Deadly Appearances (31 page)

In front of the window, as familiar to me as the lines of my own face, was my desk. On it, next to a picture of Mieka and Peter and Angus, soaked to the skin, laughing, giving the dogs a bath, was that other emblem of motherly pride, the ceramic cabbage I had bought for Andy, which Andy had given to Soren and Soren had given to me – a sequence out of a child’s book. The leaves curl back, to reveal the tiny figure inside, her face hard with triumph as she offers up her naked son to the world – Ukrainian genesis.

At the edge of the desk was the phone; its cord, unplugged from the jack, hung lame and useless. Impotent. No one could get at me through that.

My place, a room where I could get my bearings. A room where I could be safe. And then, across the window, the quick shadow of a man and the door opened and the room was filled with fresh, cold air and the dark outline of my son’s body.

His voice was deep, a man’s voice, but he sounded frightened. “Mum, are you all right? You looked like you had fallen asleep sitting up. Were you sleeping? You look kind of weird.”

“I’m fine, Peter, just … I don’t know. Just working.”

He looked at my empty desk and then, quickly, into my face.

“Mum, Mieka just called. She wondered how you’d feel about Angus and me going up there for the weekend. I could have a look at the campus and maybe do a bit of Christmas shopping.”

The band was tightening around my chest, and my mouth filled with the taste of metal. The bottom of my feet pricked oddly as if something inside my legs were short-circuiting.

“Mum?” Peter’s face had the familiar look of worry.

“Sorry, Pete. It sounds great. How are you going to get there?”

He looked at his feet. “Mieka suggested we come up on the 5:30 bus.”

My voice was terrible. Falsely hearty. Mum the pal. “It sounds great, Pete. By all means, you guys take the 5:30.”

“You’re sure, Mum?”

“I’m sure, Peter … But one problem, money. I haven’t got any, and today’s a holiday.”

“Barbara, next door, says she’ll lend us some till Monday.”

“You went to Barbara before you came to me?”

“Mum, I knew you didn’t have any money. You didn’t have any last night to pay for the paper. Remember, we talked about it?” His voice trailed away. “I didn’t want to make a problem for you.”

“No problem, Peter.” That terrible voice again. I turned from him and picked up a folder. “You guys come over when you’re ready, and I’ll drive you to the bus station. Pete, could you make a sandwich or something for both of you? I’m a little shaky today.”

The adult look again – worried, tentative. “Mum, we don’t have to go – really.”

I tried to smile. “Peter, I want you to go – really. Now get out of here so I can get some work done.”

I watched him walk across the yard toward the house. The footprints he left in the snow seemed much too big.

I parked the car opposite the bus station and sat there, shaking with cold and something else, until the bus pulled out. As it disappeared up Broad Street, a swirl of snow curled behind it and a picture came into my mind, clear in every detail, of a blinding snowstorm and the bus sliding off the road and bursting into flames. “They’ll be killed, and I’ll be alone forever,” I said to the empty car. It was five minutes before I trusted my hand to put the key in the ignition and five more before I dared to turn it.

The house was cold and dark when I got home. I made myself a hot lemon rum and drank it at the kitchen table, looking into the evening. When it was finished, I made another one, called the dogs and walked across the backyard to the granny flat. I plugged in the phone so I could talk to the boys if they called me from Mieka’s house, covered myself with the afghan and fell into a fitful sleep.

I dreamed crazy things. I was looking for my sons on the bus, and it was filled with people I knew. Andy was there, pinning bright poppies to Eve’s bandaged wrists. “This is for me. This is for you, and this,” he said, driving a third poppy into her vein, “is for the devil.” And then his face became Rick Spenser’s face, leaning confidentially toward Eve, whose poppies were suddenly pulsing with bright blood. “There’s a pattern here, Eve.” And then I was Eve. I was the one with the bandaged wrists and the poppies blooming blood.

And then the snow that had swirled around me, blinding me, suddenly cleared, and I could see the front of the bus. Terry Shaw was there with my sons, who were handcuffed together, and the prison security system was ringing and ringing, and when I finally came awake, the telephone was ringing, shrill and insistent.

