Crafting with Slander, page 8
I couldn’t wait any more. I was desperate. I would check all the same places again. I stood up. My phone beeped.
A text.
I have your dog.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The text was from Charlie Landry.
My fingers fumbled as I typed back.
Where did you find him? Can I come and get him now?
There was a long pause. Then, an address.
I waited.
You ruined my life.
I tapped back.
What? How?
No response.
I called Darlene.
“Charlie has Toby! I’m going to get him.” My purse and my keys were already in my hand. “But something’s wrong. He says I wrecked his life. Is he trying to tell me he took my dog?”
“Whoa. Pick me up,” Darlene said. “I’m coming with you. It may be a trap.”
“A trap?”
“Your basement got trashed, remember? Weird stuff on your wall? Who’s the weirdest person we know? Charlie. We have to get Toby. But no way should you see him on your own.”
She had a point.
“All right,” I said. “Five minutes. I’m on my way.”
Charlie’s address was in the hills behind my house, not far from the old logging roads where Toby and I walked. If the dog had wandered up there, he would have known how to get home—unless he had been kidnapped. Would Charlie do something like that? I didn’t think so. But how well did I know the man? I was glad Darlene was with me.
“Holy moly,” she said when we saw the whirligigs. Dozens of them, brightly painted wooden weathervanes, lined the road to Charlie’s house. “Every one’s a bird.”
She was right. Even though I was driving, it was hard not to be distracted. Mingled in with the usual seagulls with their rotating wings, I identified chickadees, blue jays, cardinals, woodpeckers, hummingbirds, and warblers, all carefully painted, all accurately marked. My anxiety eased a little. Surely the craftsman who had made these wouldn’t harm a dog.
I heard the roosters before I saw the house.
I’d never seen a house like it. It was obvious Charlie had built the place in stages. It seemed less constructed than assembled, put together over time and without a plan, rooms added as they were needed, the doors and windows inserted whenever they could be salvaged from more coherent buildings. The end result was a structure that looked as though a bag of blocks had been tossed down from the sky. It was more a sculpture than a home.
Next to it, I saw a driveway. I started to turn into it, but Darlene stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Don’t park there. Goats.” she said pointing to an old Bentley sedan parked beside the house. It looked like the ones chauffeurs drove in the movies. “Park here.”
I followed her hand with my eyes. There they were, three goats on the roof of the beautiful old car, happily denting the metal with their tiny cloven hooves.
“That’s goats for you,” Darlene said, shaking her head. “Couldn’t be serious if they tried.” Darlene had been raised deeper in the country than I had. “Trust them to find the highest point and dance on it. Better park here,” she said, motioning to a triangle of grass next to the mailbox, “and walk in.”
When we were halfway to the house, the front door opened, and a large red-blond bullet shot out.
“Toby!” I shouted. The dog’s large paws landed on my hips as he reached up to lick my face, nearly knocking me over. “You’re okay!” I said, on the verge of tears. “I was so worried.” Past him, I saw Charlie standing in the open doorway, a chicken in his arms, a scowl on his face.
“You’ve got him,” he said. “Good. It’s like having a pony in the house. He scared the girls,” he said, holding up the hen in his arms. “Time he went home.”
Darlene was not impressed. “Landry, not so fast,” she said. “What was Toby doing here? Did you take him? What’s this about Valerie ruining your life?” She crossed her arms. Charlie’s chicken squawked. “If you’re the one who was in Valerie’s basement, we’re calling the RCMP.”
The look of belligerence on Charlie’s face turned to caution.
“Come on in,” he said, glaring at me. “I want to know why you did this to me. Let’s do this face-to-face.”
I had no idea what Charlie was talking about. I put Toby in the back of the car and followed Darlene into the maze that was the house.
Once inside, I had a closer look at the chicken. She was wearing a pink worsted sweater with a three-stranded cable down the front.
Charlie saw me staring. “Flora was a battery hen. Used up by an egg producer and left to die. All my girls are rescues,” he said, motioning with his head toward the racket behind the house. “It’s one of the greatest scandals of modern times. They have no feathers left by the time they come to us.”
“You knit them sweaters?” Darlene asked.
“Damn right I do. It’s a movement. Started in the UK. There’s even a guy in Australia, 109 years old, knits for the penguins. I do my part.”
I pulled myself away from the beauty of the cable, remembering why I was there. I decided to be polite to a chicken knitter. “Toby—you found him?” Or did you take him when you broke into my house? I wondered.
“Yes, I did. He was wandering along the road. I was going to call you, but then I read this,” he pulled a paper out of a printer almost hidden behind a tower of books. “I decided to sleep on it, until I cooled down.” He handed the page to us.
Landry the Liar: Darlene Disses Dirt
Our staff
Long-time community activist and candidate for mayor Charlie Landry is now known to be ineligible to run for public office. Working from a tip provided by Valerie Rankin, Darlene Mowat’s campaign manager, investigative reporters have discovered that Landry, an American citizen and long-time Nova Scotia resident, has never applied for Canadian citizenship. Permanent residents like Landry have access to all Canadian services and rights but are barred from holding political office. It appears that Landry, who has run for office at the municipal and provincial levels in countless elections, has deliberately deceived voters for decades. Under provincial law, candidates are required to take an oath confirming citizenship status. Available records show that in all cases, Landry’s oath was witnessed by former mayor Mike Murphy. It was not possible to reach Murphy for comment.
