Chapters 9 and 10

Tom digs into Doug's Journal, and gets disturbing news about his boss

The Book of Answers was nominated for an Award of Excellence by Crime Writers of Canada. I post two new chapters each week. I invite your comments, and encourage you to recommend reluctant sleuth to others.

With each installment I post, more and more people subscribe. It’s exciting! I’ve also had more sign on as paid subscribers. Their investment will help cover the costs of formatting The Book of Answers as an e-book. I’ve also begun work on an audio version.

9

I’d waited all day to dig into Doug’s journal. I started in by looking for what he wrote about me. I couldn’t help myself.

I’ve heard our new student minister preach twice now, and for a young man, the (soon-to-be) Reverend Thomas Book seems a very deep thinker, unwilling to take anything at face value. I knew fellows like him while I was at teacher’s college, after the war. Able to thoroughly analyze a situation and speak clearly in ways that helped others see the “light”. That is not to suggest Tom brings an uncomfortable or over-bearing zeal. He doesn’t push himself or his ideas on people. He raises questions I find worth considering.

He spoke yesterday morning about free will, and the limits of God’s power. These lines stuck: “If I have to choose between a God who pulls all the strings, and controls everything, like some cosmic micro-manager, and who is therefore responsible for every devastating storm or earthquake, and the pain and havoc they cause, or a God who is limited in power, and can’t stop wars or hurricanes, child abuse or brain tumors, but is all loving, and who sorrows when people suffer, I choose the God of love” (For the record, I did not recall all of that. I found his script in the pulpit.)

I had no memory of that sermon, but that’s not unusual. I don’t remember what I said on Sunday, and I’d recycled an old Palm Sunday sermon when Betty called at the last minute.

I couldn’t imagine at the tender age of twenty-five I’d had much to say about human suffering. Ask me now, after Carrie’s struggle, and what it did to all of us.

Doug had me hooked, so settled into my leather recliner, Jazz FM low on the stereo, I carried on reading.

I have been spending less time here at the church, and I admit, I miss the solitude. The simple quiet.

Attie and I have moved into Ralph and Lila’s grandiose East Oakville house, to care for Dido’s children. Attie instructed her lawyer to initiate the process to legally adopt them.

Only once did I broach with Attie that we could move the children into our modest bungalow in Bronte. It’s more than enough house for four people. Attie would not hear of it.

Lila has absented herself almost totally from her grandchildren’s lives. She has some arrangement with Attie about the house, details of which they have not shared with me. Lila has bought a unit in the new, adults only condo building beside Saint Mungo’s. From her new place, she literally looks down on the church, which I find funny, and sad at the same.

The double burden of her daughter Dido’s suicide, and her husband’s ongoing dissolution, and gradual but inevitable demise by alcohol seem to have exhausted Lila’s capacity to be positive about anything. She does not speak of Ralph Daniels, and I have not had the nerve to ask after him. While he is certainly footing the bill for the new condo, it is equally certain he is not living there with Lila.

Virgil reminds me of a boy I saw outside a boarded-up bakery in Nijmegen after the liberation of Holland. Thin and wary. He has this way of meeting your eyes full on, and still not revealing anything of his inner self.

Kat is more social but has also learned (perhaps from Lila) to be manipulative and demanding. I fear they both need more than we can give. Virgil seems especially stricken by his mother’s death, and Lila’s emotional retreat. She no longer permits them to call her “Grandma”.

I attempt to sympathize with Lila, but she has become so closed-hearted. She seems to operate only from the rat-like bit of brain dedicated to preservation of her small self.

The other day I attempted to make conversation about the coming of winter, and preparations that need doing around the church. There was a time she’d have been as concerned as Attie about how appearances are kept up at Saint Mungo’s. But Lila was having none of it, and went on instead about some advice she’d received from her new lawyer.

 “Trent told me to book a mid-morning appointment for the Mercedes over the border in Buffalo. Apparently, there are reputable shops accustomed to dealing with a certain clientele from Canada. They supply and install snow tires and store the summer ones at a reasonable cost.”

