Judgement By Fire (2 page)

Dillon cut his
boss off. He knew exactly how Jon felt and his own hands itched for action.
“I’ll bring proof, Jon, or you’ll get my resignation. I can feel it in my gut
that I’m right.” Dillon rose and began stuffing the file folders back into the
bulging leather case.

“So, what’s
all this about, Jon?” Stephen demanded, raising a quizzical blond eyebrow as he
claimed the leather chair Dillon had just vacated, moving it around the bigger
man and making himself comfortable alongside Jon Rush’s desk.

“It seems we may
have a traitor in our midst. Warren thinks someone from inside is responsible
for all the things that have gone wrong recently,” Rush told his cousin
briefly.

He’d already
buzzed for Cathy, his secretary, and began giving her terse instructions for an
emergency department-heads- only meeting to be held within the hour to try to
retrieve the rapidly sliding situation. Busy with Cathy, Jon didn’t see the
dark look that slid across his cousin’s face, a look that was quickly hidden by
his usual expression of charming good nature.

But not so
quickly that Warren Dillon missed it, leading him to speculate briefly about
Jon Rush’s cousin and sole blood relative.

*****

Two hundred
kilometers and a world away from the plush offices of Rush Co., a doorbell
chimed in the silence of a charming renovated laborer’s cottage in the grounds
of Haverford Castle. Inside, Lauren Stephens threw down her paintbrush in
frustration at this latest interruption, splattering rich ochre across the
darker gold of her broad-planked pine studio floor.

The doorbell
chimed again insistently and, sighing in exasperation, she tucked a rebellious
strand of deep auburn hair behind one ear and wiped her paint-smeared hands
down the old flannel shirt she wore over a tee-shirt. With a frustrated scowl
she picked her way through the littered studio-cum-living room to the heavy oak
front door.

She’d gotten
home late the previous night from a dinner date in Toronto celebrating the end
of a successful exhibition of her work. Unable to settle after the late evening
and long drive, she’d wandered over to her easel to take a look at her current
work in progress. She scarcely even remembered picking up the paintbrush, but
several hours later her muscles were cramping from hunching over the easel,
trying to capture that one elusive detail that would bring the entire scene she
was working on to life.

Dawn was
painting her own vibrant scenes in the sky outside as Lauren felt the first
quiver of triumph as the brush strokes began to translate the essence of her
imagination.

Then the
old-fashioned doorbell had sounded its gruff chimes, shattering her
concentration.

“Damn it, I’m
coming,” she yelled irritably as the bell sounded again impatiently. She was
prepared to give her early morning visitor a real tongue-lashing. But the harsh
words died on her lips when she saw the tall, gaunt man standing on her
doorstep.

“Paul, aren’t
you just the early bird?” she exclaimed instead, immediately hating the false
brightness of her tone and knowing from the other’s expression that he had
caught the shadowed anxiety behind her words.

With a grim
smile, Paul Howard put his hands on Lauren’s shoulders and gave her a brief,
reassuring hug. “Lucy’s fine, Lauren,” he told her, “I’m sorry. I should have
guessed that my turning up like this would make you anxious. She had a restless
night, only to be expected, really, after running herself ragged the way she
has been doing. 

“I eventually
persuaded her to take a couple of the pills Dr. Harris gave her. She fell fast
asleep but I was too wired to sleep myself. I took a walk down to Armand’s
General Store and picked up a copy of the
Globe and Mail
. And guess what
I found in the business section?”

            “Paul, it’s too early
in the morning for guessing games. Come in and have some coffee, and tell me
about it. I’m glad Lucy’s okay.” She stepped aside to let Paul into her studio.
He brought with him the sharp tang of a late Ontario winter morning.

Paul’s wife,
Lucy, well-known illustrator and author of children’s books, had recently undergone
heart surgery. But the warnings to “take things easy” had gone ignored as Lucy
had thrown herself back into a hectic schedule of book signings and promotional
touring. She’d returned home, victorious but exhausted, much to the anxiety of
her husband and the friends who loved her. 

