Tapas on the Ramblas (3 page)

To the movers and shakers in the meat-processing industry, Wiser Meats was a golden empire under the sole helmsmanship of Abner Wiser. To the privileged members of Alberta's high society-a rarefied group to which the Wiser clan belonged-Abner Wiser was considered a successful, self-made man. He'd come from nothing to provide handsomely for his family of four, all women, including wife Glorie and three daughters, Faith, Hope and the youngest, Charity. In reality he was an abysmal businessman. The bankers and advisors in Abner's inner circle knew that his greatest talent was in presenting to the world an appearance of success, not its actual achievement.

On a day-to-day basis, the fortunes of Wiser Meats rose and fell as surely as an ocean's tide. As much as came in, went out. Not that Glorie, or any of the Wiser daughters, had any idea of this. Abner provided them with everything they could want, at great cost. The price was a thriving business and ulcers for all involved in its faltering fortunes. Abner's managers and accountants were somehow able to funnel just enough funds from each year's meagre profits to make the business appear to be a Fortune 500-going concern when foreclosure and bankruptcy were often only a hambone away.

Charity was the only Wiser daughter to show any interest or aptitude in following Abner Wiser in the family business. As she worked her way up, she was kept oblivious to the true state of the business' woeful financial affairs. Abner, rather foolishly, thought things would go on forever just as they were. But that, of course, was impossible.

When Abner and Glorie passed on-within months of one another as sometimes happens with long-loving couples-it seemed only natural that Charity, showing little desire for either a husband or children, would inherit the reins of the business while her two sisters made do with hefty cash settlements in lieu. For Faith and Hope it was the beginning of luxury, but for Charity it was the beginning of a nightmare.

It didn't take long before the full impact of her father's inability to run a business came to the forefront with only her left behind to pay the piper, including her sister's inheritances, out of coffers that were echoingly empty. But Charity rebounded from the shock with a raging strength and determination far outstretching anything her father had ever displayed, demonstrating to both the bankers and herself, exactly what she was made of. Instead of fleeing what at first glance appeared to be a hopeless situation, she instead dug in her heels. Through a series of smart business alliances and acquisitions, funded only by her father's name (the only thing of value, albeit questionable, left her), she turned Wiser Meats around in under eighteen months, making it into as successful a venture as her father always boasted it to be.

In time, Charity paid off all debts and bought back all the shares she'd been forced to sell in order to finance the restructuring, and she herself became a multimillionaire. Many falsely believed Charity's success was at the expense of her sisters. For Faith and Hope received, by comparison with Charity's eventual riches, a paltry sum from a supposedly vast family fortune. Only a handful of people knew the personal sacrifices she'd had to make, particularly to write each of those cheques that provided quite handsomely for her sisters, at the same time leaving only scraps for herself. But Charity Wiser kept her secrets, in order to preserve her father'
s reputation and build her own.

It was about then that my reading was rudely disrupted by a neighbour's cat that had leapt up from some crafty hiding spot beneath my hammock, landing heavily on my bare tummy and sending the papers I'd pulled from Charity Wiser's manila envelope fluttering to the ground.

I let out an "oof" and remonstrated with the feline, using a few well-chosen and colourful words that meant little to her but made me feel much better. She buried her fat, flat face into my ear, sharing a spitting kind of purr while painfully kneading my shoulder for a count of six and then, in a flurry, was gone. I sat up in the hammock and glanced down at Barbra and Brutus, my much better-behaved schnauzers. They regarded me with looks that said, "You didn't expect
us
to do anything about her, did you?" then resumed their late afternoon naps in the shade of a nearby White Fir.

Barbra and Brutus are sister and brother. Originally Brutus lived with Errall and Kelly...until things got rough for them. Brutus came to live with us until the situation improved. But that never happened and Brutus never went back. And now, he's part of my home as if he'd always been there and Barbra is happier for it. So am I.

My backyard is a wonderful never-never land of lovingly planted flora, well-placed clay pots, metalwork benches, fountains, birdbaths and trellises, and stone-laid pathways that lead into leafy enclaves hidden throughout the expanse. It's surrounded by a six-foot-high fence that keeps me and Barbra and Brutus in, and others out-except that cat.

Weather precludes Saskatchewanians from enjoying their backyards and gardens for any extended period of time, so when it's summer and the sun is shining, outside is the place to be. I love everything about my yard, from weeding the flowerbeds to trimming hedges to barbecues on the deck to snoozing in the sun. I love the sound of buzzing bees, flittering birds and rustling leaves by day and cricket songs by night. I love the smell of freshly cut grass .and planter tubs full of geraniums. Having a good backyard is akin to expanding your home's square footage by several hundred square feet for a few months every year.