A woman’s voice – reassuring, familiar. “Oh, good – there you are. Well, the boys are safe. I haven’t killed them yet.”

“Who is this?”

“Mummy, it’s Mieka. Did I wake you up? You sound like you’re on the planet Org. Did you hear me? I said the boys are here, safe and sound. Angus is in the shower and Peter’s building a fire. Greg’s making popcorn. It’s a regular Disney movie here – a festival of wholesome family fun.”

My voice was tight and falsely bright. “Great, good. Have fun.” And then, “Thank you, Mieka. I love you. I have to go now.” I hung up quickly because I could feel the tears coming. She didn’t need them. I reached down and unplugged the phone. Then I changed my mind. Peter was building a fire, Mieka said. The house was old. There could be a crack in the firewall and they could all burn to death, and I wouldn’t know. No, I’d have to take my chances on that phone. I plugged it in. The bottoms of my feet began to do their odd new trick – electric pins and needles.

“The world’s a rational place, Joanne.” That’s what Andy had said that September night, nine months after Ian died. “The world’s a rational place,” I said to the darkness outside. The band around my chest tightened. The darkness outside knew better, and I knew better, too. “Andy, my friend, you were wrong.” I poured brandy into a snifter. “The world is not a rational place.”

I watched my reflection in the window, lifting the glass, drinking, and I wondered if there’d been enough time for him to find that out before he died.

CHAPTER

21

Sitting in the granny flat, looking into the November night, I knew all my protections were gone. Since we had come up here, my dogs and me, the snow had stopped falling. My backyard was a smooth expanse of white, shining in the light from the house.

Crisp and even, but not deep. I knew how thin that layer of snow was. If you stepped on it, your foot would break through to the leaves, under there, decaying, wet and black, on the cold ground. You weren’t safe on that snow.

But you were never safe. Across the yard my house, a place where rational people had once planned their lives, stood in darkness. A spasm hit my bowels, then another. I doubled over, hugged my knees and rocked back and forth, back and forth, making a sound that was sometimes keening and sometimes a growl. Back and forth, back and forth until, sometime toward morning, the sky grew lighter and I slept.

I woke up in the chair, cold and disoriented. The room was full of light. My head was pounding; my mouth was dry; and the telephone was ringing.

The voice on the other end was male and pleasantly accented.

“May I speak with Ian Kilbourn, please?”

I thought, I must be careful here. I must sound sane. I mustn’t give anything away.

“My husband’s dead.”

An intake of breath on the other end of the line and then, “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Kilbourn. Forgive me for disturbing you at this sad time.”

“No, it’s … He’s been dead a long time. I was just surprised to hear you ask for him.” My heart was pounding.

“Mrs. Kilbourn, I think, then, that I should speak with you. My name is Helke de Vries, and I’ve just purchased Homefree Insect Pest Control Service.”

“I don’t need an exterminator.”

“Mrs. Kilbourn, I’m not a salesman, but you’re correct about not needing an exterminator, because you already have one – me. Allow me, please, to explain. I spent yesterday going over invoices – familiarizing myself with the business. I’m looking at our records for services rendered to you, and I think there must be some mistake –”

“My mistake?”

“Please, allow me to finish. It is not money. All your bills have been paid promptly – in advance, in point of fact. You have done nothing wrong, but I’m concerned that we have. Are you there, Mrs. Kilbourn?”

“Yes. Please, tell me what you want. I’m not feeling at all well today.”

“It’s the carpenter ants in your addition. Perhaps if you’d just allow me to read you our instructions.”

I was so tired I could barely speak. “Read them, do whatever you want.”

“The service is to be provided to a residence at 433 Eastlake Avenue – that is your home?”

“Yes.”

“In the backyard, over the garage, there is a self-contained apartment unit, 150 square feet, accessible through a door that opens off a small balcony.”

“Yes.”

“The key is in a plastic bag taped to the inside of a window box to the left of the door to the unit.”

“No …” My voice was barely a whisper.

Helke de Vries sounded uncomfortable but determined. “Spraying program for carpenter ants to begin Saturday, October 8, 9:30 a.m. and continue weekly – that is underlined in red, Mrs. Kilbourn – until notice to discontinue. Payment, cash in advance. In the space marked client, there is the name Ian Kilbourn. Then there’s something handwritten in red pen – ‘Under no circumstances is anyone else in the family to know of the spraying program. The wife and kids are Save the Whales environmentalist types. Trouble.’ That last word is in capital letters and underlined.”