I found her sense of entitlement abrasive as 40 grit sandpaper but held my tongue. After all, we’ve just moved into a six bedroom “colonial” in East Oakville. (The literalist in me says colonial is exactly the right word.)

“Trent says they’re full service, so I can also have the vehicle winterized, the oil changed, and they will even drive me to the Galleria Mall. I can enjoy a tasty little lunch and get in some shopping. When I cross back over to Canada, I will have something small thing to declare at customs, and no incriminating summer tires in my trunk. I avoid the duty on the new tires and have a pleasant day to myself in the bargain.”

Lila reported these words of legal counsel with great excitement. She feels that her Trent understands the needs of a person like her. This would appear to be accurate.

“This clever young man has quite a future ahead of him,” Lila assured me. “I was referred to him by a woman at bridge club. She said Trent was quite helpful when she needed some additional medication between prescriptions. He was very understanding and so accommodating she didn’t mind paying a little extra.”

It does not seem to worry my sister-in-law that her lawyer has the ethics of a rabid coyote. Trent sounds like the black-market operators during the war, finding ways around rules and decency, loyal only to their own avarice.

She asked me, “When are you going to get rid of that old rattletrap you drive? Surely, with your teacher’s salary, you can afford something more respectable.”

I drive a Ford Windstar minivan. They built it here in Oakville, and I think there’s something to be said for that, despite the pretensions of Lila and her Mercedes-driving ilk. When I haul lumber and paint for the church, or more recently, the 7-year-old twins and all their necessaries, I am glad to have my old rattletrap. I am considerably more relaxed about their inevitable spills on the seats, than Lila was, when they occupied the back seat of her Mercedes S420. (Heaven help me, I have committed to memory the model number of her vanity car!)

Reverend Paul, thankfully, seems not so much above the issues of wealth and worldly status, as disinterested in them. I recently overheard a conversation at the back of the church. When asked what kind of car he drove, he answered, without missing a beat, “Em, a blue one.” I liked his answer, so very much.

I am also grateful as I observe the effect his calm and quiet manner is having on the atmosphere around the church, after all the tumult.

The unanswered questions about the sudden disappearance of Rev. Stephen Peretz seem to be less pressing, perhaps because his wife, Wendy, is no longer on the scene. I have not inquired after her, of course, but I do pick up snippets as I push my broom about the church.

The most credible theory I’ve heard is she may have gone back to Vancouver, to be with family.

Ivy has returned to her former place in the choir. She’d been absent for quite some time after Wendy Peretz’s departure. They had been quite close, for a time before Rev. Stephen’s… abrupt disappearance from the scene.

Attie has, in her words ‘taken a leave from her duties in the choir’ so she can sit with Virgil and Kat in church, and see they make it down to Sunday School, which she believes does them some good.

The church’s music ministry seems likely to survive Lila’s temporary absence. There’s a new voice in the soprano section. A young woman who boards with Eric and Joan Halliday has been out to the last few Thursday night rehearsals. She has a sweet clear voice, and I’ve heard she will be asked to take a solo in the weeks to come. Carrie is a nursing student at McMaster, doing her practical work at Oakville Trafalgar Memorial Hospital.

I was not sure what to make of Ivy’s reappearance, but she seems to have matured, and I notice she makes an effort to be kind to young Carrie. Betty has taken them both under her wing.

I wondered what Doug wasn’t saying about the abrupt disappearance of the minister before Paul, but I got distracted by his mention of Carrie.

It roused the memory of my first glimpse of my future wife, standing confident in the Saint Mungo’s choir loft.

She did get that solo, on the first Sunday in Advent, the start of the pre-Christmas season. I remember every word, every note. Her voice rang out bright, and true.

 “When God is a child there's joy in our song.

            The last shall be first and the weak shall be strong,

                        and none shall be afraid.”

Paul Bennett, my supervising pastor, and I had been sitting in the minister’s chairs on the chancel platform. He saw me swivel around for Carrie’s solo.

“She brightens things around here, doesn’t she?”

10

“You said there’s more to each of us than we know and people we love do not perish.”

Ella Sayers had my line from her mother’s graveside service almost word for word.

She paused to sip her coffee. 

“You weren’t just saying words. It seemed to really mean something to you.”

