Knowing Penelope Read online

  His answer came as a grunt from inside the tent.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the bathroom while Paul’s changing.”

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Paul whined.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You can change and we’ll all go together. You might need to pee again anyway.”

  Phil emerged from the tent but wouldn’t meet Kimberly’s eyes.

  Her neck tingled.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked quietly. Voices could carry at night. She didn’t want Ray to hear.

  “Nothing.”

  She took Phil’s hand in her right one and held out her left for Paul. Together she and the boys covered the distance to the public washrooms. Phil carried the toothbrushes and Paul the washcloths.

  When the boys were cleaned up and ready for bed they walked back to the campsite together.

  “’Night, Phil,” she said, kissing her eldest on the forehead.

  “’Night, Mom.”

  “Have a good sleep, Paul.” She pulled the sleeping bag up to his chin and kissed him on the cheek.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  Once they were settled, Kimberly considered turning in as well. Ray was in a sour mood and would be lousy company.

  Still, if she went to bed without saying goodnight to him he’d really have something to sulk about.

  Might as well see if he’d like a cup of tea first.

  She zipped up the tent flap and made her way quietly back to Ray. She could see the campfire even over the ridge. The flames had climbed higher since she’d left with the boys.

  “Can I make you a cup of tea?” she asked.

  Ray didn’t look up.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  “Would you like anything before I turn in?”

  “Nope.”

  “OK, then, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  During their brief exchange, Ray’s eyes did not leave the campfire.

  All right then, she thought. Be like that.

  Kimberly wasn’t planning to lose sleep over it.

  She woke a few hours later, unsure at first of her surroundings.

  The boys were fast asleep, their childish snores barely audible.

  Ray hadn’t come to bed yet.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake,” she muttered, careful not to wake the boys.

  She pulled on her shoes and quietly unzipped the tent flap. She couldn’t leave Ray outside all night. He wasn’t used to camping. Maybe he’d passed out. It wasn’t like him to drink excessively, but she’d lost count of the number of drinks he’d consumed.

  Besides, he might set the whole campground on fire.

  As she approached the ridge, she could see the flames. They leapt and danced, throwing sparks high into the night-black clearing.

  Was Ray asleep near the fire?

  Thwack!

  Apparently not.

  Thwack!

  What the hell was he doing?

  She peeked over the ridge.

  Ray had an axe. He raised it repeatedly, splintering the picnic table.

  Thwack!

  Kimberly watched in horror. This man was so unlike the husband she thought she knew that she didn’t dare to move. His eyes glowed orange in the campfire. His face was a study in rage.

  He was saying something. Not muttering, exactly, but not speaking loudly either. His voice was almost a chant. She had to strain to hear.

  “Kill the bitch,” he said. “Kill the black-hearted whore and her bastard sons. No one will know. Kill her and throw her into the fire where she belongs. Cut off her head and burn it.”

  Thwack! went the axe.

  “Let the whore and her offspring burn in hell.”

  Thwack!

  **

  People never understood why Kimberly left Ray the way she did.

  It was inexplicable.

  She just packed the boys into the mini-van one night during their family holiday and drove away, leaving her husband of fifteen years stranded in the far north, without so much as a good-bye.

  No one could figure it out.

  No one except for Kimberly.

  And maybe Ray.

  Low Roller

  It isn’t just that the holidays bring out the worst in people.

  Sure, some of us blame the stress and bustle of the season for causing family arguments, a trail of mini crises that we leave in our wake as we shop, cook and clean.

  The painful struggle to maintain permanent smiles throughout a marathon of entertaining.

  It isn’t easy being gracious for weeks at a stretch.

  But we really shouldn’t blame it on the holidays. Some people are just miserable all year round.

  The Christmas season, with its artificial twinkle of good cheer, serves to highlight the fact that some souls are bleak at the best of times.

  Staying cheerful is easier for people like me.

  I’ve got no family to speak of, except for Aunt Rachel, and she never puts up much fuss over Christmas. You see, she never married, so her festive table, elaborately decorated as it is, seats only the two of us.

  She detests turkey, preferring a nice steak or a bit of ham.

  We usually eat in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence. I never doubt her love.

  It’s her sense of tradition that could use a shot in the arm.

  **

  “Would you like more tea, dear?”

  “No thank you, Mattie,” I said. I’d be awake half the night as it was, hopped up on caffeine and peeing a blue streak.

