One Way Ticket (A Smith and Hughes Mystery Book 1)

by Jay Forman

  The three screens on the wall in front of us lit up and the words ‘In Memoriam’ were written across each screen. Jocelyn flicked a switch and Edward Elgar’s “Enigma Variation, IX: Nimrod” began to play. I immediately recognised it, having spent two Remembrance Sundays in London standing quietly and respectfully in the crowd at the Cenotaph listening to the Massed Bands of the Household Division play it. It was the perfect piece of music to honour Berkshire’s glorious dead. The words faded away and a photograph of an older man filled all three screens.

  “That’s Mr. Haber.”

  A series of photographs of Mr. Haber started to go by. They chronicled his time at the school and I watched him age at least fifteen years. In every single photograph he was surrounded by happy and laughing young Berksherians. It was easy to tell that he was truly liked by his students. Jocelyn had matched the photographs to the timing of the music so beautifully that I felt sad when the last picture of Mr. Haber went slightly out of focus and his date of birth and date of death faded up over him. Her skilful editing managed to make me feel even sadder as I watched the next series of photographs honouring Miss Knowles.

  “I’ve had to shorten their segments down to get Kayla in, too. I’m just starting to go through the photographs of her, but I’ve got the final frames ready to go.” She clicked and fiddled with some knobs. The music sped up, then slowed down when Jocelyn found the right spot.

  Kayla’s face filled the screens and then went slightly out of focus as her dates of birth and death were superimposed over her – March 18, 1998 - April 7, 2015. Then all three faces, Mr. Haber, Miss Knowles, and Kayla came up on the screen together and, as the music gently trailed off, Rest in peace was written across the screen as if by an invisible quill.

  “It’s beautiful, Jocelyn. As good as the memoriam segment that they show during the Oscars every year.”

  “You really think so?” She looked at me hopefully and the surly girl’s face was completely gone. I’d found her weak spot – she thrived on reassurance.

  “Absolutely!” I wasn’t lying. She’d done a magnificent job. I only wished she’d had the Kayla segment done to give me a glimpse at who Kayla was.

  “I’ve got the year in review mostly done, but I still have to add some stuff to it. I did it early because I wanted to include it in my application to UCLA.”

  “You want to study editing?” She already knew more than enough about it to have edited the video of Kayla. The short clip Jack and I had seen had definitely been edited. It only showed the climax of the scene, so to speak.

  “Directing. I’m going to get their Bachelor of Fine Arts in film, television and digital media. Then I’m going to take their Master’s degree in production.” She turned her attention back to the control board and began clicking and opening files.

  “Was Kayla interested in film and editing, too?”

  “Are you kidding? She could barely work her phone. You can find your way back, right?”

  “Sure, no problem.” I said with more confidence than I felt in my own sense of direction.

  I noticed even more changes at Berkshire as I walked along the hallways. In the many display cases I passed there were just as many girls’ names on the trophies for academic and artistic excellence and volunteerism as there were boys’ names. No longer were Berkshire girls expected to aim for a Mrs. with pedigree, now they were more likely to get a PhD from MIT. Or a BFA from UCLA.

  I walked past a door marked ‘Guidance Office’ and remembered how Mr. Duffy had suggested that I go back to working the cash register in the ‘family business’ after I graduated. It was a not-so-polite way of telling me to aim low. But I had my sights set on getting as far away from Dad’s grocery store as I could. Even Mademoiselle had made a similar suggestion, telling me that the financial burden of university tuition on my aunt and uncle would be too great. I’d filled out my university applications that night. I filled out the scholarship applications the next morning.

  Was I remembering that right? Or had I unfairly tainted Mademoiselle with the same brush that I’d swept over all of my memories of Berkshire? The woman who’d welcomed me back to Berkshire seemed to be honestly pleased to see me. She cared enough to keep track of what I was doing. She even remembered specifics about my articles. Maybe she really had been concerned about Auntie Em and Uncle Doug having to foot the bill? And it had been her comment that fired me up to do the scholarship applications.

