Slings & Arrows, page 24
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Chapter 1
How many standout memories are there in an average lifetime? For most of us, a handful of events delineate our lives: the moment we fall in love, the day we marry, the birth of a child, the end of a serious relationship, the death of a loved one. Maybe a couple more if people stop and think about it. For me, it’s different. One brief period is forever seared into my mind: the time Ali Page returned to Vancouver Island. It overshadows everything else. And while the passage of time hasn’t lessened the trauma, five years on I’ve gained some sort of perspective, a way of compartmentalizing the terror she visited upon my family that summer.
The irony is, if she hadn’t been the daughter of friends, I would never have taken her on as a client in the first place. I tried to explain I wasn’t the right person. My tiny real estate brokerage focused on single-family homes around Owen Bay where I lived. What did I know about the Victoria condo market? Ali needed a downtown specialist; someone who knew the patch. But her parents wouldn’t give up. “You’re the only broker we trust,” they kept saying. “With you, we know she won’t make a mistake.” And when flattery didn’t work, they piled on the guilt. “We’ve already promised Ali you’ll help her…She’s desperate to find a place before she starts her new job.”
According to Marie, I’ve always been a people-pleaser. A soft touch, she calls me. My wife says I find it impossible to say no. She’s always been thicker-skinned than me. Marie’s a cynic; she thinks people will take advantage if you let them. Call me a sucker, but I don’t like disappointing anyone, least of all friends and family. Long story short, I caved and agreed to act as Ali’s buying agent. One small favor that would change our lives forever. What is it they say? No good deed goes unpunished? I soon discovered what that meant.
Over the space of two months that summer, I reckon we visited every condo building in the downtown area, some several times over. By my last count, we’d looked at over seventy properties and still we weren’t close to finding one she liked. There was always something not right, something holding Ali back. It was as if she kept inventing reasons not to buy—the price was too high, the layout was wrong, the place was too small, the street was noisy. You name it, she came up with every excuse.
Sure, I understood it was a big step; it would be for any twenty-eight-year-old buying her first property. As British Columbia’s capital, Victoria has always been an expensive part of the province, so a mistake could prove costly. I got that. Even so, Ali’s persistent reluctance to commit was hard to fathom. Wasn’t she supposed to be under pressure to find somewhere fast?
It didn’t add up.
At first, I put Ali’s caution down to her profession. Lawyers can be indecisive. After all, they’re paid to look for problems, right? Before she returned to the island, Ali had been working for a major law firm in Vancouver, advising clients on M&A deals. I wasn’t entirely sure what those were, but from the way her father described them to me, they sounded important. She’d always been bright. I remember that from her late teens before she went off to study at UBC on the mainland. Even then it was obvious she’d end up pursuing some high-powered career. Her family lived a couple of blocks from us, and she used to babysit our daughter, Freya. After Ali went off to college, we didn’t get to see her that often; her visits back home were fleeting and usually on the weekends when I was busy with open houses and showings. Besides her intelligence, my other lasting memory of Ali as a teenager was her incredible shyness. Withdrawn, some might say.
As we shot around town looking at properties, I soon realized nothing much had changed. Our conversations were one-sided. Nine times out of ten, I’d be the one asking questions, offering an opinion on something in the news, or commenting on a TV show, hoping to stimulate a discussion. Hardly anything came back, and on the few occasions when Ali did string a sentence together, her responses seemed forced, unnatural, stilted in a funny sort of way. The truth is, for an intelligent woman, she sure came across as shallow.
The hardest times were when we were alone in my car, driving from one property to another. That’s when I felt the most pressure to fill the long, uncomfortable silences. Clients and their realtors don’t have to like each other, but it certainly helps if they can get along. In the end, I accepted her as she was, and CBC Music on the car radio became my refuge when I ran out of things to say.
So, you can imagine my surprise and relief when I arrived at my office one afternoon, and my assistant told me Ali had just been on the phone asking me to make an offer on a property we’d visited a few days earlier. I wrote it up immediately and sent it over for her signature. Given it was a full-ask bid with only a couple of standard conditions, I was optimistic it would be well received. An hour after we submitted it, I heard from the seller’s broker. Accepted.
I was delighted for Ali and I knew her mom and dad would be relieved, too. I’d learned from conversations with her father, as much as they loved having their daughter back on the island, they were concerned she was getting too comfortable living at home again. As many parents have discovered, once adult children return to the nest, it can be hard motivating them to move on.
Ali was at work when I called her. “Congratulations. Your offer’s been accepted.”
“Okay,” she said, not even a hint of excitement in her voice. When Marie and I bought our first place, you’d think we’d won the lottery we were so pumped. With Ali, nothing.
“We got there in the end. You must be pleased.”
“Huh?”
“I was beginning to worry we wouldn’t find anywhere. At least now you’ll have your own place again.”
“Listen, I can’t talk right now. I have to go.” She terminated the call.
