the house belonged. She paid her rent to Candace, but if Candace owned the house, wouldn’t she live on the first floor?
“Is this her house?”
“Because I live on the second floor?”
Hollis nodded.
“It’s mine,” Candace paused. “Well, to be precise, the mortgage company and I own it. I live upstairs because no one wants to have a dancer over her head and certainly not a night hawk who may have a tango inspiration at three a.m. As it is, I sleep with ear plugs. Poppy claims volume allows the music to penetrate ‘the essence of her being’.”
Elizabeth climbed onto Candace’s knee and snuggled against her. Candace pulled her close. “Hollis, tell me quickly what else you need to know about Danson?” She buried her nose in the toddler’s hair. “You will never know how wonderful it is to have an ally, a friend who knows the ropes.”
“I’m flattered, but don’t get your hopes up. I’ll do my best, but I’ve never searched for a missing person.”
Hollis had been making mental lists, an embryonic attack plan. Their first priority was to decide if Danson had left of his own free will.
“If it’s not an invasion of Danson’s privacy, we should examine his apartment and possessions. You said the man who rents the room isn’t there. What’s his schedule for coming to Toronto?”
“Haven’t a clue. Gregory was here briefly a couple of weeks ago. Danson said he’d like me to meet him the next time he came to Toronto.” She paused. “I can be more precise. He was there two weeks ago when you were here for lunch. If you remember, Danson said Gregory would leave in the morning, and he didn’t know when he’d be back, but we’d meet him when he did make another appearance.”
Sometimes roommates were not as they presented themselves. It was a theme Hollywood had explored in a num
ber of movies where a seemingly innocuous roommate emerged as a psychopathic killer.
“Where did Danson connect with Gregory?”
“It was the other way around. Gregory found Danson. Apparently he hung out with Danson’s crowd at Concordia University in Montreal. Anyway, it’s a perfect setup. Danson needs the money to carry the apartment’s costs, and Gregory won’t often be there.”
“A visit to the apartment is first on our list.”
The tension around Candace’s mouth and eyes had lessened marginally. She ventured a smile. “It will be such a relief to do something. I’m wearing out my phone flipping it open, hoping there’s a message. You may think I’m extremely paranoid, but I’m wondering if I should file a missing persons report with the police?”
“Good question. Why don’t you wait until we’ve seen his apartment?”
“I guess a few more hours won’t hurt,” Candace said slowly and reluctantly. She shook her head. “For him not to have phoned...he knows how I feel. It’s not like him. My sixth sense tells me he’s in terrible trouble.”
Four
Hollis itched to get going, to visit Danson’s apartment and search for signs that he hadn’t intended to be away for an extended period. Despite Candace’s anxiety, Elizabeth’s shoes came first.
“You and Elizabeth are going shopping, aren’t you?” Hollis asked.
Elizabeth, sitting on Candace’s knee, straightened her legs and shook her feet. “New shoes, new shoes,” she chanted as she kicked.
“She has her afternoon nap first. Then we go.” Candace placed a restraining hand on Elizabeth’s legs. “Now that you’ve agreed to help, I hate to waste a minute, but Elizabeth will be a bear if she doesn’t sleep. After that, I don’t have a choice—we must buy shoes.” She lowered Elizabeth to the floor and steered her toward the door. “No matter how often I repeat it, you’ll never realize the extent of my gratitude. You can’t know how relieved I am that we’re doing something.” She stopped halfway to the hall. “I have a set of Danson’s keys, including those for the front door, mail box, apartment door and garage. To speed things up, why don’t I hand them over and let you begin?”
Action at last. “Terrific. The garage. What does Danson drive?”
“He leases a sporty car. I don’t know the make. It’s silver and not expensive. I’m an idiot when it comes to cars, but it’s pretty spiffy.” She corralled Elizabeth. “We’ll shop quickly and join you. Since you’ll have Danson’s keys, buzz us in when we arrive.”
“Before I go, I’ll grab some things—printer paper, notebook, camera, and maybe the thin plastic gloves I use when I construct papier mâché sculptures.”
Candace held the toddler’s shoulder as if she wanted to steady herself, as if Elizabeth’s warm body provided stability and anchored her to reality. She shivered. “They say you do that when someone walks over your grave. It scares me to realize you’re taking gloves so that we won’t contaminate anything in case this becomes serious.”
“Probably silly, but I’ve watched too many episodes of Law and Order and CSI not to think it’s important.” Hollis changed the subject. No point in upsetting Candace any more than necessary. “Write down the instructions for driving to Danson’s. I’m hopeless with verbal directions, and I’m not that familiar with Toronto.”
A few minutes later, after she’d walked MacTee, Hollis parked her truck across from a rambling three-storey brick house on Bernard Street. A relatively new three-car garage filled most of what had been a large garden beside the house. She sorted the keys, clutched what she thought might be the right one for the garage and, not wanting to alert or alarm anyone peering out of the window, walked confidently to the small door and inserted the key. It worked, and she entered the gloomy, musty space, where she flicked the light switch next to the door. A sedate dark-green Nissan sedan occupied one parking spot.
One question answered. Danson’s car was gone.
