Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. (12 page)

“Look, I'm supposed to be meeting someone at Seattle airport right now,” he complains as a customs officer hands him a white gown, saying, “I'm sorry about this, sir. But since 9/11 we've gotten a lot tougher on visitors.”

“This is ridiculous,” insists Bliss. “What possible reason would I have for smuggling dope into your country?”

“Just change in that cubicle over there, sir,” says the officer as he pulls on a pair of surgical gloves, explaining
coldly, “The fact is that the drug dog clearly reacted positively to something in your car.”

Bliss clenches his teeth and spits, “But I've told you a dozen times. I just hired the damn car. I'm a senior police officer, for Christ's sake.”

“Swearing won't help you, sir.”

“I'm not swearing, you moron,” Bliss mutters under his breath, though not quietly enough.

“I heard that,” begins the officer, but a knock at the door saves Bliss as a young female officer struggles in with his luggage, enquiring, “Is this your suitcase, sir?”

“Yes,” says Bliss frostily.

“Then how do you explain the presence of this herbal substance?” she asks as she flips open the case and triumphantly extracts a large plastic bag.

“I'm so cross that I left my bag of Keemun tea in David's suitcase,” Daphne is saying to Trina as they finish counting and stop for a drink. “It's the Queen's favourite, you know, and I so wanted you to try it. But what with all the excitement at the airport I quite forgot about it.”

“Never mind. I'm sure he and Daisy are enjoying it,” says Trina, adding, “Can you believe it? I raised over a thousand dollars, not counting all the funny money.”

“I'd still like to know more about that place where Minnie sent her life savings,” says Daphne, and Trina has an idea.

“It won't take a minute,” she says re-finding the Western Union phone number for White Rock. Then she covers her phone's mouthpiece with a handkerchief, pinches her nose and says “Hi” in a Liza Minnelli voice, adding, “this is Lindi from CNL Distribution —”

“Oh dear,” says the friendly clerk. “You've missed him today, Linda. He was here a couple of hours ago.”

“It's Lindi with an
I
, not Linda,” explains Trina, to give herself thinking space. Then she carries on, “Do you know where he was going?”

“To the bank, I'd guess. He nearly cleaned us out of greenbacks again.”

“Bank…” echoes Trina. “Look, I'm new here and I'm gonna get into a lot of trouble if I don't catch him. Do you know which bank?”

“That's interesting,” says Trina as she puts down the phone. “Apparently they change it into American dollars, but she doesn't know where they take it.”

“America, probably,” suggests Daphne logically, and Trina nods her agreement before saying, “I know. Let's do a bit of sleuthing. We could stake the place out and follow him when he leaves with the stash.”

“Trina,” cautions Daphne, “how will we know who he is?”

“Umm… Good point,” mutters Trina, then she adds unconcernedly, “Don't worry, I'll think of something.”

“Well, don't tell David,” cautions Daphne. “He can be very touchy about the public investigating cases without getting permission from Interpol first.”

“Roger, dodger,” quips Trina with an English accent, and she keeps it up as she says, “Do you take milk and sugar with your tea, Lady Daphne?”

Daisy is also drinking tea, though it's certainly not Daphne's Keemun. She's on her third paper cup since arriving at Seattle's Sea-Tac airport and she's nervously eyeing the clock above the arrivals indicator board when Bliss runs up and throws his arms around her.

“I'm so sorry, Daisy.
Excusez-moi,
” he mumbles as he muzzles into the soft folds of her bouncy auburn hair and feels her melting in relief.

“It is not a problem,” she mutters, close to tears, and their lips lock and remain so until a couple of blue-rinsed matrons complain to a security guard.

“
Puritains,
” mutters Daisy as they head for the parking lot, and ten minutes later Bliss pulls into Lincoln Park, where the city meets the sea, and slips a CD into the car's player.

“Recognize it?” he asks as the music swells.

“
Oui, Daavid,
” says Daisy as she lights up. “It is Monsieur Dave Brubeck playing ‘Love Walked In.'”

“What a memory,” smiles Bliss, and the music spins them back a month, to a magical night under the Mediterranean moon, skimming across the silky indigo waters on the deck of a luxury yacht. A flight of seagulls and a school of dolphins escorted them northward that night as they sailed from Corsica to the Côte d'Azur, and their path was illuminated by the slender beam of light from Venus.