When you’ve been in the real estate business for as long as I have, very few things are surprising, but Ali’s strange reaction was one of them. The condo we’d found her was only a ten-minute walk from her new law firm. It was in a great, safe location, and the price was fair. I knew Bank of Mom and Dad was helping with the deposit and that she’d easily be able to afford the mortgage since we’d looked at many more expensive units during the search. What was not to like?
As I said, something wasn’t right.
That evening was “Dine-out Wednesday.” Marie and I started the tradition soon after Freya was born. Spending quality time together once a week was important to us. It was an opportunity to take a moment out from our busy work schedules—Marie taught English at Owen Bay High School—to catch up as a family. There had been a time when Freya would join us, but now she was sixteen, she was way too cool to be spending evenings with her parents, so the two of us headed off to one of our favorite places for dinner.
The Dockside restaurant sat on the waterfront, and our window table looked directly across the fifteen-mile-wide Strait of Juan de Fuca toward the majestic Olympic National Park in Washington State. Even though it was early June, thick snow still covered the highest mountain peaks in the distance. The floor-to-ceiling windows were open, so we could hear the wind whipping around the rigging of the yachts in the marina. If you closed your eyes, it sounded like a chorus of alpine cow bells.
Marie ordered pan-fried salmon fillet while I went for my usual—halibut fish and chips. For my money, The Dockside served the best fish and chips on the island. Believe me, I’d tried a good few restaurants to put that assertion to the test. Shortly after our food arrived, a cruise ship approached. All summer, they made regular stops at Victoria’s Ogden Point on their way north from San Francisco or Seattle before heading along the rugged BC coast toward Alaska. Marie and I had long been saving to take the same trip for our twentieth anniversary, less than two years away.
My phone pinged. When I picked it up off the table, I saw it was a text from Ali. Thanks for all your help finding my new condo.
So, she was pleased, after all. Maybe I’d caught her at a bad time when I called her earlier. Quickly, I tapped out a reply. You’re welcome. I know you’ll be very happy there.
Immediately, my phone pinged again. Part of me wishes they hadn’t accepted my offer.
Ali was suffering from buyer’s remorse. I’d seen this emotional reaction so many times before, particularly from first-time buyers. Once the contract is signed, suddenly the purchase becomes real, and the magnitude of the mortgage debt can seem daunting. That explained why her reaction had been so muted; she was nervous. She had no reason to be. The Victoria market, while pricey, had always been a good long-term investment. Plus, she was a senior associate at the biggest law firm on the island with a great career ahead of her. All she needed was reassurance.
You have nothing to worry about, I replied. I’m certain you’ve done the right thing.
Her response came back instantly. I’m sad we won’t get to spend more time together.
I wasn’t sure what to make of Ali’s words. Our long days together must have been tedious for her, too. Surely, she was relieved she no longer had to put up with me prattling on. I assumed she was just being polite. We Canadians are like that.
I fired off another reply. Now the real fun begins. You get to enjoy your new home.
Ping. No, seriously, I wish I hadn’t bought it. I will miss you. XOXO
I didn’t respond this time. I kept reading her text, searching for an innocent explanation. What was she trying to say?
“Trouble?” Marie asked.
I looked up from the phone. “Sorry?”
“You haven’t touched your food, Tom. From the worried look on your face I thought maybe someone was shafting you on a deal again.”
“It’s nothing. Just a client raising a few points.”
Marie threw me one of her looks, as if to say: I know what you’re like. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.
My phone rang, so I quickly muted it and put it in my pocket. I can’t explain why I didn’t share the texts with Marie right away. They were confusing. I guess I didn’t know what to do. What did Ali mean when she said she’d miss me? For weeks, she’d hardly said a word to me and now this. Her messages seemed completely out of character.
When we arrived home around eight thirty, Freya was in the den watching one of the property-buying shows on HGTV. Part of me hoped one day she’d take over my brokerage. I’d never mentioned it to her; I didn’t want to put her under any pressure career-wise. She was still way too young to be thinking about things like that, anyway. But she seemed to have a genuine interest in the real estate business and had a good way with people, which always helps.
While Marie put the kettle on to make us some tea, I went upstairs to the study. Sitting at my desk, I took out my phone. Twenty-three missed calls. Worried that one of our transactions was falling apart, I navigated to the recent calls screen. All of them had come from an “unknown” number. Strange thing was, when I called my voicemail, there were no messages. Then I noticed the red circle on the messages icon. Thirty-seven unread texts. Thirty-seven. I’d be lucky if I received that many in a week, let alone in the space of two hours.
A chill ran through me the moment I opened the app. All of them were from Ali, and they were still coming in. My stomach muscles tensed when I scrolled down to the first unread text.
I mean it. I’ll miss you. XOXO
The next five repeated the exact same words and were all timed within a few minutes of each other. Many of Ali’s messages had been sent multiple times, and the content appeared increasingly unhinged the more I read.
I really enjoyed our talks when we were on our own.
You’re the only one who really gets me.
We have a connection. You see it too, right?
I just called you. Pick up the phone.
I want to pull out of the condo purchase. You’ll think of a reason, won’t you, Tom?
