A Bodyguard to Remember (12 page)

Otherwise, I was tied to my keyboard writing the outline for my second book, or keeping up with work for clients, or I was appearing with Zeke at bookstores, libraries, and conventions all over Ontario, Quebec, and upstate New York.

We had a better than average turnout at our appearances
—
relative to other new authors, that is
—
because Zeke kept me in the news, arranging interviews with local newspapers and radio stations. Mostly the interviews were about my experiences since finding a body in my living room, but it brought people to the stores. They came out of curiosity, but some actually bought the book. It didn’t hurt that Zeke managed to get friends and relations to come out to each appearance. They acted as the seeds to grow a crowd.

I had plenty of friends and friends of friends in town and in the Greater Toronto Area. Kallas and Geoff were great at finding people to fill out the ranks in Guelph and the GTA respectively. As we moved east, Zeke had his own family and friends to call on. In Kingston, an army buddy of Nate’s showed up with a posse. In Buffalo, I appeared with another CC Books author who lived in the area. I think she rounded up all of her high school graduating class.

At Chapters in Belleville the crowd came and went quickly. While it was quiet, Zeke and I discussed sales figures, the topic of my next blog post and the other reason we were there. Bottom line, I was doing well as a new author, but we weren’t getting anywhere as spy catchers. We’d been at it for almost six weeks without any significant leads.

At the beginning of this circus, Merrick briefed me on my role.

“We’re looking for lurkers who show up repeatedly,” he said. “Engage them if you can. Thank them for their support. Chances are they’ll be genuine fans
—
or common garden variety creeps. Don’t worry about getting information from them. That’s Zeke’s job.”

I couldn’t imagine having any real fans so soon, but I got one right off the bat, my neighbour Walter. He came to all my book signings within a hundred klick radius, usually bringing a fellow member of one of the many associations he belonged to. Unfortunately, none of the associations included a book club. Still, he was doing his best for me.

This made me feel doubly guilty that I had been ducking the man as much as possible. That’s why, when I took a break from the table, Zeke found me looking for a coffee table book of famous gardens or heritage plants
—
something Walter would like, but wouldn’t buy for himself.

“We’re packing up,” he said.

“So soon?”

I wasn’t heartbroken at the news. This was our last event for a while. Next stop was the cadet camp to see my kids graduate from their program before their father took them on holiday.

“We’ve got to get to Borden right away.”

My heart stopped.

“Boone has broken his arm and they can’t get hold of his father.”

My heart started again. This was something I could handle.

“Is he okay? Other than the broken arm, of course.”

“I think so. I’ve got a number for the hospital. You can check on him once we get on the road. I’ve just got to call Merrick first.”

Merrick proved that once again he was my hero. He arranged for a helicopter to take me from Trenton to Borden. CFB Trenton was less than a half hour away from the bookstore. Zeke packed up while I bought the coffee table book and half-a-dozen comic books for Boone. I was in the air in under an hour.

Now here is the weird thing. Although I was concerned about my son, I was also excited. Taking my first helicopter ride was only the smallest part of it
—
though it was pretty cool. I was going to see my kids. Suddenly I noticed it was a sunny day. Between the anticipation of seeing my kids and my attempt to identify landmarks from the air, the flight to Borden seemed short. Any anxiety I felt for Boone was set aside until we landed and I saw Nate waiting for me by an SUV.

I bypassed hellos and went straight to my most pressing question.

“Boone isn’t on his own at the hospital, is he?”

Nate rolled his eyes at my motherly concern.

“Hope insisted on staying with him and Merrick is with them.”

“How did he get up here so fast?”

“In the neighbourhood,” said Nate. “Business.”

That curtailed any further questions. I was getting adept at knowing what I could and could not ask.

Boone opened sleepy eyes to greet me when I arrived. His good arm reached out to me and I gave him a careful hug.

“He’s been amazing,” Merrick reported. “Just like his mother. He cooperated with all the medical personnel and suffered patiently until they could give him something for the pain.”