“It’s something I hold on to,” I said. “It helps me when I close my eyes at night.”

“It was good for me to hear that.” Ella cleared her throat and drank some coffee. “I loved… I love my mother.”

A loud “Omigod!” flared up from the booth next to ours, followed by a stage whispered “Shush!”

A surge of adolescent laughter filled the dining space at my friend Michael Power’s retirement project, a small sandwich shop.

Ella had claimed the last open booth. The other three were crammed with students in the male and female variants of the Colborne College uniform. Collared white shirts, navy ties and dark blue jackets emblazoned with the school crest. According to my mother, who taught there for almost 30 years, it’s required dress when they venture off-campus, to remind students they represent the dignity of the elite private school.

“Looks like the Colborne kids have discovered Amazing Sandwich Powers.” I said, wondering what Michael thought of his place turning into a teen hangout.

The gaggle of students had marked territory with designer book bags plunked down on placemats and navy-blue pea-coats thrown over chairs.

“I suggested here because it’s handy. Gwen said you’re down the street at The Cash Box.”

“I do the books. But on busy days, like the end of the month, or before a holiday like Easter I help out front.”

The dark roast aroma from Ella’s mug was enticing. I scanned the room for Michael’s sister and her carafe.

Bonnie appeared beside our booth with a thick-handled mug of coffee that matched the one in front of Ella. She’s a shorter version of her brother the former linebacker, and almost as wide. Her grey hair was pulled back in a ponytail secured with a Union Jack scrunchie that matched the tattered flag on her Sex Pistols t-shirt.

“It’s decaf, Tom. You’ve probably had at least two cups of the real stuff already.”

“Thanks Bonnie. This is Ella.”

“We met.” Bonnie said, smiling, “And before you ask, Tom, you still can’t have cream. You need more time on your treadmill. Your clerical shirt looks a little tight.”

“At least my shirt is from this decade.” I smiled, and said, “Bonnie has strong opinions about my diet, and I don’t argue.”

Bonnie nodded at me, and said, “He doesn’t get one, but I’ve got some nice fresh butter tarts on the cooling rack. Can I bring you one? On the house.”

“That’s very kind, but…” Ella looked over at a student with long blonde hair making a show of tossing a ball of waxed paper in the general direction of the trash receptacle, to the raucous amusement of the Colborne crowd. “… you’ve got lots going on here.”

Bonnie raised an eyebrow at the young crowd and winked at us. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll be back in a tick with your tart, while it’s still warm.”

On her way to the kitchen, Bonnie had a quiet word with the student with the poor aim. As Bonnie slipped behind the counter, the student bent to put their trash in its place.

 “She likes to mess with you.” Ella said.

“She’s a little rough on the outside, but…”

“You matter to her.”

“I met Bonnie and her brother while their mom and my wife were both patients at the hospice.”

The dining area became quiet but for the bustle of the now very polite high school students gathering bags and coats, saying ‘thank you” to Bonnie. There was a blast of brisk wind as they headed out the door.

Not for the first time, I wished Michael would invest in a sound system. Last time I’d suggested it he’d said if I wanted smooth jazz and cloth napkins I’d have to go over to condo row in Burlington.

When the last student pulled the door closed behind them Bonnie approached our booth bearing a single butter tart on a small white plate. She gave me her serious look as she set the tart and a pastry box on Ella’s side of the table.

“The tarts are on the house,” Bonnie said. “The coffees go on Tom’s tab.”

“Thanks, Bonnie,” Ella said. “This is very kind.”

“Come by anytime.” Bonnie patted my shoulder. “You don’t have to bring him.”

Bonnie stepped away to clear the now-vacant booths.

I said, “Tell me about your mother.”

Ella set down her coffee mug. She looked up for a moment, as if sifting memories.

“She was a tough old broad. Before the dementia, and the rest of it, she’d sit in the Port Credit Legion and let the old farts buy her draft beer. Her words for them, not mine. She liked Dancing with the Stars, and her soaps. Especially Corrie… Coronation Street. She smoked too much, loved her scratch tickets, and never missed Tuesday night bingo.”

