Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (47 page)

“Nice.”

Dan pictured the reclusive slip of land fronting the harbour, one in a chain of islands protecting the city from offshore squalls in this century and from marauding Americans in earlier times.

“You probably won't need to use it,” Jags continued, “but you have it anyway. I'll write the address down for you with a map, because otherwise you'd never find it.”

For the most part, Jags seemed to want Dan around for public appearances. To date, that had consisted of accompanying him on a shopping spree at Holt Renfrew. Despite the warnings about his temperament, Jags didn't treat Dan as an underling so much as a companion.
He even deferred to Dan's taste in clothes, wanting his
opinion on a Zegna blazer and a silk Armani shirt, along with a pair of six-hundred-dollar Ferragamo loafers. Dan okayed the purchases then directed him to Farley Chatto, one of his favourite designers. (
Hey! Everyone needs a little Farley in their life
ran the designer's
slogan.) Donny had recently turned him onto the Regina native, who had designed for Elton John among others.
Not that Dan could afford a Farley any more than he could the Italian designers. Nor did he have much to dress up for apart from the occasional funeral, but he still enjoyed wearing homegrown chic. For his part, Jags was suitably impressed with the whimsical, sexy designs. He held up a jacket with silk satin detailing.
A mere $3000.

“I like it,” he said.

After that, he routinely asked for Dan's opinion.

“I draw the line at underwear,” Dan warned.

He was beginning to feel as if he'd been brought
on a shopping spree by his best friend. His very rich best friend. No one approached Jags directly, not even to ask for an autograph, though he was recognized several times that afternoon. The crowd seemed intimidated by him.
Of course
, Dan thought.
Torontonians don't approach celebrities. We stand and gawk from afar
. He was amused by their reticence, knowing that in LA or New York, Jags would be deluged with requests for autographs and photographs, even donations to improbable causes. The dreary side of being rich and recognizable.

The only difficult moment came when Dan tried to stop a young woman from taking Jags' photograph with her cellphone. He got a sense of how celebrities must feel like animals in a zoo, with people turning to stare at the exotica, never leaving you alone for a moment. Always feeling you needed to be on guard,
to look your best. Always being
on
. You would hate it,
he realized.

The woman looked terrified the instant Dan turned to her. Though he wasn't acting in an official capacity, and nothing about his dress suggested security, his body language said he was in charge.

He wagged a finger, blocking her view of the singer,
who was buried up to the elbows in a sale table of cashmere sweaters like a kid bent on finding free candy. The woman's eyes widened, darting nervously around as though she might need to escape if he became dangerous.

“No photographs, please,” Dan said calmly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, pocketing the phone. “It's really him, isn't it?”

Her face was pink, her breathing shallow and quick. She had all the symptoms of love at first sight.

Dan nodded. “It really is.”

“Please tell him I love him,” she gushed. “I always have.”

“Right.”

“Tell him we're all waiting for his next album.”

She continued to stare, as though he were the doorway to the universe where all the fabulous people like Jags Rohmer lived.

“Tell him he should do a duet with Prince …”

“Will do. Thanks. Let's let the man have some peace.”

“Sorry. Yeah, sure.”

He watched her slink away in the direction of ladies lingerie, an overgrown teenager stalking her heartthrob. Maybe her next purchase would reflect her true desires: a discreet pair of black undies that she would willingly discard for him and him alone. Who knew, but she might return in five minutes asking for an address, somewhere to mail them to him, only slightly used.

Throughout all of this, Jags ignored the scene, acting as though none of it concerned him. Only later did it occur to Dan that Jags had almost no contact with other people. Zilch. He never spoke of family or friends; no one called his cellphone. How was it that someone so well-known could be so isolated from the world?

They left the store, exiting into gloom and merging with a stream of traffic under a nighttime sky that compressed the heat and held the city hostage in its relentless grip.

