“Tomorrow is Friday. How about after you close up shop?”
“Fine. About seven o’clock? I’ll close early.”
The air outside remained as sultry and still as it had for the past month. In the distance, I heard the low rumble of thunder, and heat lightning flashed on the horizon. What I wouldn’t give for a violent summer thunderstorm, complete with crashing thunder, lightning and a torrential downpour. Like everybody else, I had stopped expecting it. A storm had seemed imminent for weeks, but it never broke.
I worked for the Blackshore Hydro Commission and was aware that the company was buying from the power grids in record quantities. A lot of the extra power was required for the air conditioners you could no longer buy for any amount of money. Even electric fans were scarce.
My car was equipped with air conditioning, and so was my bungalow on Whitsun Street. I eyed it as I passed by on the way to my mother’s house a few blocks over on Queenston Heights Crescent. I thought of phoning Conklin and telling him I was staying at my own house for the night, but discarded that idea for a better one. It would take several hours for the air conditioner to cool my house, but I could stay at Mom’s in my old room. I’d run back to Hammersleigh in the morning for fresh clothes before work.
I pulled into my mother’s driveway and cut the engine. This house I grew up in was a bungalow too, but much more spacious and better decorated than mine. I had bought mine two years ago after my divorce from Dennis. He took the marital home, which was fine because Mitch was just starting university and I needed a change. Somehow I never got around to doing much decorating.
Just look at me now though. I lived in a mansion. The situation was ludicrous, although some might envy me if they weren’t acquainted with Conklin and Jacqueline.
I opened the front door. “Mom, are you home? It’s me, are you here?”
There was no answer, but I knew she had to be somewhere in the house, since the lights were on in the kitchen and living room. In case she was in the sunroom at the back of the house and couldn’t hear me over the hum of the air conditioner, I raised my voice. “Mom, it’s me, Lyris. Where are you?”
By this time I was standing in the living room near the hall that led to the bedrooms. I heard the sound of scurrying feet across hardwood floors. The noise was coming from the direction of my mother’s room. Alarms went off in my head, but at that moment, my mother stepped out of her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
“Why, Lyris, what a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you. You look hot. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of herbal tea.”
She was wearing a thin cotton wrapper and her short hair tumbled around her face. She saw my glance and put her hands up to tidy it. Her face was pink and I could see that she was nervous or upset about something. A vague idea was forming in my mind. Just then, a man came into the kitchen and put an arm across my mother’s shoulder.
Would somebody just shoot me? It was John Brixton, the staid lawyer who was steering me through the intricacies of Uncle Patrick’s will. He wore a blue-striped terrycloth bathrobe and nothing underneath if the bare feet and legs were any indication. I didn’t know where to look.
Mom flushed even pinker and moved closer to him. I felt my own face grow hot. I eyed the door, but Mr. Brixton was blocking it.
He said to my mother, “Sorry, Maureen. I didn’t think cowering in the bedroom was the right way to handle this. Lyris is a grown woman and we shouldn’t have to hide what we feel for each other from her.”
Not so fast. Certain things could, and should, be withheld from a sensitive daughter. I had blundered into a love tryst. My insides squirmed, but I knew that the next few minutes would make or break my relationship with my mother. I couldn’t afford to say something stupid.
My father and Mr. Brixton had been partners in the law firm of Powers, Pembrooke and Brixton, and the two men and their wives were personal friends as well. Dad died seven years ago and Elva Brixton a year or two later. Mom had moved to Victoria several years ago when my brother, David, and his wife had their first child. She returned for Uncle Patrick’s funeral two months ago, and I knew she and John Brixton had been in telephone contact since. Now she was back for good and just when did all this happen?
Mr. Brixton offered David a partnership in the firm and was accepted. It meant that my entire family—brother, sister-in-law, two-year-old nephew, infant niece, and mother—would be together again in Blackshore. David and his family were flying in the next week and planned to rent my house until they could decide where to build. Mom had opened up her own house just days before I moved into Hammersleigh, and I looked forward to spending a lot of time with her.
I glanced from one to the other, not knowing what to say or how to get out of there and leave everybody’s dignity intact. John Brixton was a handsome, fit man in his early seventies and I could understand why my mother was attracted to his physical appearance. From what I could see, and I could see plenty, he still had most of his hair and teeth. But I had always considered him the slightest bit stuffy. Not a natural companion for someone like my mother.
At the age of 71, Mom was fun loving and busy with many of the activities and clubs Blackshore had to offer its senior citizens. Five foot three, she was six inches shorter than I, and gifted with natural silvery-blond hair, light blue eyes and a flawless complexion.
My brother and I tell outsiders we take after our father, but the truth is more sinister. A dominant Irish gene mutated many generations back and created a spate of tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed Pembrookes in Bruce County. Think Children of the Corn, featuring Italian actors.
“Lyris.” My mother’s voice was tentative. “Do you want to sit down and talk about this?”
“No, no. There’s no need to explain anything to me. I’m just sorry for barging in on you this way. I think it’s wonderful that you and Mr. Brixton have found each other. I just hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting…”
Wrong word. I knew it as soon as it was out of my mouth.
