There was an Old Woman (6 page)

“How do you mean?”

“The old lady could walk in at any time. Or Antonia for that matter.” He made a noise with his tongue on the back of his front teeth to express displeasure.

“Has he been giving Bracken a hard time? Is he harassing her?”

“Well, neither of them is talking. But she is reading the news and saying the names wrong night after night. What do you think?”

“That's arguing ass-backwards, Robin. That's only a possible cause of her getting the job. There could be others.” Robin's look at me was really aimed at an invisible observer of the scene. It was designed to make me feel unworldly even for Grantham, Ontario.

“Are you suggesting, Benny, that Cath got the job because Larry Hendrick went to the CBC at short notice? Come on!”

“Robin, you sure are giving me a lot of names. Are any of them going to be of any use? That's the question I'm asking myself.”

“And what are you answering yourself? You think your cousin has the guts to run and play in this minefield?”

“What cousin? Oh,
that
cousin! Sure, she knows what it's all about.”

At that moment, Catherine Bracken came back into the reception area and picked up the
Beacon
from the receptionist's desk. It was four-thirty. If she was working until ten-thirty under the bright lights, I thought she was earning her money. Robin grinned at me as Catherine Bracken quickly ran through the paper, accompanying her noisy page-turning with comments that were not at all flattering to her colleagues at the
Beacon.
I began buttoning up my coat. The last thing I wanted was a well-intentioned introduction from Robin. A word from him and I'd have to come up with the fictional cousin I'd been talking about.

On the way towards the entrance, Robin nodded back over his shoulder at Catherine Bracken. “Not bad in the flesh, is she? Orv sure can pick 'em.” I wanted to turn around and confirm what Robin was saying, but I didn't want to make myself conspicuous. I had seen enough of her as she came in and went to work to realize that this was an attractive, well-put-together young woman. I could see that there were aspects to this assignment that I was not going to find hard to swallow at all.

SEVEN

Explaining my sudden interest in the queen of the CXAN news room to Anna Abraham was more difficult than I thought it was going to be. I tried to pass it off as just another job, but Anna was quick to see that there was a tiny Orv Wishart concealed in a corner of my heart. I told her over dinner at Lije Swift's place in St. David's. I wanted to show Lije that I sometimes ate before two in the morning and in the company of civilized people as well as policemen of my acquaintance. Anna's reaction was to show no curiosity about the client or the job. She was usually ready to join in as my favourite silent partner, but not that night. Was it something about me that had changed or was it something that Catherine Bracken did to other women. I don't know. All I know is that the duck seemed overdone and greasy, the wine sour and the dessert oversweet.

“What's going on up the hill at Secord?” I asked, trying to locate neutral territory Anna taught a few sections of history at the university.

“Exams, papers to grade. The usual grind,” she said. It was an answer, but it lacked the Anna Abraham touch. We sat in silence for a few minutes longer.

“Are you looking forward to the holidays?” She removed a piece of peach stone and placed it on the side of her plate. By way of answer to my question, she shrugged.

“Come on, Anna! I didn't ask for this job!”

“I don't know what you're talking about.

“You would be talking to me if l'd been asked to track down a painting for your father.”

“I've never noticed you salivating when you talk about my father. Daddy has only served to make you interested in the better things of life.”

“Some of them. I hope I'm not beyond learning yet. It seems to me that you've played a part in re-educating me, Anna. Don't blame your father for his role.”

“Benny, I've always liked you in spite of your rough edges. I even like some of your rough edges. They're what make you you.”

“Thanks a lot! I feel like your project of the week.”

“Don't purposely misunderstand me. I know that trick; it gets you into a better arguing position.”

“Let's order the coffee.”

“Let's skip the coffee!”

“If that's what you want. Sure!” I called to Lije, who quickly saw the storm clouds and kept his usually welcome attentions at a distance. The check arrived and I handed over my credit card without a word. I could feel Anna's eyes on me as I tried to figure out the tip. What did I do wrong, I wondered. Why were we fighting when we really love each other?