Blue Mountains

The heat wave lasted two full weeks before breaking
over the course of several spectacular storms that trooped through the city, leaving considerable damage behind. The garage fires subsided. No one thought of them. The Canadian National Exhibition had started: Ferris wheels, trade shows, cotton candy, and a licence to get silly. Toronto turned its collective mind to fun.

Mornings were cooler now, which meant for Dan that the day started on an easier footing. Life began to feel more under control. The renovations were going well and the pay for celebrity babysitting Jags was helping him relax.

On Saturday, he drove Trevor to the airport to catch an early flight to BC where he hoped to tackle some unfinished business and put his house up for sale. If all went well, Dan reasoned, Trevor would be ready to step into his new life entirely when he returned.

Ked had gone to spend the weekend at his mother's. Dan returned to an empty house, apart from one yellow dog with a questioning look on its face.

“I know what you're thinking,” Dan told him. “You're wondering why the fun people always leave while the Grinch stays home? Is that it, boy?”

Ralph silently wagged his tail.

Dan had just crawled back into bed, hoping for one more hour of oblivion, when the phone rang. He rolled over and checked the clock: 8:57. He considered not answering but weakened on the fourth ring.

It was Jags.

“How are you tied in this weekend?” his employer asked, sounding like an aggressive trader keen on li-
quidating his entire portfolio.

Dan frowned. “Hello and how are you?”

“Yeah, all of that. So how are things sitting with you?”

Dan propped himself up on an elbow. “I've got a few things to do. Nothing pressing. What did you have in mind?”

“I need to get out of town.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Pre-launch jitters. I need to get away from myself.”

An interesting way of putting it
, Dan mused, without pursuing the thought any further. He assumed this was one of Jags' whims. If so, there was no use questioning it. He'd already said they came and went without warning.

“I'm thinking a couple hours north of here,” Jags continued. “I've got a little cottage up Collingwood way.”

“That's a nice area. How long are we talking?”

There was a pause. “I don't know. A couple days at most, nothing more than that.”

Dan tried to recall what Trevor had said about his return flight. Was it Tuesday or Wednesday? He'd written it down somewhere, but in his pre-caffeinated state he couldn't think where.
Oh, right — the calendar!
He glanced over at the circled date:
Wednesday
. Dan had promised to pick him up at the airport. Ked would be back from his mother's on Sunday evening, but he'd be fine on his own for one night or else he could stay with Kendra if he preferred.

“So what do you think? I don't mean to pressure you, but I've gotta get the fuck out of here.”

An urgent whim then.

The voice was edgy, bordering on anxious. Dan wondered what he might be faced with if he and Jags spent the weekend confined in a remote cottage. Did zoo keepers separate the bears come closing time or did they all sleep in one happy little enclosure?

“I'm good till Wednesday,” he said, even as he regretted giving Jags such wide latitude.

“We'll be back by then,” Jags declared. “I need to be back for some press stuff on Tuesday afternoon. Anyway, that gives us three days. So we're cool, yeah?”

“Good with me,” Dan said. He had a sudden thought. “Oh, shit! The dog.”

“Bring him,” Jags said immediately. “I like dogs.”

“Are you sure? What about your car? He's not really Porsche-trained.”

Jags thought this over. “I'll use a different car. Something that's less noticeable.”

Again it was a strange way of putting things, but Dan let it pass.

“I'll swing by in half an hour and pick you up. Don't pack anything but a change of clothes,” Jags said. “I have everything you need up there.”

Two hours passed. Dan was beginning to think Jags had changed his mind when he drove up in a beat-up station wagon, apparently the reason for the delay. He greeted Dan curtly, paying no attention to Ralph. For a man who claimed to like dogs, he seemed at a loss on how to deal with one. Ralph came up to him and waited for the obligatory pat on the head. Jags looked at him twice then walked away. Undaunted, Ralph followed.

“Why is he doing that?” Jags asked.

“It means he likes you.”

“Oh. Kind of like a fan following me around.”

“Something like that. Give him a pat and he'll stop.”