In the building’s vestibule, she confronted a closed door, three mailboxes and buzzers. Danson did not have his name anywhere. This surprised her. Advice columns warned single women not to advertise their state; to use an initial or simply a surname to indicate where they lived. She wouldn’t have thought the advice applied to men. But given Danson’s tracking obsession, maybe this was a wise precaution. Fortunately, the other tenants’ bells were marked. She’d chat with them if the situation was serious.
She felt silly when she slipped on clear plastic gloves but ignored the feeling. She had a job to do.
No newspaper on the shelf under the mailboxes. That proved nothing. Danson probably picked up the Sun, Metro or Star on his travels.
After she inserted the key, the door flipped open, and mail tumbled out. She scooped it from the floor and bundled it into her large purse before she unlocked the door to the stairs leading up to apartment two. Inside the stairwell, it smelled stale, as if nothing had disturbed the air for days.
Upstairs, she unlocked Danson’s front door, stepped inside a miniscule hall and took in what she saw. It fit the category—student transitting to young adult. Because of Danson’s age and occupation, she’d expected college dorm or family castoffs. Clearly he’d shopped at Zellers or IKEA—she recognized the white assemble-it-yourself furniture. The black leather sofa and club chairs in the living room shrieked newness. Probably bought to replace a worn-out couch or a futon.
She flipped through the bills, flyers and letters she’d carried upstairs. No mail for Gregory—he remained the mystery man without a surname. Nothing useful, nothing she thought might relate to Danson’s disappearance. She dropped the mail on the narrow white hall table. It too was a particleboard DIY creation, no doubt emitting toxic formaldehyde fumes.
Her first priority was to determine if Danson had intended to be away for an extended period. The bathroom would give her a clue. Inside the white room, she opened the vanity’s door. A brown leather shaving kit, stacks of toilet paper and clean white towels occupied the space.
An electric toothbrush and toothpaste sat beside the sink in a mug commemorating a lacrosse tournament.
The medicine cabinet held two bottles of painkillers, a tiny bottle of wart remover, nonprescription allergy medication and a canister of Noxzema shaving cream. She opened a drawer in the vanity and found an extra tube of toothpaste, a package of unused razors and a hairbrush.
A clean-shaven young man did not leave without his shaving kit and toiletries. He had not intended to be away overnight. Now the question was—where had he gone and why?
She left the bathroom and moved methodically through the apartment. First, on her right, the kitchen. Four items graced the scarred Formica countertop—toaster, coffee maker, bean grinder half-full of beans and a telephone. She lifted the receiver and heard the buzz of a line. No beeps to indicate messages. Since she knew Candace had left messages, this meant Danson owned an answering machine. Because she would have required a PIN combination to access messages recorded by the phone company, she welcomed this knowledge.
Now for a gander in the refrigerator. She found the usual array of condiments, soft drinks and beer along with some small containers of yogurt, two light caesar salad bags and greenish uncooked chicken encased in plastic wrap on a styrofoam tray. Time-dated food long past the best-before date. More confirmation that Danson had not planned to be away for long.
In the master bedroom, two framed posters—lacrosse players in action—provided colour. The utilitarian navy-blue duvet and pillow cases, white chest of drawers, white bedside table, gooseneck lamp and clock radio were minimalist. The bed was made and the closet doors shut. Although she wasn’t familiar with Danson’s wardrobe, she peered in the cupboard and found nothing but clothes and shoes.
On top of the bureau, Danson’s cell phone was plugged into a charger. More evidence to support her growing conviction that he had not planned a trip.
Perhaps that explained why he hadn’t called?
There were many locations without cell phone acces
sibility but few without telephone service. The high Arctic, the northern tundra—not places Danson was likely to visit.
Would learning that Danson didn’t have his cell phone make Candace feel better, even explain why he hadn’t phoned? No way. It would give her even more reason to worry—few young men travelled far without a cell phone.
She plucked her notebook from her shoulder bag, copied his cell phone address book and wrote down the names of those whom he’d contacted and those who had called him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a photo phone. She knew how useful they could be. Recently she’d read that many companies had outlawed cell phones, since they provided such an easy way for staff or visitors to steal confidential information.
The second bedroom, impersonal as a motel room, epitomized austerity. If Gregory intended to establish a homey base in Toronto, he hadn’t accomplished his goal.
She’d deal with establishing Gregory’s identity later. Danson was her priority.
Back to the combination living room/dining room. A wall of Venetian blinds, no curtains, off-white walls. A collection of tall, healthy palms and ficus in large black self-watering pots clustered near the windows. The pristine leather furniture grouped around a small TV set on a worn chest of drawers flanked by three bookcases.
Books revealed facets of a reader’s character. Danson had kept his college texts, along with books on kinesiology, brain patterning, psychological treatises on abnormal behaviour, books on treason, on the organization of the courts, on criminal law and more prosaic volumes on lacrosse. An interesting collection.
A sound system, CDs, jazz and more jazz, along with black cardboard file boxes, and large photo albums filled the remaining shelves. A peek inside the boxes confirmed that Danson seldom threw anything away, as he’d saved memorabilia from his life along with outdated files and receipts. The photo albums, arranged chronologically, revealed his devotion to his family and to Angie, his murdered fiancée.