Rolling myself off the hammock, I adjusted my threadbare cotton shorts, slipped my bare feet into a waiting pair of flip-flops and collected the papers the cat had sent to the ground, piling them on a table I'd pulled up next to the hammock. I went inside to refill my glass of lemonade and was back in place in less than a minute, rearranging the essay Charity Wiser had prepared for me, the story of her family's past and present. The pages were handwritten in a strong, steady script. Surprising, given the author was nearly fourscore and a successful modern-day businessperson. I'd expected she'd be well-versed with the capabilities of a computer or, more likely, a Dictaphone along with a handy secretary for transcription.

But then again, as I was getting to know Charity Wiser through the words she'd put to paper, perhaps the how of it was
just
the thing she'd do, as much a part of her larger-than-life character as anything else. The first letter of every sentence was an exaggerated capital, dramatic-looking with its ends sweeping far above and below the line; the letters that followed were smaller, precise and neat, portraying a certain pugnaciousness I was almost certain I'd find in the woman I had yet to meet.

It was a rather detailed account, warts and all-or at least warts according to Charity Wiser. She'd correctly assumed I'd need as much detail as possible if I was to find out which member of her family was looking to end her life. It was a fascinating read, of epic novel proportions replete with great loves and losses, business successes and failures, tragedies and triumphs, friends and enemies. Danielle Steel would be proud. The more I read, the more I looked forward to meeting the author. Who was this woman who'd morphed from a spoiled daddy's girl into a powerful and savvy businesswoman? How did she become the woman she was today: rich, successful, reclusive, and bordering on abusive towards her family?

Soon after Charity Wiser had established herself as the powerhouse owner and manager of Wiser Meats, she gave birth to her only child, John. John's father was never named and I surmised that Charity had not been married to him. In due time John left home, married a woman named Virginia and together they had Flora. As Flora had already told me, John and Virginia had been killed in a car accident when Flora was fourteen and she was thereafter raised by Charity and a woman named Dottie Blocka, Charity's housekeeper. Flora, now twenty-two, stayed at the estate in Victoria until, as a young woman, she moved to Regina to take a job with Ducks Unlimited.

The balance of the Wiser family consisted of the progeny of Charity's two sisters. The eldest sister, Faith, joined a convent as a young girl where she remained until she met, fell in love with, left the church for and married a priest, Father Thomas Kincaid. Although both were nearing forty at the time, the two were desirous of a family and quickly had two children. The first born, Marsha, is forty-four, and married to Ted Moshier. Marsha and Ted have twin boys, Nigel and Nathan, twenty, and a girl, Kayla, seventeen.

Faith's second child is Nick Kincaid, now thirty-seven and single.

As two middle-aged, disgraced soldiers of God, Faith and Thomas had difficult times finding new careers, spending more time searching for gainful employment than being employed. So, in supporting their new family they worked through Faith's inheritance pretty quickly. Yet, although now poorer than church mice, pun intended, by all accounts they were deliriously happy and never for a day regretted their choice.

I was about to learn about the other sister, Hope, when the portable phone rang. It was a voice
from the past.

"I thought I'd call and save you the postage on the thank-you note you're going to send me," she started off.

Grrr. The first time I met Jane Cross she'd attacked me from behind and did her best to grind my face into the carpet of a New York City hotel room. She's a fellow detective who lives and works in Regina.

Short, squat, cute, likes to swear and wrassle, physically and verbally. Spitfire comes to mind when I think of her-which I prefer not to do. "Why would I ever send you a note, least of all to say thank you? For what?" I took a sip of my lemonade which had suddenly turned sour.

"For getting your sorry ass out of the unemployment line. I assume Flora Wiser has been to see you?"

I pulled myself into a more erect position in the hammock, causing Barbra and Brutus to each open an eye to check out the possibility of a treat being tossed their way. Was this why Flora drove all the way from Regina to hire me? On the recommendation of Jane Cross? "What do you know about it?" I asked, my suspicious gene on full alert.

"You were second choice, bub. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Runner up to lil ol' me. You see, bub, Miss Wiser visited
me first
last week."

What was this? And I hate being called bub. "You obviously want to tell me something, Jane, so just spill it." The sun moved behind a cloud throwing the yard into shadow. Was it getting chilly out?

"I just wanted to make it clear that you owe me one. So there'd be no confusion when in the future I call on you for a favour...although I can't imagine why
I'd
ever need
your
help." Smarmy voice.

"Flora Wiser tried to hire you last week?"

"Yessiree. But I was unable to fit the job into my schedule. Very busy y'know."

"I'm sure, what with all the attacking of innocent hotel guests you have to do every day." Smarmy right back.

There was silence while she conjured up a profanity appropriate for the occasion. But I got the jump on her. "Are you saying that after you turned down the job, you, of your own free will, suggested me?"

She cleared her throat and admitted, "Well, not quite. A couple of hours after Flora left my office I got a call directly from Charity Wiser. She'd heard about my meeting with her granddaughter and decided a personal call was in order. She had specific needs and hoped I could help."

Given my past history with Jane Cross, I was beginning to suspect a practical joke at work, but something about her voice kept me from hanging up-for now. "Needs? What does that mean? Do you know Charity Wiser personally?"