Ella stared at me, as if waiting for my reaction.

I said, “Your mom sounds like my grandmother. “

 “Really?”

 “My Nan smoked two packs a day and always said she was quitting. My Dad’s mother. She had this plastic filter thing that was supposed to wean her off. It never did. Alzheimer’s quit for her. She just forgot about smoking and most other things. Before that she loved her lottery tickets and was at the legion ‘til closing three nights a week.”

I don’t know why I told Ella so much, but it seemed to help her relax.

“When I was little Mom played her Louis Armstrong records and we’d read those little square Beatrix Potter books. My favourite was Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle the Hedgehog. She’d make us weak tea with lots of milk and sugar and we’d sit up in her bed, and she’d read me to sleep. That was when she could be home.”

I felt the familiar tightening behind my eyes. I sipped from the large white mug. The de-caf had an edge and needed cream.

“I have a daughter. Hope. She used to love picnics in bed when she was young. She’d say the best place in the world was between mommy and daddy.”

Ella set her mug to one side. She leaned in close and spoke in a softer tone.

“Wanda Mae… my mom, wasn’t a typical mother, like on ‘Happy Days’ or ‘One Day at a Time’. I grew up mostly with my aunt Judy while mom worked on cruise ships in the Caribbean. They called it hospitality. She danced and sang in the ship-board revues, but she made her real money after the shows were over...  it was a hard life. Does that shock you?”

“I don’t shock easy. And I don’t judge.”

“That’s what the funeral director told me. She said I could trust you, but I wasn’t sure until I heard you at the cemetery.”

“It feels like you want to tell me something.”

“I told you about my mom, because I want you to understand.”

“It sounds like she loved you and did the best she knew how.”

“She was in a life that once you’re in, it’s hard to get out of. She wanted better for me.”

“Are you okay? Is there something you need help with?”

“No… I mean yes, I’m okay. But I wanted to tell you about my boss and your boss.”

With no idea where this was going, I just nodded. When I don’t know what else to do, I can listen.

“Like I said, I work at The Cash Box, just down the street, towards the Sobeys mall.”

“Uh hunh.”

“A lot more happens there than cashing cheques. More money comes in the side door than ever goes out over the front counter.”

“I don’t know if I’m the one you should be telling. But my friend Michael, Bonnie’s brother, used to be with the police…”

“The cops are already sniffing around. Grow up like I did, and you can tell.”

“So, what do you think is going on?”

“Ever take a close look at The Cash Box? You said you know where it is.”

I said, “It’s that single-storey cement-block building beside Petcetera. Bars on the side windows, and steel doors on the side and back. It’s friendlier in front, with the bright lights and the happy face with dollar signs for eyes, but it looks like a jail.”

“More like a vault. Runners from the drug and sex business in Burlington and Oakville bring in loads of cash. It’s counted and stored at The Cash Box.”

“Are you part of this?”

“No, I do the books for the legit business. But they trust me because of who my mom was. I’ve seen what happens in the back.”

“So what do you want me to know?”

 “My boss Brad Kazinski has something going with your boss, the other minister.”

“You mean Ed? Ed Wilder?”

“Not as tall as you. Dark hair. Dresses better than you, no offense. Suits that cost more than my car. Always smiling without meaning it. Like he’s selling timeshares in Orlando.”

“That… sounds like him,” I admitted. “Are they friends? Ed knows a lot of people.”

“I hope he doesn’t know a lot of people like Brad. Do you know about his family?” Ella used the word family like it should be in quotes and italics.

“I’ve heard rumours. Bronte’s a small neighbourhood, in a small town.”

“Brad’s job is to clean up their image. Move their money into respectable businesses.”

“What does that have to do with Ed Wilder?”

“I don’t know exactly. But last week, the Thursday before the storm they were in Brad’s office and they got loud. I heard one of them yell “You need to fix this. We don’t need more complications!”

“Who said that?”

“Hard to tell. They sound the same, especially behind a closed door.”

 “What do you think they were talking about?”

“I have no idea Tom, but a few minutes later they both stormed out, and they each looked angry enough to hurt someone.”

I lifted my mug to drink, but the coffee was bitter and cold.