Reluctant Detective (28 page)

5
6

Nurse Jayne Ryan had made a case to back up Robert Somerville's
story. Added to that was Sister Cheverie's report on Cameroon. In
it she had mentioned the name Bobby Dill. Quite a few details were
falling into place. Everything seemed legit, but everything isn't
always what it seems in investigations. Anne needed proof. That led to more emails: one to the commercial research office at the
London Times
to verify the posting of Bobby Dill's name change to Robert
Somerville; the other to the National Land Registry which tracks the transfer and ownership of manorial titles.

After that she had one more question for Jayne Ryan.

Anne Brown arrived at the hospital early the next morning and
went to her former ward. Jayne R.'s name appeared on the duty
board. She asked the desk nurse if she might speak with her, and a few minutes later Jayne arrived.

“Hello, are you not well? Have you forgot something?” she asked brightly.

“Can we speak privately for a minute? I won't keep you,” said Anne.

Jayne pointed toward a small alcove where visitors and mobile patients sometimes rested.

Anne began by telling her that she was a private investigator. Jayne looked surprised and drew back slightly in her chair.

“I have to ask you a personal question. You don't have to answer it, of course, but the truth of it will impact the well-being of several
individuals.” Anne hesitated. It was a difficult question for her to get
out. Then, seeing no polite way to phrase it, she just came out with
it: “Are you having an affair with Robert Somerville?”

Jayne's face paled. Then it flushed. Then she became indignant. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“At the yoga class last week. You and Robert looked to be more
than old acquaintances… more intimate, more like confidantes.”

“I'll say this much and no more. I am not having an affair… with Robert or anyone else. Such a suggestion is simply preposterous. I'm married, you see. Bobby and I were talking about some personal
matters. Bobby is an old friend… and a good listener.” Jayne stood
up, turned to leave. Then she stopped short and faced Anne. “Did
someone hire you to follow me?” she asked. “Does my husband have anything to do with this?”

“No,” said Anne, and Jayne R. walked away. There were tears in her eyes.

Later that afternoon Anne saw tears well up in the eyes of Mrs. Frances Murphy as well. Mrs. Murphy had met her at the door and ushered her to a bright west-end reading room. Tea had already been prepared, and Mrs. Murphy served it herself on an antique silver tray. Next to the teapot she placed a small China plate with buttery sugar cookies.

Anne took a sip of tea. Then she took out her notebook and went through the steps she had taken and the results she had uncovered:
the difficulty in connecting Robert Somerville with either the
Briarsley estate or humanitarian work in Cameroon or matriculation from Cambridge. Anne told of her confusion when she'd discovered that Barclay's bank recognized his name and affirmed his account.
She mentioned following him to yoga class, and witnessing his
tête-á-tête
with Jayne Ryan, the instructor. Anne also spoke of Sister Jeanine Cheverie reaching out to her fellow sisters in foreign missions to no avail.

Anne's mouth felt dry. She finished the remainder of her tea in
one gulp. Mrs. Murphy automatically refilled her cup, but she asked
no questions and revealed nothing in her expression other than a
ponderous calm.

Anne explained her chance meeting with Jayne Ryan and Jayne's
relationship with a boy called Bobby Dill. She expounded upon
Marion Dunning's affair with Harrison Somerville, her pregnancy
and remarriage. She told how Bobby Dill had discovered his real
father's name many years later and how he'd worked to reclaim his identity as Lord Robert Somerville.

Anne's eyes had been fixed on the entries in her notebook as she read. Finally, her eyes scanned the final page. She looked up for the
first time in several minutes and said, “I've confirmed Ms. Ryan's
story with two outside agencies. It appears that Lord Robert Somerville is nothing other than what he claims to be.”

Mrs. Murphy had not stirred from her position in the chair. Nor
had she lost the calmness in her face. But now tears streamed from her eyes.

“My dear, I can't thank you enough,” she said.

“I am also confident that the relationship between Mr. Somerville
and Ms. Ryan is solely friendship. They are not romantically
involved as far as I can determine,” Anne said.

“For that I'm grateful, as well.”

Mrs. Murphy turned to a side table. On it was a small box. She
opened it and drew out a ring. It was a diamond. To Anne it looked like it weighed a carat-and-a-half.