  “What did you say your name is?” Mattie’s daughter, Delilah – forty if she’s a day – pointed her pen my way.

  “Penelope Canon,” I replied, hiding my annoyance for Mattie’s sake. Delilah would have been a good looking woman, except for the permanently pinched look where a smile would have been welcome.

  “And how do you know my mother?” she said, scribbling down my name.

  I couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. From where she sat it would appear odd, me on the young side of thirty-something and claiming a close friendship to Mattie Oaks, a sixty-five year old widow of comfortable means and tremendous elegance.

  I was tempted to say ‘We met in yoga class’, but I chewed on my short-bread cookie instead.

  You see, I knew the truth about Delilah.

  I knew she seldom, if ever, spent time with Mattie. The only reason she was here today was because of that great unifier – the ‘family emergency’.

  Delilah’s brother, Jordan Oaks, had gone missing.

  Again.

  “Don’t you remember, Delilah?” Mattie answered for me. “I told you about a young woman I met in my pottery class a few years ago.”

  I glanced around Mattie’s stunningly decorated dining room. Casual comfort reminded the visitor she was, after all, a child of the sixties. Her own clay pieces were displayed on every surface, making the space unique. Playful colours blending with earth tones created a sense of warmth.

  Just like Mattie.

  I, of course, had no potting talent whatsoever. Mucking about, as Mattie called it, wasn’t my bag. I’d joined the class for one reason only: to rub elbows with a woman suspected by her employer of stealing pharmaceuticals to smuggle south of the border.

  My plan didn’t work out. No sooner had I chatted the suspect up than she dropped the class, quit her job and left town.

  Meanwhile, my world collided with Mattie’s.

  She laughed openly at my ridiculous attempts to make clay art. Everything I touched came out looking like an ashtray.

  Ironic, since neither Aunt Rachel nor I smoked.

  Even after I dropped the class and came clean with Mattie about my reasons for signing up, we remained friends. I think in many ways Mattie is a kindred spirit. Although you’d never guess it to look at the two of us. I’m short and hardly sweet – a rough tough creampuff, as described by an ex-boyfriend – with no taste to speak of and little in the w
ay of artistic talent or grace.

  Mattie is tall, slender and the picture of refinement. She takes pride in her keen eye and is able to charm the birds out of the trees.

  It would be hard not to like her. She smiles easily, laughs at everything I say and cooks like a master – another skill I’m sorely lacking.

  She seldom complains. It was months before I began to get an inkling of her strained relationships with her son and daughter. It was much longer before I knew how bad things really were.

  I couldn’t figure it out. Mattie was a joy to be around. What the hell was the story with her kids?

  Finally I got the picture.

  Mattie had married their father when Delilah was fifteen and Jordan only ten. A short time later, Richard was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer.

  When he died, Delilah blamed Mattie.

  Jordan didn’t blame anyone. He just shut down.

  Maybe he’d always had a bipolar disorder. But it wasn’t an obvious problem until after Richard died. From that point on, Jordan’s depression presented itself in a variety of behavioural problems. It began with poor marks and a regrettable circle of friends and flowered into drug addiction, alcoholism and gambling.

  He’d disappeared twice before.

  He was thirty-five. Not bad looking, judging by Mattie’s photos, except for the darkness in his eyes.

  Jordan hadn’t lived with Mattie since he’d dropped out of university. She tried to get help for him, but he’d resisted every effort. They’d argued constantly in those days.

  Delilah convinced Mattie that she was enabling Jordan’s behaviour by continuing to feed and house him.

  Mattie asked Jordan to leave.

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She’d given her word to her dying husband to care for his children. It was all he’d ever asked of her.

  Sometimes life can break your heart.

  “Yes,” Delilah said, looking up from her notepad. “I remember. You met in pottery class. And you’re a private investigator, is that right, Ms. Canon?”

  “That’s right, Ms. Oak.”

  I didn’t appreciate Delilah’s tone. I could put on an attitude, too.

  Of course, given my petite stature and casual clothes as compared with her striking height and impeccable dress, my ‘tone’ might be somewhat less impressive than hers.

  “Can you help us find Jordan?” Mattie said.

  “Of course. I’ll do what I can, Mattie. Just tell me when you last spoke with him, and anything you can about his habits.”

  Mattie went through the story again.

  I sipped my tea and made notes of my own.

  Last contact – telephone (Home phone) two days before Christmas.

  Expected for dinner December 25.