“Ah...walking in without knocking.”
Despite the coolness of the room, I could feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. I was desperate to make things right before I left.
They must have felt sorry for me. Mom relaxed a little and patted my arm, while John Brixton steered me over to an armchair. I collapsed into it and exhaustion overtook me. Too many dawn awakenings were taking their toll.
The lovebirds sat close together on the couch across from me and joined hands. I would have been much more comfortable if Mr. Brixton had taken the time to put his pants on, but I admired his composure. Maybe he wasn’t as stodgy as I believed.
They looked at me with expectant faces. I searched my mind for something to say. I couldn’t tell them the reason for my visit was to beg a cool bed for the night.
I abhorred a vacuum as much as nature did. I opened my mouth and babbled. About my visit to Peter Tackaberry’s shop—I regretted not having my new teapot on my lap to show them—and Peter’s proposed visit to Hammersleigh to look at my room. The subject of Hammersleigh led to Conklin and our cooking feud, although I didn’t use those exact words. I merely mentioned that neither Conklin nor I were very adept at the culinary arts and were beginning to suffer.
I made light of it, but Mr. Brixton had been listening closely. “I’m glad you dropped over tonight, Lyris.”
He said that with a straight face. My respect for the man soared.
“I was going to call you tomorrow, so this will save me the trouble. I have been making discreet enquiries for a new housekeeper. Most respondents were not suitable for one reason or another, but one young lady might do very well. Her name is Caroline Fournier.” He paused and waited for a response.
I shook my head. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me. Is she from around here?”
“Her maiden name is Hanlon. She may be distantly related to you, Maureen.”
My mother, whose maiden name was Hanlon, looked uncertain. “I may know
her grandmother, Letitia.”
“She moved with her parents from Blackshore to Northton when she was a child. She married, but now the marriage has failed and she would like to make a fresh start. Caroline seems very well qualified and I have had her character references checked out.”
Northton is a town even smaller than Blackshore, a mile or two west of us, and there are a lot of Pembrookes living there too. In truth, Pembrookes have pretty much spread themselves all over Bruce County. Hanlons were also thick on the ground.
Mr. Brixton’s said bluntly, “But you will have to decide if she is right for Hammersleigh. Talk with her and make up your own mind. Remember, you and Arthur Conklin will have to live with her.”
He seemed to be choosing his words with care. “I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, Lyris, but remember that Caroline Fournier is the one reasonable candidate we have at this time, and I have been advertising for months. I suggest you give her a chance unless you feel that she would not be suitable for some reason. If she can leave her past behind, her employment at Hammersleigh House might benefit all of you.”
No worries. As long as Caroline could cook and didn’t try to order me around, she was in. I had no other criteria. I would turn her over to Conklin and that would both get him off my back and relieve me of the duties I was ill-equipped to perform. Like washing the dog and supervising the cleaning team. Maybe she would even do my laundry. In retrospect, I should have been thinking long-term, not immediate gratification.
“When can I interview her?”
“How about tomorrow at five? You will be home from work by then, I believe?”
“Yes, five it is. Thank you, Mr. Brixton.”
“And Lyris, I think that under the circumstances, you might call me John.”
There seemed no more to be said on that subject, and the vacuum loomed again. Just as the silence was becoming awkward, Mom asked, “Has Marc learned anything new about Tommy? I haven’t heard the cause of death or if there are suspicions it wasn’t an accident. It all happened so long ago, of course. But I do remember that reunion, even though I was just a very young child, because of Tommy’s disappearance.”
My nervousness was forgotten. “You were there? How come? You weren’t a Pembrooke then. Tell me about that reunion. Who was there, what led up to Tommy’s disappearance and what happened afterward?”
Mom laughed and put up a hand. “One thing at a time. First of all, I was at that reunion only because my best playmate was a Pembrooke, and I just went along for company. Why don’t you let me think about it and put my thoughts in order? I was just three, but I think I have some pictures. Come over on Monday and we’ll sit down and discuss it. You can tell me what you learned from Marc.”
Others might deny this, but I could take a hint. I left, with smiles all around, and slunk back to Hammersleigh, where I was too demoralized to resent Conklin’s disapproving sniff when he opened the door to my ring. I didn’t even mention to him, yet again, that giving me a key to the front door would solve his problem of having to wait up for me. I didn’t mind that the key to the massive entrance door was six inches long and weighed two pounds. I would gladly lug it around in my purse for the chance to feel like an independent adult again. One of these days I was going to insist on having a key.
I showered, made myself a cup of chamomile tea, and then dropped into bed. And I dreamed of a lost child—either young Tommy or my own infant daughter, I could not be sure. I remember waking up once or twice, feeling upset and alone, and it was a long while before I could shake off the feeling of depression. Finally, I was able to sleep again, dreamless this time, until the dawn chorus performed their morning concert in the maples outside my windows.
CHAPTER 6
“You can’t be serious, Kelly.” I looked at the clerk from the finance unit and refused to take the sheaf of papers she was waving at me. “Since when do office supervisors have to prepare a budget forecast for the next fiscal year? Doesn’t that job belong to you people? Are you sure you have the right person?”