“Look,” says Bliss as he cradles Daisy's head against his chest and points to the crystal-clear Washington sky above Puget Sound and Mount Olympus. “It's Venus again.”

“
Daavid,
” explains Daisy, recalling the two spoilsports at the airport, “I zhink I know why zhe American women don't like love.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, perhaps zhe men here are not
romantique.
”

“Not like zhe French men,” he laughs, but she shudders at the thought.

“Zhe French men, zhey are like zhe frogs,” she claims. “Zhey make a lot of noise, and zhey hop, hop, hop from one girl to zhe next, but zhen,” she shrugs her shoulders dismissively, “zhey fall asleep.
C'est terrible.
How you say — it is terrible.”

“
Oui
— it
is
terrible,” agrees Bliss as he kisses her, murmuring suggestively, “the beach is just over there. Maybe we should see if there are any frogs.”

“
Daavid,
” laughs Daisy. “I zhink zhat you want to make love under zhe stars again.”

“
Oui,
” he agrees, without hesitating, and Venus is still in the sky as they walk hand in hand to the water's edge. But the northern Pacific, chilled by the meltwater of a thousand Alaskan glaciers, is not the balmy Mediterranean, and instead of cuddling for love, they are soon huddling for warmth.

“I zhink maybe we should go to zhe hotel,
Daavid,
” mutters Daisy with a shiver after a few minutes, and they race back to the car with more than sleep on their minds.

However, Bliss has a surprise in store for Daisy. In place of a hotel, he has rented a luxurious log cabin in a mountainside resort where they can make up for a missed month, while surfacing occasionally to marvel at the moonlit vistas of mountains and lakes and snack on local oysters and champagne.

“I thought this would be more
romantique,
” Bliss tells her, not untruthfully, as their maid shows them around the cozy love eyrie. But it's already eight the following morning according to Bliss's internal clock, nine according to Daisy's, and no sooner have they warmed themselves in front of the cottage's log fire than they begin to drift off in each other's arms.

“Never mind,” says Bliss. “We have the rest of the week.”

As David Bliss and Daisy finally fall asleep in America, the Tuesday-morning telecasts in England are reporting that there has been no abatement in the number of reported fatalities, and Chief Superintendent Edwards would happily add Bliss to the list of dead, if he could find him.

The irate senior officer has been searching since ten minutes past nine the previous morning, when he'd found Bliss's hastily typed report on his desk, and, somewhat predictably, Bliss's cell phone had rung just as he was shepherding Daphne aboard the Air Canada 747 at Heathrow. Bliss had casually turned his phone off, but Edwards has pulled strings and is in hot pursuit. A stinging message awaits Bliss at the conference hotel in downtown Seattle — which is precisely why he and Daisy are staying twenty miles away on the slopes of Mount Rainier.

“I specifically ordered him not to go,” Edwards is bleating to anyone who'll listen Tuesday morning, but he knows that he's been end-run. Bliss is flavour of the year with the hierarchy since his spectacular discovery in Corsica, and his recent rescue of a bunch of oldies from the burning bus merely adds gloss.

“What's the latest on the suicide front?” the commissioner wants to know at the Tuesday-morning prayer session, and Edwards is forced to flourish Bliss's report and pretend that his disobedient junior is still on the case.

“He's got several good leads,” Edwards bluffs, then bites his tongue as he adds, “I've sent him undercover for a few days, and knowing David Bliss he'll pull something out of the bag.”

“Good,” says the commissioner. “I'll put the Home secretary in the picture.”

Tuesday comes eight hours later to Vancouver and, as the morning sun lights up the snow-capped peaks, Trina drags Daphne to her favourite coffee house where she regularly antagonizes a group of serious crossworders by beating them to the easy clues.

“Hi, Trina,” yells Cindy the manageress as they enter. “I see you've hit the headlines again.”

“I know,” squeals Trina as Darcey folds her arms over the partially completed crossword in the
Vancouver Sun
and tries to look enthusiastic about Trina's arrival, while Matt, Dot and Maureen, her fellow puzzlers, huddle closer.