  “...I heard that Thomas got her pregnant and Ethan made her have an abortion and that’s why she jumped.” A girl in a white blazer said to her small group of friends in the hallway.

  I quickly ducked into the open classroom door that I’d just walked by and hid inside the room.

  “Ethan wouldn’t have done that!” One of the boys in the group said.

  “Yeah, and Chapman would have married her.” A second boy added.

  “Like Kayla’s mum would ever let that happen! She made Kayla dump him when his dad got arrested.”

  “The only reason Ethan hung out with Kayla was because his mother made him. He wouldn’t have cared even if she was pregnant. He’s crazy for Glyn.”

  “Can you blame him?” A boy with an incredibly deep voice asked. “Glyn’s way hotter than Kayla ever was. I do her anywhere, anytime.”

  “You’re such a pig, Paul!”

  I would have added one more word to her assessment of the boy named Paul – he was a disgusting pig.

  “I think Jocelyn pushed her. They had a big fight after history class that day...,”

  “Or maybe Glyn pushed her? Kayla was the only thing standing between her and Ethan getting together.”

  “Glynn and Ethan are so meant to be together,” a girl sighed.

  I didn’t know how much of the high school soap opera to believe, but I couldn’t ignore it. Soap operas were just an exaggeration of reality; sometimes a gross exaggeration, but there was always a kernel of truth to them.

  “What are you doing?” A new male voice asked.

  It took me a second to realise that his voice had come from somewhere behind me in the classroom and he was talking to me.

  I turned around slowly, hoping to give myself enough time to think of a plausible answer to his question. It wasn’t a classroom after all. It was an art studio. Like the pool addition, it had been built onto the side of the hill that sloped down to the waterfront and the entire lake-facing front wall was made of glass. “I was just, um...,”

  “Eavesdropping.” He had slightly brown skin and distinctive facial features. “That’s cool. Who are you?”

  “Lee Smith, I’m filling in as a don in the girls’ dorm. And you are?”

  “Blaze Suganaqueb.” He was standing near the wall of glass, looking at the oil paintings that were on a series of easels in front of him.

  I walked over to him and my jaw dropped. “Those are gorgeous! Did you do those?”

  He nodded, shyly.

  The four paintings were good enough to hang in the McMichael Art gallery in Kleinberg, Ontario. The gallery had an extensive collection of First Nations art, but Blaze’s paintings would have been more at home in the Group of Seven collection. The deceptive simplicity and clean lines of his two winter landscapes reminded me of Lawren Harris’ work. The other two paintings struck me speechless. They were of my lake. “Those are better than some of Frank Carmichael’s,” I said softly. He’d captured the colours, the light, the feel of the land I loved. “That’s Maple Lake, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s my favourite place to paint around here. One of the guys lets me borrow his car sometimes to go over there. The other two are of home.”

  “Where’s home?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the Maple Lake paintings. The one of the fall colours was stunning. I could almost feel the cool crisp air on my skin and hear the crunch of dried leaves under my feet.

  “Webequie.”

  He’d just mentioned a place that I’d never heard of and my insatiable geographic curiosity was instantly ignited.
“Where’s that?”

  “Northern Ontario, about three hundred kilometres south of Winisk.”

  I could tell anyone who asked where the Envira River was that the Xatanawa tribe crossed near the Brazil/Peru border, but I didn’t have a clue where the fellow Canadian standing in front of me lived. “And that’s where?” I felt ignorant. Apparently I was ignorant about my own country, heck my own province.

  “Winisk is on the shore of Hudson’s Bay. Thunder Bay’s just over five hundred kilometres south of Webequie.”

  Finally, he’d mentioned a place that I’d actually heard of. But I’d never been to Thunder Bay. If I did the cross-Canada trip for the tourism people maybe I’d be able to add Thunder Bay to my schedule? I’d seen pictures of the northern shore of Lake Superior and it looked absolutely beautiful. I pointed at the Maple Lake paintings. “That’s my home.” He wasn’t a good artist, he was truly gifted.