I kissed my little boy on the forehead. Okay, now he was as tall as me, but in my heart, Boone was my little boy and Hope
—
now taller than me by half an inch
—
was, and would always be, my little girl.

Speaking of my little girl, I reached for Hope and drew her into a hug. It was so odd seeing her in her uniform and dusty combat boots. Despite its relative shapelessness, she looked more grown up in uniform. It was a little unsettling.

“Gosh, I’ve missed you guys.”

“We missed you too, Mom,” said Hope. “I’m glad you’re here, but really sorry about the circumstances.”

“She didn’t push me on purpose,” mumbled Boone, lids heavy and voice a little slurred.

“Did I just hear what I thought I heard?” I asked Hope.

My daughter’s face now ranged from delicate pink to beet red at the apples of her cheeks.

Hope was saved from reporting by the entrance of the doctor who shooed everyone but Merrick and I out of the room.

“Your son has a simple fracture of the ulnar. Apparently, he and his sister were competing for best time on the obstacle course and they collided. He fell.”

She shrugged, conveying the message that kids will be kids. I didn’t need to be told. This wasn’t my first visit to the hospital for Boone.

“I want to keep him in overnight. Unless he develops a fever, he can go home tomorrow morning. From what I understand, he was going to be going home tomorrow anyway.”

I nodded but I thought, not home, to his father’s.

“Can he come home?” I asked Merrick, when the doctor had left. “With me?”

He nodded and I felt a rush of warmth and relief flow through me.

“I’ll make arrangements,” he said. “They’ve got a family room for you so you can be on hand if he wakes up. He’ll probably sleep for a few hours now, however. Let me take you and Hope out to dinner. Then you can get her side of the story before she goes back to the base.”

I must have had that ‘my daughter isn’t leaving my side’ look on my face.

“There’s a party tonight. According to Nate, there’s also a boy she likes. My son is jealous, of course,” he said straight-faced, “but he realizes he’s too old for your daughter.”

Seth deferred his plans to take the kids to his family’s farm so I could have my children home with me for a week. For a little while, I was able to pretend that I had some semblance of control over my life. Merrick officially declared that protective custody was being relaxed. The information that had been stolen was out of date, so the spies weren’t interested in me anymore, apparently. My house was wired with security features that rivalled the Prime Minister’s home. We were allowed to go back to our lives.

For the kids, this meant reconnecting with all their friends. I insisted that their friends come over. I wanted to keep the kids close, at least for a couple of days. Since they had newly decorated rooms to show off, this was no hardship. By midday, midweek, Boone’s cast was half-filled with messages and signatures and he was determined to cover the remaining space. He was at a soccer game that a couple of his friends were playing in, under the watchful eye of one of the friend’s parents. There would be enough of his friends and their families present to achieve his goal.

Hope was at her best friend’s home, making use of the pool. After dropping her off, I used the time alone to catch up on bills and all the promotional tweeting, posting, and blogging expected of today’s authors.

I needed a break and I needed coffee. I was just debating whether to make a pot at home or go out, when Walter tapped on my back door.

“Hey, neighbour,” he said, giving me a quick hug. “How’s it going? I heard Boone broke his arm. I was on a fishing trip or I would have dropped by sooner.”

“Catch anything?” I asked.

“Nothing we didn’t eat while we were at the lodge.”

I headed for the kitchen.

“I’m making coffee, want some?”

“Only if you sit outside while we drink it. It’s a gorgeous day and you’ve been chained to your computer too long.”

I sighed but set aside my impatience. Maybe, to a retired contractor, working at a computer did seem like being chained down. In fairness, my mother had the same attitude to my writing.

I sniffed the beans in my canister and decided they were a bit stale. Instead, I used the package of coffee I had been given by the barista at a bookstore/café where I was signing books a week or so ago. I listened to the soft woof of air entering the vacuum cylinder and missed the first part of a comment Walter was making about the renovations.

“You haven’t seen it yet, have you?” I asked, once the coffee was brewing. “I should give you the penny tour.”

He was suitably impressed by the new flooring and paint and maybe a little put out that some of his repairs had been done over.