We drove away from the restaurant in silence. When we reached the turn-off to town, she looked at me and I knew that she wanted me to drive her up the escarpment to her father's house. It was her option. If I guessed wrong, she didn't correct me. Anna's only fault, I thought as I manoeuvred the tight curves up the wooded side of the escarpment, was that she was still tied to her father. That's how I got to know her in the first place. She appeared in my office, like some spoiled brat, accusing me of taking her father for a ride. Just because Jonah Abraham was worth some millions on a good day, she thought I was overcharging him for my services. As a matter of fact, I might have if I'd thought about it. At the time she began hanging on my office door and complaining that I was the latest of a long line of gougers, I hadn't even made up an expense sheet on the man. I thought Anna was playing truant from high school. She looked like she'd just fallen off a motorcycle, wearing old jeans and a black leather jacket. It came as a shock when I learned that she was a lecturer at Secord.

I looked across at her now, bunched up as far away from me as the Olds would allow her to get without opening the door on the passenger side.

The car crawled up to the top of the escarpment. Below us in the dark lay the lake and the lights of Toronto on the far side. Closer, I could see the lights along the length of the canal. Traffic moving over the Skyway, leaping over the dark waters below. The lights stretched along the highway from Niagara to Hamilton.

I drove around the circular drive that led up to the Abrahams' designer house. The lamps on either side of the door were bright, harsh, even as I looked across at Anna.

“Well,” I said. She flashed me a look with those salamandrine eyes. I caught it and turned away I never could take the full blast of her displeasure. I cared for her too much for that. She moved her hand to the door handle. “Hey,” I said again and reached over. A moment later we were close and I was taking in her perfume and the smell of her hair and the wool of her coat and her nearness. “I'm sorry,” I said.

“You never say that,” she whispered. “You usually make me say that.” We kissed again and it was a long time before I was aware that there was a figure standing in the open doorway to the house. It was Jonah.

“Your old man's watching,” I said. She lifted her head.

“Timing was never his thing. Will I see you tomorrow? Or do you want to carry me away with you and leave only a puff of exhaust in Daddy's face?”

“I'd like nothing better. But I've got to go to work. She gets off at ten-thirty and I've got to be there when she leaves the station.”

“Some girls have all the luck.”

“And some guys.” I kissed her once more while Jonah moved from one foot to the other. Then she hopped out and was swallowed up in that mausoleum of art. As soon as the door closed, I noticed that the engine had stalled.

I parked along Yates Street where I could get a good look both at the door to the TV station and the parking lot behind it. To my left, behind a wall, stood an old brick coach house with a dovecote on top. As a kid, I dreamed of living in this overgrown shed, which wasn't much more than a big double garage. Maybe I liked that it was brick. I don't know.

With the motor and lights turned off, it didn't take long for the car to cool to the outside temperature. This part of Yates Street stood at the crest of the ravine that ran down to the old canal. This side of the ravine was called Oak Park and there were two goldfish ponds down there in the dark as well as a pipe dripping the mineral water that formed the basis for Grantham's long-time fame, years ago, as a spa, a summer watering station for wealthy southern Americans who wished to try the healing sulphurous waters.

My reflections, such as they were, were brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of my quarry on the steps of the TV station. She was alone and walked along the sidewalk wrapped in a man-size camel-hair coat and carrying a leather totebag. I kept my hands off the ignition and waited for the headlights to go on. They did, and shortly twin bright beams stung my unprepared eyes.

I watched and tried to see both the make and colour of the car as well as the plate number. I caught a glimpse of red, noticed a luggage rack on top and missed the rest. I let it get a block ahead of me before I started the engine.
Ideally, I would have liked to follow with my lights off, but I didn't want to get pinched by a cop and lose her.