  “No way! You live in one of those places at the north end? Which one?”

  “The log cabin. My aunt lives in the stone cottage near the point.”

  He quickly walked over to the racks that lined the far wall and began flipping through the canvases there, stopping to pull one out. He came back to me and turned it so that I could see what was on it.

  It was a painting of my home. No camera could have captured the rich reds, oranges and yellows of the fall leaves with as much depth as Blaze had. He’d even managed to find the right shade of grey for the clouds, the pewter grey that foretold of snow soon to come. There were white patches on the heads of the small flock of ducks at the mouth of my stream. “You put buffleheads in there!”

  “They were just coming through that day. They’re my favourite ducks.”

  “Mine, too!”

  “They’re delicious. I’m hoping to have some when I go home for the May 2-4 weekend. You can have this, if you want.”

  “I couldn’t.” But I wanted to. (I didn’t want to know how buffleheads tasted, though.)

  He still held the painting out. “You might as well have it. I can’t take all of them back home with me.”

  “But you should show these somewhere. They’re too good to be left behind.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and let his hand drop. “I’ll probably just leave them all here when the year’s over.”

  “You’re graduating this year?”

  “Next year, but I don’t think I’ll come back here for another year. I thought of sticking it out and applying to OCAD, but I probably wouldn’t get in so what’s the point?”

  “Are you nuts?” He looked startled by the intensity in my voice. “You’d be a shoe-in to get into OCAD. You know Frank Carmichael went there, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but Mem C said that I wouldn’t be happy there. She said Toronto wasn’t the right place for me to be.”

  The Ontario College of Art and Design was right smack in downtown Toronto, but so what? He wouldn’t be there for the city life; he’d be there for the education. It was the best damn art school in the country and this kid deserved to be there. “And where did she think you should go?”

  “Home. I do miss it. I miss speaking my own language. And I miss the quiet. It’s so noisy here.” I knew he wasn’t talking about just the noise of his fellow Berksherians. “It’s quiet around your place. And it’s about the only place I’ve seen that hasn’t been ruined by buildings and roads. I like it there.”

  “So do I and I’m in complete agreement with you about how overbuilt all of Muskoka is becoming. People are paving over paradise and putting up parking lots.”

  “Counting Crows, right? I like that song.”

  “Joni Mitchell, actually.” Music amplified our age difference.

  “Whoever, it’s true. White people won’t realise what they’ve got until it’s gone. My uncle likes to say amitigoshi nishee-oh-na-cheetoon ackay neh asin.”

  “What language is that?”

  “Oji-Cree. It means...” He had to think for a minute to mentally do the translation. “White people are destroying the earth with their rock. We don’t really have a word for cement.”

  “I think I’d get along well with your uncle. Please, please, please, seriously reconsider applying to OCAD?”

  “It costs a lot of money.”

  Money that I’d get from Jack, if need be. “I could help you find a sponsor. And you’re welcome to come over to my place any time you want, even if it’s not to paint, if it’s just to sit and breathe.”

  “I might not have my ride anymore. The guy who loaned me his car has taken off, nobody knows where he is.”

  “Are you talking about Ethan Horscroft?”

  “Yeah, he’s a really nice guy.” Blaze held the painting of my cabin up again. “Please, take it. I want you to have it.”

  “Thank you.” Those two little words didn’t do justice to the gratitude I felt. I carefully held the painting with both hands.

  “Ethan said the same thing as you about OCAD, you know. I bumped into him when I was coming back from Mem C’s place yesterday and told him what she’d said. I hope he comes back.”

  A low thumping sound started to shake the wall of glass and got louder quickly. A shadow passed over us and I looked up to see the distinctive OPP letters on the underbelly of a black and white helicopter as it swooped down low over the school. Will’s men were arriving. If Will was right, Ethan would soon be returning to Berkshire’s shores.