How cool would it be to spend more time with each other?
I know you want the same as I do. I see it in the way you look at me.
WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER MY CALLS?
Please pick up the phone.
Tom, are you there?
Is she with you?
Is that why you’re ignoring me? She’s with you, isn’t she? I get it.
Don’t worry, Tom. I’m here when you’re ready.
I’ll always be here for you.
My heart lodged in my throat when the study door opened. The phone fell out of my hand and bounced on the carpet.
“Tom,” Marie said, “your tea’s getting cold.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, scrambling for the phone on my hands and knees, so Marie didn’t pick it up. “I completely forgot.” Quickly, I powered it down, pangs of guilt running through me.
Marie cocked her head to one side. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”
What could I say? My brain was still trying to process what I’d just read. I knew one thing: Marie must not see Ali’s messages. What on earth would she think? “I’m not sure my fish was right.” I patted my stomach. “I’m not feeling one hundred percent, to be honest.” As I spoke, I could feel my cheeks getting warmer.
“Come downstairs and sit for a while. Work can wait for once. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”
Click here to learn more about Watch For Me by Martin Bodenham.
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Here is a preview from Moonlight Weeps, the sixth Dick Moonlight PI thriller by Vincent Zandri.
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CHAPTER 1
According to my schedule, I’m to meet Roland Hills, aka Elvis Presley, at the coffee shop in North Albany at eight in the morning. I would have met him at seven but, like the great Hound Dog man in the sky, he’s been hitting the booze a little too hard as of late. So, like a good employee, I let him sleep in a little.
That’s me—Moonlight the teddy bear.
Pulling into a parking lot overcrowded with pickup trucks and cars, and even an eighteen-wheeler parked diagonally across the length of the lot so that people are forced to drive around it, I find Hills’ old Honda motorcycle and pull up beside it. I’m just about to get out and head inside to grab a coffee when I spot the big, black-haired, forty-something Elvis impersonator coming toward me, two identical large coffees gripped in his hands. Electronically thumbing down the passenger side window on Dad’s old 1978 hearse, I lean over the empty seat, ask him to get in.
He stops, shoots me a bulging eyes look like he’s just seen his own ghost.
“You want me to get inside that thing?”
Like his 1977 Fat Elvis beer gut, his Oklahoma accent sticks out like a sore thumb in Albany, New York. It’s a cool May morning, but he’s wearing only a T-shirt with the words, “Your Momma Lied,” printed on it in big black letters. The letters expand and distort where they cover his bloated belly.
“What’s to be afraid of? It’s not like sitting inside a hearse is gonna kill you, Elvis. Kinda works the other way around.”
“You ain’t hung-over like I am.” His hands shake so badly the coffee is spilling out of the little sippy holes punched into the plastic lids. “I’m already near death, Moonlight.”
“Just get in. The stuff I have to show you is better revealed in private.”
“What stuff?”
“The stuff you’re paying me to find out about your girlfriend.”
He just stands there, his thick, black hair and pork chop sideburns pasted to his round face, his big gut hanging over his belt, hands shaking, coffee spilling.
“It’s bad, ain’t it?” His south-of-the-border twang raises an octave. Like he’s about to cry. “Think I’m gonna be sick.”
“If you’re about to be sick, Elvis, blow your chunks in the lot right now. But hand me my coffee first.”
“I’m okay.” A beat passes. “Just not used to the love of my life cheating on me is all.”
“Guess now you know how her husband and your wife must feel.”
He attempts to smile at that, but apparently he can’t work up the strength. Reaching across the seat, I open the door for him. He gets in, stinking of old booze.
I take my coffee and, at the same time, catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I haven’t been sleeping all that great lately what with being single and, therefore, free to roam the gin mills of my choice at all hours of the night, and having a bank account that is so below zero it brain freezes me even to think of it. Peering into my own brown eyes, I spot a round face that needed a shave five days ago and a head that sports a stand of hair so short you can see the scars that crisscross my scalp like a road map, including the small dime-sized scar beside my right earlobe where, once upon a time, a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point bullet penetrated my skull. Pulling up the collar on my leather coat with my free hand, I look away from the mirror and lock my eyes on my worn combat boots and the dark Levi jeans that cover my legs.
Suddenly, I smell something bad.
“Christ, Elvis, when was the last time you showered?”
“Been sleeping at the phone company.” Elvis’ day job consists of fixing broken computers at the local Verizon. “Ain’t got nowhere’s to go.” He tries to sip his coffee, but his hand is trembling too much, and most of it lands on his chin. Reaching into the side pocket on his baggy blue jeans, he pulls out a small fifth of Jack. Then, shooting me a look with his brown puppy dog eyes, “You mind?”
“It’s your liver, Elvis.”
I assist him with removing the coffee cup lid. Spilling some of the coffee out the window to make room, he then pours two or three shots into the cup, filling it back up. I help him once more with pressing the lid back down onto the paper cup.
“Go ahead. Drink. Those trembling hands are making me nervous.”