She drove at a steady speed down Yates then took the first convenient route to Church Street. I caught up to her at the stoplight in front of Robertson School, where I'd gone to complete my primary education. One of the oldest buildings in town, it had once been called the Grantham Academy. That was when it was first built in 1829. It was a pre-Victorian classical building with two gables, a tower and alternating round and pointed pediments over the windows. There had been talk of pulling the old building down, or modernizing it, but the city fathers in their wisdom decided to preserve it as it was for the enlightenment of generations to come. She was two blocks ahead of me when I came out of my reverie. I tried to catch up, but she'd turned north up Court Street. It took me a minute of panic and a pint of adrenalin before I found her rounding the corner to Welland Avenue. I managed to suppress my thoughts about the old junction yard of the electric railway system that used to occupy the south side of Welland Avenue. I was rather proud of myself. I had also recorded her licence number and had the year and make of her car. I may have been easily distracted, but at least I was in an occupation where it didn't amount to a disability. She went north on Geneva, passed Balfour, Maple, Dacotah, Ottawa, Russell Avenue and Junkin. She turned right on St. Patrick and then right again into the driveway of a small house. I kept driving and came to a stop half a block beyond my target.

Walking in the shadows across the street, I arrived just as she had given up ringing the bell at number fifty-two. I took cover behind a privet hedge and watched while she slowly returned to her car and backed into the street again. As soon as she was gone, I ran back to the Olds, which was still warm enough to remind me that mine was an outside job fifty percent of the time. Traffic was light so it was no trick to find her again. She made a left back to Welland Avenue, then, through a series of turns, she was going down into the valley of the old canal off Queenston Road. This was a long, lonesome stretch; I allowed a lot of space between us as we followed the path of the old canal up towards Papertown. She parked in front of a low bungalow opposite the yard of a paper-mill on Oakdale Road. It was a stucco house with a veranda running across the front and around the right side. She let herself in with a key and turned the lights on. From where I'd parked after doing a U-turn I could see her moving around in the front room. There wasn't much chance of being spotted as long as she kept the lights on.

I didn't get to stay as long as I wanted to, because a car, travelling slowly with the lights off, bumped into the back of my parked Olds. I shot out of the seat and into the road.

“What the hell are you doing? Don't say it's driving!” I shouted.

“What are you up to? Why are you parked here? What are you fucking doing here?” It was a big black man, with heavy shoulders that might have meant that he pumped
iron regularly His face was angry and I was sorry to be messing with him so far from a police call box.

“I was deciding whether to take a chance and empty my ashtray when nobody was looking. Now you come along and spoil it.”

“Don't joke with me, asshole. You'll end up picking my fist out of your face!” I wanted to call “time” and get the hell out of there. The last thing I needed was a run-in with this hulk.

He came towards me and I knew there was going to be a fight. I was totally untrained and unprepared. But what was there to do? I blew out my chest and brought up my hands, keeping them flat and straight, like I held a black belt in karate or something. I came on faster than I thought I was moving and he took a step back. I shortened the distance again and brought up my right with what sounded like a kid's idea of a Ninja's cry of kill-kill-kill! He backed away, moving around the back of his Accord.

Just then, a light appeared on the veranda and Catherine Bracken came out the storm door and stood under the lamp. “Is that you, McStu?” She came to the edge of the porch steps so that the light was now behind her. McStu, if it was McStu, was looking at her.

“Get back inside, Cath! I can handle this!”

“McStu, you get in here! I don't want your blood on my street.”

I watched while McStu lowered his guard and walked towards her without looking back at my relieved face. He
stopped for half a second at the bottom of the steps, then they both went in. I made a note of the address and the Accord's licence number and went back to my car. Through the car window, I watched the lights, first on the porch and then in the front room, disappear. I turned on my motor. Home seemed to be the only shot left on the table. So I whispered the word to the Olds and it took me there.

EIGHT

A little checking around in the morning brought me the news that Willard McKenzie Stewart owned the Accord with the noted registration number and also was the owner of the house on St. Patrick Street. Very interesting news to ponder while enjoying a cup of coffee at Diana Sweets at ten-thirty on Tuesday morning.