I felt like Alice after she walked through the looking glass. I picked up a pen and wrote “pest control” on the notepad in front of me.

“Mr. de Vries, could you give me the name of what you’ve been using?” I was trembling.

“Certainly. We have used an organophosphate spray and a methyl carbonate. In my opinion, we have used them too often, but today is Saturday, time for another treatment, so I thought I would check. Do you wish me to continue, Mrs. Kilbourn? We are paid, in cash, until after Christmas.”

“No, Mr. de Vries, I do not wish you to continue.”

“Then I should refund your money.”

“It isn’t my money. Who paid you?”

“The bill was paid in cash, and no receipt was given. The previous owners of the business assumed Mr. Kilbourn was paying.”

“Keep the money.” I was beginning to see light. “I need to know more. Would any of that stuff, the organophosphate or the methyl whatever it is, leave a residue?”

“The organophosphates would leave a yellow dusting.”

“Would it look like pollen?”

“Yes, an excellent description – like pollen.”

“Then stop it.”

“Your instructions, then, Mrs. Kilbourn, are to discontinue spraying until further notice?”

“No, Mr. de Vries, my instructions are to discontinue spraying until hell freezes over.”

There was a long silence, then laughter. “Another excellent description – thank you, Mrs. Kilbourn.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. de Vries. Thank you.”

When I hung up, my body was trembling and sweating and pounding and cramping. I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life, and better. Someone was trying to kill me. I should have been terrified. I should have been hiding under the bed. But all I felt was relief. The darkness wasn’t coming from me; it was outside. Out there, where it could be stopped.

I opened the door of the granny flat and stepped onto the porch. It was going to be a cold day. The sky was high and grey, and the sun was pale. I took deep breaths of cold air that knifed at my chest. The dogs ran past me down the steps and chased each other around the yard in the snow.

My stomach was empty, my mouth was dry, and I was trembling with cold and excitement, but I went straight to the phone and called Ali.

“Ali, good news. I’m not crazy. Somebody’s trying to kill me.”

Her voice was warm and encouraging, but it was her professional voice, guarded, holding back. “Jo, why don’t you turn this tape back to the beginning and let me follow along.”

I told her about Helke de Vries’s phone call, and his revelations. Ali listened without comment. When I finished, her questions were professional. She asked me to repeat the names of the insecticides the exterminators used, to tell her the size of the granny flat in square feet and to describe the kind of ventilation the room had.

“Jo, I’m going to have to check this out in one of my college texts. I haven’t studied pharmacology for fifteen years. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Stay where you are. You’re not in the –”

“No, I’m out of there. I left the door open. I’m never going in there again. Ali …” I began to cry. “Oh, Ali, hurry.”

She called back in five minutes.

“Well, you have Mort to thank for this. He has the Oriental passion for order: a place for everything and everything in its place. Anyway, tell me if this sounds familiar. I’m going to read from the section on insecticides in a book called
The Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics
, Goodmand and Gilman – the G-men, we used to call them in med school. Here’s the clinical profile of exposure to organophosphates. ‘Respiratory effects consist of tightness in the chest and wheezing respiration due to the combination of bronchi-constriction and increased bronchial secretion. Gastrointestinal symptoms occur earliest after ingestion and include anorexia, nausea and vomiting, abdominal cramps and diarrhea, localized sweating, fatigability and generalized weakness, involuntary twitchings.’ ”

My voice was small and frightened. “I’ve got all of them, Ali. Is it too late? Can you do anything?”

“Yes, I can, or my brother-in-law can until I get there. When was the last time you were in the granny flat?”

“Most of yesterday and all last night.”

She swore softly. “Nothing for it but do the best we can. Go take a hot, soapy shower, wash your hair and your fingernails, and by the time you’re out of there, Phil will be pounding at the front door.”

“A house call?” I said.

“It’ll do him good,” she snapped. “Now into the shower. I’ll be there tonight. Mort and I will drive down this afternoon.”