Leaving his
snowy boots at the door, Paul made straight for the big old settee in the
middle of the all-purpose room, strewn invitingly with bright jewel-colored
cushions and a couple of woolly afghan rugs, which Lucy had once likened to “a
favorite haunt of a Sheikh of Araby”.

She closed the
door and returned to her easel to put the paint away. Swamped by a huge yawn,
she paused to stretch her muscles before stooping to pick up the brush she’d
dropped when the doorbell sounded.

“Had a late
night?” Paul asked with a grin.

“No sleep at
all, actually. I met this handsome blond type at the gallery a couple of days
ago, who exhibited the ultimate charm – he liked my work.

“One thing led
to another. We did lunch, and then we did lunch again. Then yesterday, instead
of setting off for home after the exhibit closed, we went out to dinner. I got
back here about four o’clock this morning and suddenly had an inspiration about
that bobcat–” Lauren nodded towards the almost complete picture on her easel. “..and
the next thing I knew, some bum was on my doorstep, ringing the bell loud
enough to raise all hell, and demanding coffee.”

“I’ve always
said you make the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” Paul replied slyly, then
added, “which is just as well, because you also drink more of the stuff than
anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Lauren’s
coffee consumption was legendary, and she smiled again as she moved towards the
galley kitchen to fill a steaming mug for her friend, but Paul motioned her
back.

“I’ll get it,”
he told her, his face serious again. “Take a look at this article in the
paper.”

Puzzled,
Lauren took the newspaper and curled up in her big easy chair to read,
shrugging her shoulders to ease the tension that had accumulated in her neck
muscles from her long night. But in seconds the tension returned in spades as
she realized the cause of Paul’s agitation.

They were
going to turn Haverford Castle into a millionaire’s health spa?
She was
barely aware of Paul moving restlessly into the kitchen and splashing coffee
from the machine’s glass jug into two of the huge, chunky cartoon mugs he and
Lucy had bought her as a joke the Christmas before. She felt her mouth go dry
as she read the article a second time and a surge of anger dispelled her original
disbelief. 

Haverford
Castle was home to Lauren, Lucy and Paul, and about thirty other artists and
writers, some of whom lived there permanently, as well as others who were
itinerant. Ten years before, the elderly owner, Mrs. Shirley Lloyd, had opened
up the old place as an extension to her lifelong patronage of the arts.

She’d also
established an exhibition center in the main hall, and over the years the whole
thing had grown into a lucrative tourist attraction bringing in hundreds of
thousands of dollars to the local community.

But more
importantly, and closer to Mrs. Lloyd’s heart, it had provided opportunities
for artists to develop their work, insulated from the constant financial
anxieties of the unsheltered outside world. The two art festivals connected to
the artists’ colony had become regular events attracting thousands of visitors
both nationally and internationally to this rugged, isolated part of Ontario.

In addition,
the 300 acres of the estate’s woodlands and gardens had been left largely
untouched. Over the years this land had become a retreat for some increasingly
rare animals, birds and plants.

Unofficially,
the land also provided a recreational facility for local residents who fished
for their suppers (and occasionally hunted a rabbit or two) in the wild,
unspoiled beauty.  In her mind’s eye Lauren could already see her beloved
forest being torn apart by heavy equipment, could hear the remorseless drone of
the bulldozers and crash of falling trees, and she could feel the beating fear
of the wild animals and birds as their once safe haven was destroyed.

Only to be
replaced with swimming pools and hot tubs, massage rooms and saunas, luxury
cottages and genteel club meeting rooms. With no heed to the established
breeding sites and migratory routes of birds, or to the delicate woodland
plants and fauna which had enjoyed the undisturbed security of Haverford
Castle’s increasingly wilderness environment.

Her eyes were
drawn across the big, high-beamed ceiling of her open-plan home to the easel
she had so recently left. She had struggled all night to perfect the color, the
stance, the gleam in the eye of a bobcat she had spotted in the forest just a
few weeks ago. All this would be destroyed and for what? So that people who
wore themselves out with high living could have a “special ambience” (at least,
that’s what the newspaper article called it) to rest and recuperate? All for
corporate greed!