Jags touched the top of Ralph's head. Satisfied, Ralph trotted back to Dan, who ordered him into the back seat, where he settled with a grunt and a look of satisfaction, knowing he was going on an adventure.

They set off. Jags seemed distant as he navigated the maze of one-way streets leading to the expressway. Presumably this was one of those moods he'd warned Dan about.
Don't take offence. I piss everyone off, sooner or later
. Sooner rather than later then, was what it looked like.

“Is something wrong?” Dan asked when they'd been in the car ten minutes and Jags had hardly spoken.

“No, nothing.”

“You seem preoccupied.”

Jags shrugged it off. “Just watching the traffic. It's a weekend. You know how all the shitty drivers come out then.”

“That's normal.”

“It's just …”

“Just what?” Dan prompted.

There was a pause. Jags glanced down at his phone. “I've been getting these weird calls. Hangups and whatnot.”

“Crazed fans?” Dan asked, trying to make light of it.

Jags grunted. “Maybe. It's just that no one has this number.” He brightened. “It's probably nothing.”

“‘Nothing' is good,” Dan said.

Jags slipped a CD into the player. If Dan thought he was going to be serenaded with a full-tilt Jags Rohmer soundtrack on the way up, he was mistaken. Jags' preference for travelling was light classical music: Telemann's
Paris Quartets
, to be exact.

Once past the city limits, Jags relaxed. His driving was every bit as expert in the wagon as it had been in the Porsche. His preference for speed was obvious, although Dan never felt unsafe. Dan caught him checking the rear-view mirror every few minutes. He saw Dan watching him and laughed.

“Just keeping an eye out for cops,” he said. “I've got a heavy accelerator foot.”

He slowed and pulled over to the outside lane.

Dan was beginning to wonder if Jags was on something when his mood finally broke and he started chatting. His publisher had been in touch; they'd had a favourable notice in the
Globe and Mail
. A good sign, Jags said. As far as reviews went, it was the more
literary of the newspapers. If they liked his style — colourful, breezy, and straight-up — then others would be receptive to the book.

Once he started talking, he didn't seem to want to stop. Dan found his observations engaging. Nor did he dominate the talk, relegating Dan to the role of prisoner-listener. He was equally interested in Dan's side of the conversation. For his part, Dan resisted asking the obvious questions about his life and his colourful career. He talked with him as he would with a new acquaintance about whom he knew a little, but presumed nothing. Jags seemed grateful to be treated as just another guy.

The drive was quiet and uneventful. Jags made good time, even in his unassuming old carrier. Two hours north of Toronto, long before they closed in on Collingwood, the famous hills appeared in the distance like a smudge on the horizon. Blue and smoky. Dan had always been intrigued by their colour, how they managed to look that same cool shade of cobalt every time he approached. He'd heard various theories: the colour was caused by the atmosphere over the mountains or how light from the clouds diffracted as it hit the range or even that the blue pine forest with its billions of needles gave the mountains their unique appearance. In fact, it was none of the above. The mountains were composed of an unusual form of blue clay. It wasn't an illusion. They really were blue.

Dan was pleasantly surprised to discover that Jags' cottage was unpretentious and humble. He thought the rock-and-roll crowd was all about ostentation and a primal scream approach to life, but then Jags Rohmer had always been a cut above the rest. He could growl out a raunchy blues number with the best of them, but his voice took on a quiet yearning when he needed to embellish an emotion. He had an innate feel for dramatic phrasing, not unlike an opera singer's. His voice was authoritative yet soothing, as though urging you to do your best while consoling you for whatever trials you might be enduring. He appealed to both heart and mind, without condescending to either, and with more than a little soul to back it up.

Dan stood back and watched Jags unlock the door then toss their bags inside. With Ralph leading the way, they took a quick tour. The property lay nestled in a small basin at the foot of the mountains, engulfed by the surrounding forest.

“Nice place,” Dan said.

“Thanks. I use it as an occasional retreat. A few days is usually enough for me. I can't stay here long or I get antsy.”

“Why's that?”