"Nooooo," she said unconvincingly. "Not really. But apparently she knows of me through some acquaintances in common who live on the coast. Acquaintances who knew to refer Charity to me when she was looking for a detective who lives in Regina and...who's gay."

I do not recommend snorting lemonade through one's nose, but that was pretty much what I did at that point. That scamp! Jane Cross-a lesbian. I just knew it! Well, I didn't really, but I pretended that I did. I am a detective after all. I'm supposed to detect such things about people. "Oh," was all I said, the model of restraint.

"Charity called hoping to convince me to take the job," she said, admirably ignoring the sputtering sounds I was making over the phone. "I had to turn her down...very busy y'know..." Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it; you're a busy and successful private eye, busier and more successful than me. Gotya. ".. .but I promised to do some research for her to see if I could come up with any other gay detectives in the area.

And guess fucking what?" The beginning of a mocking tone. "Guess who I found! You priss!" And she laughed; no...it was more of a cackle.

I joined in-for a second.

But, ha ha ha, solidarity, brother/sister stuff to the side, although I do find Cross' bilious sense of humour entertaining at times, I wasn't in the mood to talk personal stuff with her. Back to business.

"Okay, I've already figured out that we're going on a gay cruise, which I guess is par for Charity's course of coming up with embarrassing things to put her family through, but why a gay detective and why from Saskatchewan?" I asked.

"Lotsa reasons. First of all, she wants the detective to be gay so she or he isn't distracted by being on a gay cruise. She wants someone who can remain focused on the job. I guess she thought it'd be easier to find a gay detective than a straight one who wasn't a homophobe. Now I imagine her preference was a lesbian, but I assured her you weren't the kind of gay man who'd be sashaying up and down the decks in Lycra short-shorts and a feather boa looking for a good time. Right? You better back me up on this, Quant, and keep your pecker tethered."

I ignored that. Nothing wrong with feather boas. "What else?"

"The only relative she trusts is the granddaughter she raised, Flora. Since Flora lives here in Regina, Charity wanted someone Flora could easily contact. Also, the Wisers are pretty well connected in Alberta and British Columbia, so it's probably a good idea for the detective-who'd have to be undercover-to be from somewhere else."

"I guess that all makes sense." But since it's in my character to be suspicious of everyone at the beginning of a case, I asked, "Why does Charity Wiser trust her granddaughter?"

She made an "mmm" sound as if she'd thought about that too. "Well, aside from the fact that Charity raised Flora since she was a teenager-so they're like mother and daughter-this is all about money."

"So? Flora could want her grandmother's money as much as anyone else."

"True. But last year when Flora turned twenty-one, she received one million dollars from the Wiser estate. So, in a way, Flora already has a big heap of her inheritance money. She doesn't have to whack her grandmother to get it."

"That's a nice birthday present."

"Uh-huh. And...just between you and me and the fence post.. .I did a bit of research and guess what?

There's one more reason she'd prefer a gay detective."

She stopped there, wanting me to beg for it.

I waited her out, sipping on my sour lemonade in the cooling shade created by a bank of slowly moving clouds-all, I firmly believed, somehow caused by Jane Cross.

Finally she harrumphed and added, "Apparently Charity Wiser has liv
ed with the same woman for the
past forty years."

"Dottie Blocka," I said as if I'd scored a point. "Sheesh. You gals think every woman is a lesbian. Dottie Blocka is Charity's housekeeper."

"Oh really? A housekeeper, huh? Dottie Blocka is eighty-eight years old, bub. And, Mr. Know-it-all, Charity Wiser has employed a woman named Gladys Kazindale as her housekeeper for the past twelve years, Darlene Compton for the six years prior to that and Cecilia Broughton before that."

"Oh."

"Bub, anytime you want a lesson on how a real detective does her job, you just call on me."

Oooo this woman makes me steam. "I'm interested, Jane, why did you really turn this down? It's a pretty plum job, you have to admit. Sun, water, sand, murder...all the good things."

"Sure, if you're into fruity drinks, comparing tan lines and waist lines and wearing as little as possible.

You see, we women-types are a much more serious lot. Sparkly, shiny things do not easily distract us.

We're into deeper stuff."

Bullshit. "I know for a fact lesbians can float just as well as gay guys."

She hesitated for just a second, but long enough for me to know she was about to lie to me. "Like I said, Quant, busy here, long roster of clients who need my expert services."

Aha! "You're scared of water!" As soon as I said it I knew I was right. "You're scared to get on that boat!"

"They're referred to as ships, you dunce."

Na na na na boo boo. She wasn't denying it. I was right and loving it. But God help me if she ever found out I was concerned about the whole big-piece-of-iron-floating-on-water thing myself. "I think you'd look cute in one of those inner tube things, y'know, the kind with a little duck's head at the front..."

Disconnect.

I went back to my reading.