“He proposed to me on Canada Day. I accepted… in spite of your wise admonition to tread carefully, I'm afraid. Affairs of the heart
rarely listen to reason, you see, and, fortunately for me, reason
never completely abandons the truth. That's why I haven't put this ring on until now. Nor have I told anyone of our engagement until now. Thank you again, Anne.”

“I guess fairy tales can come true,” said Anne.

“Often when we least expect them to,” said Mrs. Murphy, “and
sometimes even after the magic they once held has long vanished from our recollection.”

Mrs. Murphy graciously saw her to the door. Anne walked down
the porch steps and headed for her car. All the while she blinked
away at the tears in her own eyes.

5
7

At five minutes before six Anne's car pulled into a parking slot in
front of the airport terminal. It was a clear, bright evening, the blue of the sky deepening, the sun low, a few small puffy clouds hanging about. It would be a perfect evening for a flight to Halifax.

Anne stepped into the foyer. A nervous energy enlivened her movements. Her silver earrings glittered in the light from the
window. A turquoise pendant, dangling from a silver chain, pattered
against her breast. She wore a light-weight black sweater and snug
black pants. A salt-and-pepper wrap covered her shoulders and tied at her waist. She was lightly made-up.

Michael Ryan heard the click of high heels on the airport floor. He was sitting in a chair facing the runways, his head buried in a
magazine, when he caught the sound. He turned and bolted up out of his chair.

“You look beautiful,” he said. She knew he meant it, and a small
thrill of excitement shot through her. She walked up to him, slipped her arm under his, and nestled close to his side.

“So do you,” she said, “handsome, that is,” and, except for a dash
too much cologne, she meant it, too.

“Are you all set?”

“Depends what you had in mind,” she said, looking playfully into
his eyes.

“A magic carpet ride comes to mind.”

“That's bound to sweep a girl off her feet. What worries me is where I'll land.”

“My hope is that it will be somewhere quiet and intimate with me around to break your fall.”

“Dick was right. You are a fancy litigator. But I'll bet that that's a line you use with all your girlfriends?”

“What makes you think I have any girlfriend… much less girl
friends
?” he said and pretended to take offense.

Anne just rolled her eyes and pushed him away.

“Seriously, Anne, there's nobody else in my life right now but you. And that's the truth.”

“No wife, no girlfriend, no pastries on the side?”

“I swear. Now let's go. We have reservations at seven-thirty.”

“First, a ladies' room detour. I take it there are no rest areas on the flight across.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

Anne headed for the washroom. Michael returned to his chair and
magazine. A few minutes passed. He glanced at his watch. After a
few more minutes, he went to the washroom door and knocked.

“Anne, it's getting late. Anne?”

He knocked again.

“Anne, are you in there?”

The door opened, and a woman stepped out. Michael jumped
back, his mouth agape, but he said nothing. The woman shoved him back with one hand, and with the other she held up a pocket digital recorder.

“You look beautiful…,” said the recording.

“You bastard,” said the woman. “I hope you know a smarter lawyer than you are.”

Jayne Ryan shoved him again, pushed by him, and stormed out. The gravel in the parking area sprayed like hail against the sheet
metal siding of the terminal as she sped off. Anne had left the
building several minutes before.

Anne stopped in front of her house and beeped the horn. Jacqui came running out. She wore tight jeans and a tight top. Too tight, thought Anne. In her mind she was scowling, but a quick smile shouldered it to the side when she greeted her daughter.

“You look great, Mom. Hot date?”

“No, just meeting someone special.”

“Who's the lucky one?”

“My favourite daughter. She's been away on vacation from a vacation and just returned. We're celebrating tonight.”

“Cool,” said Jacqui with a bounce in the seat. “Can I come, too?”

“It wouldn't be a fun party without you.”

It was closing in on seven o'clock when the two of them arrived at
The Blue Peter. Ben and Sarah were already there. Half the tables
still filled with mid-evening diners. Most of them were tourists. An
area near the front window had been cleared, and musicians from
a small jazz ensemble quietly set up their instruments and music
stands, even though they wouldn't start their performance for
several more hours.

“You look lovely tonight,” said Sarah to Anne.

“I've heard those rumours, too,” said Anne.

“New pumps? They're gorgeous. I love them.”

“The latest thing in women's painful footwear,” said Anne.