Jags shrugged. “When I bought the place, I had dreams of resurrecting my childhood. Lots and lots of solitude. The only problem is I've been a city dweller for my entire adult life, so coming here is always a bit of a shock. It hits me the way the chaos of the city hits people who aren't used to that.”

They wandered around the cottage and emerged on the far side. Jags looked ruefully at the building, as though reluctant to go in. He retrieved a couple of beers and they settled side by side on the porch. After a thorough sniff around the yard to make the acquaintance of the neighbours, both seen and unseen, Ralph settled at their feet and fell asleep. Apparently he'd found the drive taxing.

Jags was relaxed now. He scanned the bush at the edge of the property line, as though measuring how far it had encroached in his absence. Despite his ambivalence for rural life, he seemed to be in his element. Dan felt he was seeing the real man at last.
He ventured a question that had been on his mind since they'd met.

“Where'd you go for the last ten years? What drove you away?”

Jags swatted at a fly. He lifted his bottle and took a swig, his eyes searching the horizon again. “From the pop music circus, you mean?”

Dan nodded. “Yeah, that.”

“I got tired of it. You know John Lennon's ‘Watching the Wheels'?”

Dan nodded.

“He wrote that song just as he was coming out of a five-year hiatus from recording. He wanted the world to know he'd stepped off the merry-go-round and was just living his life.”

“Right before he was shot dead.”

“Yeah — thanks for that little reminder. Anyway, that was me. I was a burnout. I just wanted to sit on the sidelines and watch it all going by. I had what everybody thought they wanted: fame, money, power. But they all had something I wanted.”

“What's that?”

“A normal life.”

Dan laughed. “You're kidding me, right?”

Jags scowled. “No, I'm not fucking kidding you. What are you laughing at?”

“Jags, there's no such thing as a normal life.”

“Well, try living the kind of life I lived, where everybody has a claim on you, where everybody has expectations of you, and then you'll know what I mean. I have no sense of what reality is.”

Dan shook his head. “While you're feeling sorry for yourself, stop to think about what everybody else has: kids who need things from you, spouses who want things from you, and — worst of all — demanding, insensitive employers who expect things from you. There's no such thing as normal, Jags.”

Jags seemed perturbed by this, like an astronaut returning from an extended voyage in outer space and confronting G-forces for the first time in years. “Well, anyway, I'm tired of people wanting things from me. I just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah, you and Greta Garbo. Good luck with that.”

Jags looked at him from the corner of an eye. “Asshole,” he said.

Dan shrugged. “Pretentious twat.”

They both laughed at the same time. Jags grabbed him by the wrists and shook his arms.

“See, this is what I've been dying for. Someone to treat me like the idiot I am. Someone to tell it to me like it is.”

“You should have had kids,” Dan reflected. “They do it for free.”

“Fuck. Do you think maybe I've just taken myself too seriously for too many years?”

Dan shrugged. “Could be.”

Jags let go of his wrists. “Thanks, buddy. For telling it to me like it is.”

“Any time.”

Half an hour later, they headed inside. A stone chimney dominated the centre of the room. Jags took a bottle of bourbon off a shelf and poured two glasses, sliding one across to Dan.

Dan shook his head. His mind was buzzing with half-remembered sensations of all-night drinking sessions long past. He didn't want them to return.

“Can't do it. I'm on the wagon,” he said. “Besides, I won't be much good to you as a bodyguard if I'm drinking.”

Jags didn't appear to be listening. He downed his glass then stood and kicked an empty firewood cradle.

“We'll need to get a few logs in, in case we feel like a fire later,” he said. “Not that it'll get cold, but it's always nice for atmosphere.”

The cottage was open-concept, apart from a bathroom and a single bedroom furnished with double bunk beds. Dan wondered for a moment if Jags did have kids after all, but then remembered it was his own childhood he said he'd been trying to recreate. The other sleeping spaces included elevated lofts at either end, open to the rest of the cottage. Dan worried how comfortable he was going to be without privacy, but then they weren't planning on a long stay.