“Look!” shrieks Trina, wrenching the paper from under them and flourishing the front-page photo in which she sits, beaming, alongside a fierce-faced Bliss. “This is David Bliss, the famous Scotland Yard detective who found all the Nazi gold. And this is Lady Daph, from the old country.”

“But you're not naked this time,” complains Matt, his mind on a previous occasion when Trina had posed topless in a publicity stunt.

“You'll go blind if you're not careful,” laughs Trina as she tousles a few strands of the old man's hair, then adds, “Isn't it wonderful? My phone hasn't stopped ringing. I've already done two radio interviews, and we're on local television at lunchtime.”

“I guess you won't have time for the crossword, then,” says Dot hopefully, but Trina is already pulling up chairs for herself and Daphne.

The lunchtime TV appearance is scheduled to take place at the Canada–U.S. border and is timed to coincide with the intrepid duo's departure to Seattle, but Maureen Stuckenberg is also in on the act, and with several geriatric gang members from the Kidney Society in support, she is already being interviewed for the CBC's national television news as Rick, Trina and Daphne arrive at the Canadian side of the border with the Kidneymobile in tow.

“Yes. The Society thought it would be a wonderful way to raise public awareness of the urgent need for kidney donations,” Ms. Stuckenberg says straight-faced, though she is reticent when asked if she will personally be riding the machine to New York.

“Maybe,” she laughs, “though I think I'm getting a bit old for that sort of thing.”

Daphne Lovelace has lied about her age so often she would have to check her birth certificate for an honest answer, though there is no doubt that she is considerably older than Maureen Stuckenberg, so it's not surprising that Rick Button is hesitant about their planned trip.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks nervously as he helps unload the Kidneymobile from its trailer.

“Rick,” Trina explains carefully as she strings bunting and balloons to the mast. “What could possibly go wrong? I've got my cell phone and a spare battery; maps; list of hotels and several credit cards; plus we've got smoked-salmon-and-banana sandwiches and two flasks of tea. We're going to America, not Antarctica.”

“I know.”

“Just make sure you feed the guinea pig,” she continues to her husband as she hands Daphne a crash helmet and helps her into the passenger seat.

“Right.”

“And don't forget the kids.”

“I won't.”

“That's about it, then,” says Trina as she prepares for her turn at the mic.

“What about passports?” Rick asks, and she rushes, red-faced, back to the car.

“Just don't let her talk you into doing anything silly,” Rick cautions Daphne as Trina bounces in front of the reporter with a five-year-old's enthusiasm. “I know what she can be like.”

“Of course not,” Daphne replies, though as she and Trina slowly pedal away from the border crossing under the spotlight of the cameras a few minutes later, the Englishwoman is still concerned about the kind of reception they are likely to receive from Bliss should they actually reach Seattle.

A couple of hundred kilometres south of the border in Seattle, David Bliss has no worries as he slips into a back-row seat in the elegant auditorium of Washington State University for the opening address. He's not due to speak until Thursday and had whispered, “Don't go anywhere,” in Daisy's ear as he'd slipped out of bed an hour earlier. “I'll just put in an appearance, then I'll be back. Nobody will notice whether or not I'm there.”

“Is Chief Inspector Bliss of Scotland Yard here?” questions an amplified voice, immediately proving him wrong, and he reluctantly raises a hand. “There's a phone call for you at reception, sir,” explains the speaker from the stage, and as Bliss makes his way towards the exit, muttering “I bet it's Edwards” under his breath, he's aware of a stir of recognition amongst the crowd.

“One moment, sir,” says the receptionist as she connects the caller to the desk phone, and Bliss finds himself looking at a familiar face as he idly scans the front page of the
Seattle Times.

“Scotland Yard Man in Town for Conference,” screams the headline above a picture of him sitting next to Trina in the Kidneymobile. “Detective Bliss, who recently shot to fame around the world by unearthing a cache of Nazi gold, was spotted pedalling a kidney away from Vancouver…” continues the article and Bliss yelps, “Oh, that's bloody marvellous,” as he answers the phone
to a reporter from the BBC in London and curses the marvels of global communication.