“Quite sure,” she said with an attempt at firmness. She took a step backward before holding out the papers again. “All unit supervisors and section heads have to hand in next year’s budget projections by the end of September.”
“Whose idea is this? My clerical group always correlates the data for the budget preparations and distributes the information, but…”
“This memo will explain everything you need to know. The board of directors has mandated that the manager empower all employees to improve production, and this is Mr. Langelle’s first instruction. And there will be others.” Kelly’s promise sounded like a threat. She held the papers under my nose.
I took them. I did not like the word empower. It was one of the new buzzwords of the new century and meant I could end up doing anything from scrubbing the toilets to making a presentation to the board of directors on the capital cost program. I would do neither well, but the presentation might come off better.
With her hand on the doorknob, Kelly turned back. “Oh, one more thing, Lyris. There will be a general discussion on budget preparation during the next staff communication meeting.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be away all next week. I’m on vacation.” The reunion was closing in on me and I desperately needed at least one free week to do all the things I should have been working on for the past month.
“That’s quite all right. The meeting is the second week of August. You’ll be back by then.”
She closed the door with finality and left me standing with a fistful of trouble. What did I know about budgets? What was a budget, in corporate terms? The cost of a file folder multiplied by the number I expected to use in the next year?
I sat down at my desk and shoved the papers into the top drawer. It was Friday, and I refused to think about budgets until the reunion was nothing but a painful memory, as it surely would become. I slammed the drawer closed and looked around the office to check on my staff.
Faye Amette, my competent payroll clerk, was entering data into the staff information system. Daphne Rourke filed papers like she knew what she was doing, while I knew for a fact she hadn’t a clue. I was interested to see a new piercing in her left eyebrow. Yesterday there had been two, today there were three. The dripping dagger tattoo on her next-to-naked back glistened under the fluorescent lights. However, Daphne’s father was on the board, so what can you do?
Sheila Overton yakked nonstop with two middle-aged customers at the front desk, putting the personal touch into her customer services job. From the back, she resembled a dandelion with her permed blonde hair and swamp-green blouse.
The customers left and were replaced by another woman of indeterminate age. She wore a wide straw hat tied under her chin with a bright orange and yellow scarf. A pair of wraparound sunglasses hid most of her face. I was about to shuffle some papers when the apparition spoke.
“Well, Lyris, this will be the first reunion without Patrick and it will be up to you to make it as successful as possible in his memory. That is quite a responsibility. If I can help in any way, please just ask.”
It was evident from her voice and words that she was well past the first blush of youth and I was related to her. But in the disguise she wore, she could be any one of dozens of great-aunts and great-great-aunts, not to mention second cousins removed to the fifteenth time, all called by the courtesy title of Aunt.
“Thanks, Aunt…ah…but I have it under control. With a bit of luck, the reunion should go off without a hitch. Thanks for the offer, though.” A deer had a better chance of surviving a set of oncoming headlights than I had of pulling off a successful reunion.
I stood beside Sheila and peered into the face. She could be Aunt Iris, Aunt Peony, Aunt Viola…the family tended to favour floral names a couple of generations ago.
“I will be bringing Wisty, at least on the first day. She hasn’t attended a reunion for many years, but the doctors think it would be good for her to get out for a w
hile. I’ll pick her up at Lychwood and take her back when she gets tired.”
Ah. Aunt Clem. Clematis and Wisteria. Tommy’s aunt and mother.
“Of course Aunt Wisty should come to the reunion. I don’t believe I’ve seen her since Uncle Patrick’s will was read.” And what a party that was.
I leaned closer to her. “Aunt Clem, can I come and see you? Perhaps this weekend, if you can spare me a few minutes? I’d like to talk about Tommy. I was the one who found him, you know.” I made myself as small and pathetic as possible, the small part being a real stretch for me.
She didn’t answer, just regarded me through her bug-eyed lenses, so I decided on the direct approach. “It must have been quite a shock when you heard Tommy’s body was found and even worse for Aunt Wisty. I’m sure she’s very upset.”
“As to that, Wisty doesn’t know about it yet. Her doctors feel I should impart the news since Tommy’s disappearance was a major factor in her hospitalization, but I am still trying to find the right words. They think it may relieve her mind to know what happened to him. I have to tell her before the reunion, since someone is sure to mention it then, but I would appreciate your not saying anything to her about Tommy if you should visit her before the reunion.”
I had not visited Aunt Wisty in Lychwood ever, and until this moment I had not realized I was thinking of doing just that. I felt one quick tingle between my shoulder blades.
Aunt Clem scared me. She had been a teacher at Blackshore’s high school for thirty years. In my final year there, Aunt Clem had been my math teacher, and I haven’t recovered yet. To be sure, I did attain my highest grade ever, but that was out of fear, not ability. She tolerated nothing but her students’ best efforts and had a strange talent for knowing what we were going to do before we thought of it. Stay One Step Ahead and Take No Prisoners had to be her motto. A skill no doubt honed during her years of mysterious war service at the infamous Camp X, the secret training base near Whitby, Ontario.
Cheat the Hangman Page 5