Front-runner candidate and well-known lawyer Brian Nickerson has asked Elections Nova Scotia not to pursue charges against Landry. “Charlie is out of the race now, and that’s all that matters. But his dishonesty over the years is deeply disappointing. He owes this community an apology,” says Nickerson.
I stared at the paper. I hadn’t tipped anyone off. Or had I? With a sickening feeling, I remembered the message I’d left for the assignment editor. Look at the other candidates I’d said. I had had no idea it would lead to this.
Behind his smudged glasses, I could see the pain in Charlie’s eyes.
“I knew I’d never be elected,” he said. “But that wasn’t the point. Elections give me a chance to put the habitat and wildlife on the agenda. An opportunity to speak for the silent. Protect them from development and tourism. You’ve taken that away from me. Why?”
From her perch in Charlie’s arms, Flora stirred. Her red eyes glared at me. Who was I to hurt her dad?
Charlie bent and nuzzled her tiny, crested head. “You’re upsetting my little girl,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “I’m going to take her outside.”
When Charlie was gone, Darlene and I looked around the main room. Inside, the light was dim but clear enough to see that the space was covered in books. Books in piles on the sofa and under the chairs. Books stacked under a heavy, tarnished silver tea set on the buffet, spread between unwashed plates on the kitchen table, and all over the counters. A book was even open on the stove, as though the recipe were waiting, literally, to be cooked.
When Charlie returned, Darlene came to my defense. “You had to know this would come out,” she said. “Didn’t you understand you weren’t eligible to run?”
“Vaguely,” Charlie said. ˝ Bureaucracy’s not my strong point. They asked me to swear that I was qualified to run, and I figured, ‘Sure I am,’ so I said yes.”
“Didn’t anyone check up on you?” I asked.
“Who? They didn’t think that anyone would vote for me, so why bother?” Charlie stopped to think. “I think that maybe Mike knew, but he never said anything. Just a wink and a nod, like he was happy to have something on me, just in case. For a favor one day. Know what I mean?”
We did. That sounded like Mike. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Politics didn’t matter to me, but they mattered to Charlie. He was right. I’d taken that away from him.
I didn’t know what to say. Darlene intervened. “Val wasn’t out to get you,” she said. “She has a big mouth. She speaks before she thinks. Everybody knows that.”
I wasn’t sure that everybody knew that but let it pass.
“Look, this is what happened,” I said. “The Lighthouse dragged up a bunch of personal stuff about me and Darlene. I lost my cool. I asked them why they weren’t doing the same to the other candidates.” I took a deep breath. Charlie’s living room smelled of wood smoke, grateful poultry, dry books, and damp yarn. “I never said anything about you in particular.”
“You aren’t the only one who’s been hurt,” Darlene interrupted before Charlie could respond. “Someone went into Val’s basement and trashed our signs.”
“They did?” Charlie asked, a flicker of interest back in his eyes. “That’s political intimidation. You know what this means? They’re closing in.”
“Who? What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The corrupt establishment in collusion with the media.” Charlie had rallied, a warrior back in business. “Crushing dissent. Same thing happening in Mexico City. Watch yourselves.”
As frightening as it had been to see the mess in the house, I had a hard time imagining that the cartels had found my basement. However, Charlie had given me an idea.
“When you think of it, most of this trouble started with that stupid Lighthouse,” I said. “The dirt they dug up, the innuendos. Someone is feeding them information about us.” I thought of the paint on my wall. The X. The ring. What was the connection? “Someone so evil they will stop at nothing.”
“How are you going to find out who it is?” Darlene asked. “Reporters don’t reveal sources. Even I know that.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a few media connections of my own.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Nope. No way.” Noah was adamant. “If the Lighthouse won’t name the reporter, I’m not going to.”
“I just want to know who ‘Our Staff’ is,” I said. “We’re not talking about the New York Times. How many people are at the Lighthouse? You work there, you must know who it is. I want a name,” I argued. “I want to straighten them out.”
“Which is exactly why I can’t tell you,” Noah said. “I do sports now. I’m down in Lawrencetown, covering surfing. The East Coast Classic. I can’t talk about this. Do you want me to lose my job?”
“Of course not.” I had to go at this differently. “Answer me one question: If I wanted to draw a reporter out, what would I do?”
“That’s easy,” Noah said. “Find out the story they’re working on. Make yourself part of it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s not hard,” Noah sounded distracted. I could hear a crowd cheering in the background. “Be the news.”
The call ended. I looked around Charlie’s kitchen. The book was off the stove, and a large, dented kettle was whistling away. Charlie and Darlene were waiting for me to say something. “He said, ‘Be the news.’ Does that make any sense?”
“It does,” Charlie said. He put a large teapot on the table and ladled in dried leaves from a mason jar. “Tea? I foraged it myself.”