“You won’t need my help around here for a while.”

I laughed.

“It’s an old house,” I said. “I’m sure something will come up eventually
—
and there’s always the gardening. Even when I have time, I don’t have your knowledge.”

“Speaking of the garden, I’m pretty sure you’ve got a coon under your deck.”

I let Walter tell me all the ways I could get rid of racoons while I poured coffee and set out a few cookies on a plate. I loaded these on a tray and led the way to the deck in question, where a wrought iron table and four chairs almost filled the whole area. Beyond the deck was a lawn that usually looked unkempt, but this year was lush and well-manicured.

“That gardening book was an extravagant gift,” Walter said once we were seated. “And don’t say it’s the least you could do,” he added, forestalling that exact sentiment. “Now that my garden is in shape, I’ve appreciated having another yard to putter in. You don’t owe me a thing.”

I made a few of those inarticulate noises one makes when someone else has left you with nothing to say.

“Next year I’m going to try to recreate one of the beds in Kew Gardens. That book isn’t just gorgeous photos, it includes plans and suggested plantings.”

“Ah,” I said, hoping he meant in his yard not mine.

He chuckled.

“Not your thing, Prudence?”

“I like what you’ve done here,” I said, trying to sound apologetic for being horticulturally challenged. Actually, it was a bit too structured for my tastes, but at least the weeds were all gone.

“It’s based on an Italian garden I once visited.”

He talked about the various plants he had chosen and why. Since he used the official names, it was all Latin to me. I let the words wash over me.

“Prudence? Earth to Prudence.”

“Sorry, Walter.”

I gave him a sheepish smile

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Not that far away. Walter, what do you know about trees?”

He gave a half shrug. “I know a little bit.”

“What kind of tree would do well in this yard?”

That stumped him for a minute.

“Well, you can’t plan until next spring but now is a good time to plan. You want a bit of height? Maybe lilac? I wouldn’t suggest crab apple. You won’t enjoy raking up the apples in the fall.”

“I was thinking oak or maple.”

He shook his head.

“You have to think ahead. A tree like that would cast your whole yard in shade within a decade. That wouldn’t do much for your flower garden.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t need an umbrella.”

Walter was no help at all, so I went to an arborist the day after Seth picked up the kids. Then I called the city about underground pipes and cables. Finally, to appease Walter, I got out my camera and recorded the formal garden he’d created before I cast it, metaphorically for now, in the shade. Next spring, we would plant the Red Maple I had picked out.

Meanwhile, I uploaded the images on my camera to my computer. I wanted to give Walter a collage of garden photos and, while I was at it, I decided to finally sort out my images. As I worked my way through my cache, I got to the ones I took the day after I found the body in my living room.

I had to laugh at myself. There I had been, obsessing about a bit of garbage and a trampled garden. What on earth would I have done with the photos anyway?

Then I thought, why was the garden trampled?

The garbage in the front yard had blown in overnight. I concluded this, based on the fact that the police were very careful about taking the same route in and out of the house and keeping people behind the yellow tape
—
including any officers who weren’t actually working on the crime scene. Besides, I was always getting crap blown onto my lawn. The juniper bushes that spread across the front of the house and partway down the edge of the drive, acted like a catcher’s mitt for windblown litter
—
like the coffee cups and cigarette butts of the bystanders.

I didn’t see what was going on at the back of my house, but I assumed the police took the same care not to disturb things. That meant they probably were not the ones to trample my poor excuse for a garden. The trampler was probably the guy who broke into my house, or the person who killed him.

But why go into the garden?

I had a gate that led to the driveway, but it didn’t lock. The path from the gate led directly to the stairs up to the deck and my unlocked back door. It made sense entering through the back, especially if you were expecting to have to break and enter, not just walk in. Less chance of being seen. Still, there was no reason to go to the end of the garden to stomp on a few snowdrop shoots and the remains of last year’s annuals. I looked at the photos of the crushed vegetation. There were no clear footprints. In fact, as I compared different photos, it seemed to me that the reason it was such a mess was that someone was covering up footprints by scuffing up the dirt.