  *

  Everyone was talking excitedly about the OPP helicopter hovering over the lake. An OPP trailer had driven down to the shore and was unloading a boat that looked like one of the scoots that people used to get to their cottages in Georgian Bay in the winter, or one of the hydrofoils that people used to buzz around the Florida Everglades. When the four man dive team drove up in their van and started to pull on their dry-suits the chatter volume was cranked up to full.

  Blaze went to join the fracas and I took advantage of being in an empty room to call Jack.

  He sounded as if I’d just woken him up. I had. He’d done too much the day before, his first day out of the hospital, and had been sleeping on and off since I’d called him to tell him about my visit from Will.

  I gave him the Readers’ Digest highlights of what I’d learned so far and told him that Will’s men had just arrived.

  “It’ll kill Pam if something’s happened to Ethan.”

  Great. Yet another old enemy that I’d have to feel sorry for. “I talked to a boy named Blaze...,”

  “The Ojibwa boy. His teacher up in Webequie is a Berkshire grad and she felt so strongly about his talent that she flew down to meet with the Board to get him a bursary. What did you think of him?”

  “His artwork is indescribable. You’re going to sponsor him if he gets accepted into OCAD, by the way.” The helicopter flew low, back and forth over the ice, pulling my attention away from the painting of my home.

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are. End of discussion.”

  “Okay.” He was used to me telling him to spend some of his money to help someone else. “In other news, I got an interesting call about an hour ago.”

  “From who?”

  “Your brother.”

  What the hell? “Please tell me Steve didn’t ask you for money?” I hadn’t talked to him in months. What had he done this time?

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t. He wanted me to talk to you about money.”

  “Now you’ve really lost me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you and Emma are struggling with the taxes on Maple Lake?”

  I felt my fingers squeezing my phone hard. Too hard. I wanted to break something, preferably Steve’s face, but if I wasn’t careful my phone would be an innocent victim. How dare he call Jack! I was angry at Auntie Em, too. She shouldn’t have brought Steve into it.

  “Are you still there or have you self-combusted?”

  “I’m here.”

  “And? Care to answer my question?”

  I took a d
eep breath and stared at the helicopter that was hovering in place over the ice about one hundred feet offshore. “I didn’t tell you because I’ve got it under control. It’s my problem and I’ll handle it.”

  “So it’s okay for you to tell me to help out someone else, someone I’ve only met once, but it’s not okay for me to help you, the most important person in my life?”

  “I’ll pay my own property taxes. I don’t need your help.” And I didn’t want his money. Not for this. Maple Lake was my responsibility, my home. “Steve shouldn’t have asked you to do this.”

  “He didn’t. He asked me to talk you into severing and selling all four lots.”

  “And is that what you think I should do?” I said through my clenched jaw. I was shaking I was so angry.

  The dive team were heading out on the scoot to the area underneath the hovering helicopter.

  “Hell, no! I want to pay your taxes from here to eternity if it keeps the slimy bastard from ever cashing out on the place. I’d buy him out, if you’d let me. I know how much it means to you.”

  Damn Steve! And damn Jack, too! I knew how to deal with the anger that was pulsing through my veins, but Jack’s kindness and thoughtfulness weakened it, made me feel weak, and that was the very last thing I was ever going to allow myself to be. “Drop it, Jack. I mean it. I’ve already worked it out.” Cross-Canada, here I come. Bu-bye Bruges. Bu-bye Faroe Islands. Fuck you, Steve!

  A diver slipped off the scoot into a channel of open water and then his head disappeared under the surface.

  “Lee, please, let me help.”

  Stop being so damn nice! Be a bastard for once. “I can’t...,”

  The diver’s head rose up in the open channel and then he lifted his arm. He was holding a double bladed kayak paddle. The blades were bright yellow, just like the ones on my paddle.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Did Ethan kayak?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack sounded angry at my change of topic.

  “Just answer. Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he like to go out in the channels between the ice slabs at break-up time?” The diver handed the paddle to someone in the scoot and was then pulled up into it by two of the other divers on it.