Darlene and I nodded with reluctance.
“Sourdough and vegan cheese?” Charlie asked, bustling around the small kitchen. “We don’t get many visitors.” He dusted off a once-elegant chair with a threadbare petit-point seat. “Might have to add another room. It gets crowded, particularly in the winter.”
“Why the winter?” I asked, trying to make polite conversation. I was relieved to see that my host’s anger had faded.
Charlie looked surprised by my question. “I bring everyone inside. The cold is too much for the girls, not to mention the goats.”
“You all live in here together? All winter?” Darlene asked, looking around. “The goats, the chickens, and that rooster? They must be big readers.”
Charlie laughed. “They’re only inside November to April,” he explained. “I enjoy the company. Interspecies relationships are an important part of life on this planet.”
True enough, I thought. Look at Toby and me. Or men and women.
“Back to the Lighthouse informant,” Darlene reminded us. “How are we going to flush them out?”
“Relax,” Charlie said. “My political instincts have been diverted but not extinguished. From now on, I’ll be operating underground. I knew that day would come. I’m thinking strategy.” He poured. Something that looked like moss floated to the top of the hot water in our cups. “Drink up comrades. I have a plan.”
Considering that it had been thought up by a chicken sweater–knitting, moss tea–drinking, permanent-resident anarchist, it was not a bad plan. After a rehearsal, with Flora walking between the stacks of books, I was ready.
Just as I had done before, I dialed the Lighthouse and pressed 3. As I waited, I realized how angry I was. Darlene and I had married men who weren’t who we thought they were, but how long were we supposed to pay for those mistakes? Why didn’t what we had done with our lives since matter more? I wanted an answer, and I now knew how to get it.
“I have information,” I began, trying to replicate the words Charlie mouthed to me across the table, “that will blow this election wide open. It’s about the front-runner.” I held up my palms and shrugged at my coach. Did this mean Brian? “I will share it all with you … ”—Charlie scribbled a note and passed a word over to me—“as an exclusive. On one condition.” I was coming to the part we had practiced the longest. I wondered where it would lead. “I will only talk only to the reporter who wrote the story about Darlene Mowat and Valerie Rankin. I’ll meet them at the back of the church parking lot.” I read another note. “Eight o’clock. Behind the dumpster.”
I made it to the beep. The line went dead.
“Behind the dumpster? Really? The church parking lot?” I couldn’t decide whether the location for this meet-up was too dramatic or not dramatic enough.
Charlie sighed. “My apologies. Woodword and Bernstein met Deep Throat in an underground parking garage. Behind the church is the best we could do.”
“Charlie and I will be close,” Darlene reassured me. “You’ll be safe. Talk to whoever is writing these hit pieces. Find out who is feeding them the information.”
“Why would they tell me that?” I asked, still trying to get past the dumpster part of this plan. “And when they see me, won’t they know it’s a set-up?”
“You’re there to trade,” Charlie explained. “A source for a scoop. My sense is whoever the journalist is, they are ambitious. And nothing erodes ethics faster than ambition.”
“They won’t know who you are,” Darlene added. “At least not right away. You’ll be in disguise. The three-time updo champion of the Eastern Shore is going to take care of that.”
“Can you make me a blond with false eyelashes?” I asked.
“That can be arranged,” Darlene said.
“Then, I am in.”
Darlene was good. Even my own mother wouldn’t recognize me. I didn’t recognize me. We had borrowed the wig from Annette, and I had eyelashes on my lids the size of tiny black bathmats. Darlene had forced my feet into heels and my body into a mauve suede jacket. It was too tight for me, but Darlene said it completed “the look.”
So, looking like someone else, I went behind the dumpster. The wig itched, the eyelashes pulled, and my feet hurt. I was alone and exposed. I had to remind myself that Charlie was watching from the rectory window. And Darlene was parked up the street, where she could see me in her rearview mirror. Whoever showed up, and whatever happened, I would be safe.
Eight o’clock came and went. So did eight-thirty.
I was about to give up, when I saw a tall thin figure in a hoodie scurrying along the street opposite, hugging the row of buildings like a mouse in a hallway.
I tensed. Was this the reporter? Were my negotiations about to start? What had Charlie told me to say?
My mind went blank.
Suddenly, the figure veered away from the buildings and crossed the street. I tottered out from behind the dumpster shelter. Something about this person was familiar. A hand went up, and the hood of the sweatshirt was pulled back.
I relaxed.
“Emma,” I said. Tilly’s granddaughter’s friend. The one she had brought to a campaign meeting. The one who had made tea and passed around baked goods. “What are you doing here?”
Emma stopped, surprised.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “Do I know you?”
I remembered my disguise. I was about to explain why I was in a church parking lot, dressed up like it was Halloween, when Emma put her hand out.
“Emma Ferguson,” she said. “Investigative reporter for the Lighthouse. I understand you have something you want to tell me?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I unbuttoned the suede jacket so I could breathe. I reached up and pulled off Annette’s wig and the wig cap underneath. I shook out my own dark hair. Emma’s eyes went wide. She stepped back. I looked up at the window of the rectory. Charlie’s face was gone.