  No answer on home or cell phone since.

  “What did the police say?”

  “They filed the report. They sent out a press release. There has been no response so far.”

  Mattie poured more tea for Delilah. I put my hand over my cup.

  I had everything Mattie was going to be able to give me, and frankly I was tiring of Delilah’s company.

  “Do you have an extra set of keys for Jordan’s apartment?” I asked. “I’d like to start there.”

  Mattie reached into her purse. She struggled to remove a key from her ring and handed it to me.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you,” Delilah said.

  “Actually…”

  “I’ve discussed this with Penelope,” Mattie said. “I’d prefer if she went alone to Jordan’s apartment. That way she can take her time and look for clues. She doesn’t need us looking over her shoulder.”

  “But, Mom….”

  “It’s been decided, Delilah.” Mattie put her teacup down and walked me to the door.

  Once out of her step-daughter’s sight, she took my hands in hers.

  “I don’t know what you can do,” she said, “but thank you.”

  **

  It had been Mattie’s idea to send me alone to Jordan’s apartment. Whatever secrets her step-son might have, they were his. They were not to be shared with his judgemental sister. It was one thing for me, a stranger, to rifle through the details of his life. He wouldn’t likely take too kindly to Delilah going through his things.

  Whatever the reason, I was grateful. I couldn’t imagine doing a thorough job of it with Delilah at my side.

  The key turned smoothly in the lock. I opened Jordan’s door, taking a moment to study the tidy foyer and main living area.

  Most drug addicts I’ve encountered in the course of my work, and there have been a surprising number, mostly runaways, are not capable of maintaining a decent living space.

  At first I was surprised at the cleanliness and order, till I recalled that Mattie, not wanting Jordan to give over to sloth, had hired a regular cleaning lady.

  In the novels of yesteryear, when the PI enters a room that is part of his investigation, he’ll usually move in a logical pattern. He’ll pull on gloves so as not to disturb any evidence and he’ll take pains not to miss the slightest clue.

  There wasn’t going to be anything of interest in this perfectly manicured environment. I locked the door behind me and stepped further into the apartment. Slowly I made my way to the gleaming kitchen, the sparkling bathroom, the polished living room and the perfectly made up bedroom.

  Only one room held my interest.

  Some things don’t change.

  Like the appeal of a locked door.

  No private investigator can resist it.

  Enter me, it seems to command. Beyond this door are the clues you seek, the answers to your questions.

  I considered leaving Jordan’s apartment without breaking into the locked room.

  But not seriously.

  I found a screwdriver in a tool box in the laundry room. I had the lock off in minutes.

  I paused, holding the doorknob for a moment, savouring the sensation of imminent solution.

  Then I opened the door.

  As I expected, it was a den. A private office, so to speak. The place where Jordan kept everything he really cared about, in one great heaping mess.

  Papers. Books. A television. A desk. A computer.

  All in no particular order.

  It was obvious the cleaning lady wasn’t allowed in this room.

  I smiled.

  It seemed I’d discovered the real Jordan Oaks.

  I was grateful for yet another difference between modern investigative work and that done by the gumshoes of the past.

  In the last century, the investigator would spend hours sifting through this mess of papers and books, hoping for some scrap of evidence to fall out from the debris.

  I headed straight for the desk. The computer was already turned on. I jiggled the mouse to bring the monitor to life.

  Jordan’s ‘inbox’ winked at me, strutting on the desktop like a big fat turkey.

  I scrolled down past Viagra and anti-depressant ads, looking for anything of a personal nature.

  Bingo!

  An email from someone by the name of Scott, asking where the hell Jordan was and why he hadn’t shown up to watch the game on Tuesday night.

  Another, earlier, message from Bill saying he’d be by to collect. With the ominous command to “cough up” the full amount “or else”. That one was dated December 23.

  And one from someone called Julie, asking Jordan if he was mad about anything. She’d tried calling him, it said, but the voice mail wasn’t working.

  Voicemail.

  Maybe it was full, I thought. I’d have a listen once I was done with the email.

  Jordan’s PC was connected to a printer on top of a cabinet. I printed all the emails I thought might be relevant, going back to the week before Jordan disappeared.

  Then I checked out his deleted folder. Like many people, Jordan stored old emails there once he’d finished with them, rather than removing them permanently.

  One in pa
rticular was interesting.

  Jordan. We’re waiting for you. Get your ass down here. Now.