“They’ll
damned well have to go through me first!” Lauren declared aloud, adding a few
choicer expletives to describe the ancestry and intelligence of the anonymous
company executives responsible for this plan.

“I see you got
the message,” Paul said with a wry grin, returning from the kitchen and handing
her a mug of coffee before settling himself back against the settee cushions.

“How can
anyone contemplate wrecking something like we have at Haverford Castle?” She
spluttered her disgust. “To say nothing of destroying the local economy and
jeopardizing some very important future artists’ work.”

“It’s ironic,
isn’t it?” Paul replied, that faraway gaze in his eyes which Lauren knew meant
he was focusing inwards. “You and I, Lucy, Mike and his wife, the Polechucks,
the Stewards, the Colemans, Armand—we all came here to escape the city and to
find something we valued more. We’ve all made West River our home, even though
our reasons for coming here may have been vastly different.

“And right
when we thought we’d found a place that fulfilled whatever needs were driving
us, when we’d settled down and invested part of ourselves in the community, the
Gods of Industry come marauding with their bulldozers and their so-called
progress and want to wreck the whole damned thing.”

Paul stood,
placing his coffee cup on an antique farm weigh-scale that Lauren had
refinished and pressed into service as a side table. “I have to go, Lauren.
Lucy may wake up anytime and I don’t want her to be alone.” He hesitated,
seeming to come to a decision. “Look, I’ve been thinking. I thought I was done
with my law practice when we came here, but I think we have to fight this
thing. We can’t just let them come in and take what we’ve built. I’m going to
call a meeting at the hall, see what we can do. Can I count on you?”

Lauren stood,
too, her auburn head reaching barely to Paul’s shoulder, and silently nodded
her assent. A lump came to her throat as she realized how entangled they had
become in each other’s lives, and how the prospect of uprooting and moving
would devastate these very special friends.

Impulsively,
she hugged Paul, taking strength from his wiry, solid frame. For a long time
after he left, she stood staring out the window of her loft bedroom towards the
tall, stately trees that surrounded her home. But not even the snow-softened
beauty of the view could shake her depression.

The telephone
began to ring, stopped when the machine kicked in, rang again, and stopped
without a message being left, but she remained lost in her reverie as she
continued to watch, misty-eyed, the glow of morning slowly changing the
landscape.

She thought of
her friends among the artists who lived here, and those she’d gotten to know in
the surrounding community, and realized that they formed a kind of extended
family. She didn’t think she could bear to see it all destroyed.

The West River
Community Center was packed to capacity two evenings later when Paul, Lauren
and the small group of friends now known as the “Art Before Commerce”, or ABC
committee, held a public meeting to discuss the proposed closure of Haverford
Castle Center for the Arts and its conversion into a health center for the very
rich.

Once a pioneer
church, the clapboard hall had been rescued from ignominious dereliction by the
West River Heritage Committee, and after hundreds of man and woman hours of
diligent volunteer labor, had been turned into a focal point for community
events, dances, wedding receptions and village meetings. But it still lacked
some of the more sophisticated accoutrements of modern, urban facilities.

“A sound
system would be nice,” Lauren thought ruefully as she noted how the cathedral
ceiling seemed to rob voices of their power while magnifying the shrill and
restless scrapings of the rickety tubular-steel-legged chairs which had been
dredged up from the newer neighboring church basement for the evening. An
efficient heating system too, would have been a big help, she added to herself
as she pulled a silken-soft mohair cardigan more tightly around her.

Lauren was
surprised to see Lucy Howard come into the big room, leaning a little on Paul’s
arm, but she should have known the small, determined woman would be there. Tiny
and birdlike even before her illness had taken its toll, Lucy now looked frail
enough to be blown away by the winter wind that rattled the bare branches of
the trees outside.

But in
reality, Lucy was as tough as she was courageous and, as she told Lauren with a
smile when she was settled at the speakers’ table, she wouldn’t miss a good
fight for anything. “Let’s face it; life has been dull around here. Last good
fight I witnessed was when you threw that no-good husband of yours out,” she
said with a disarming grin.