“They hurt?” asked Sarah with a sympathetic face.

“Yeah, the last guy who saw me in them wept when I walked out on him,” said Anne with a wink.

Jacqui looked up at her mother suspiciously. Anne took no notice of her, and Jacqui's attention drifted to the musicians.

How ya feelin'?” asked Ben.

“Good. Rested now. Ankle's a bit stiff. Of course, these shoes don't
help. Part self-inflicted vanity, part work-related paraphernalia. A
woman's equivalent of steel-toed boots. And that reminds me, Ben… I'm going to pass on that job you tried to arrange for me. I know you meant well but…”

“It's too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I already called them.”

“What… what did you say? Did you tell them that I'd take it… without asking me?” Anne's voice rose in pitch, and her back had
stiffened. She leaned forward. Confusion and hurt clouded her face.

“Relax, I told them you weren't suited for it,” Ben added.

“And what did you mean by that? You don't think I could handle a management job!” she said, now growing angry. She looked at Sarah for support. Sarah simply shrugged. Mary Anne had joined them but,
sensing the untimeliness of her arrival, she shrank back in silence
and settled next to Jacqui.

“No, I told the chief that you were too sharp a detective to waste
your talents pushing papers from one corner of your desk to the
other.”

“You did?”

“Of course, what else could I tell 'em? The truth?”

Anne reached across the table and slapped his arm.

“I want the truth,” she said. “Is that it or not?”

Ben just nodded. Then he added: “Oh! I've got something for you.”
He grabbed for something in the side pocket of his suit jacket and
put it into her hand.

“My wedding ring,” she said. “I thought it was gone forever.”

“I asked the clean-up crew at MacLaren's to look around for it. It
was under the broken glass of that cabinet you dumped on your
client.”

“Thanks, Ben.” Tears came to her eyes for the second time that day
as she undid the chain around her neck and slipped the wedding
band onto it. “Thanks,” she said again.

“So, what are your plans?” he asked softly.

“I'm keeping Darby Investigations and Security going. I've already made enough to bankroll us for a few months. It's what I think Uncle
Billy would have wanted, and I know now that it's what I want as well. I've made a few mistakes… but I've done some good. That's a feeling you don't get in most jobs,” she said reflectively. For a
moment she became lost in her own thoughts. Then she brightened.

“Tomorrow, however, Jacqui and I are going to Halifax to visit Dit
and, believe it or not, I've talked Eli and Urban into coming along on our road trip as well. They miss Dit, too.”

“That calls for a celebratory toast,” said Mary Anne. “Drinks on the house.”

Mary Anne rushed off and back with a tray of drinks and passed them out. She looked around for Jacqui.

“Where's Jacqui?”

“Washroom,” said Anne. “By the way, what deep, dark secrets were you two sharing a while ago?”

“Oh… Jacqui was curious about how I got the name for The Blue
Peter. She said some of her friends think it's pornographic.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Sure.”

“Well, tell me. I've always been afraid to ask. Is it pornographic?”

“No, no, no,” said Mary Anne, somewhat offended. “See that flag
on the wall… the blue one with the white square in the middle. It's called ‘the blue peter.'”

Mary Anne drew blank stares from everyone around the table.

“I see,” Mary Anne said, “and how many years have you all been
comin' here? Okay, here's the story. That flag is a nautical flag. It's the international signal for the letter ‘P.' It's also the signal flag the
crew raises up when their ship is about to leave port and start a
new voyage. That flag on the wall was my father's. He was a ship's
captain between wars. Freighters and passenger vessels. On his
last voyage he took that flag from the storage locker and brought it home with him. He said he may be too old to sail, but he wasn't too
old to live. That flag helped remind him of that… and it mirrored
how I felt when I first opened the restaurant and lounge. Just after
Jeff and I broke up. For me it meant a new start on my own life, a
new adventure… wherever that may take me.”

Mary Anne's words struck a common chord among all the guests
at the table. Each of them momentarily drifted away in reflection.
Beginnings past and beginnings yet to come floated in their minds;
visions and revisions swelled and fell away; their successes and
failures butted against one other. Finally, Anne broke through the silence.

“A toast,” said Anne raising her glass. “The past may be carved in stone, but the future's our own to shape. To beginnings which are
promising, then. To ventures which are happy… and to the good friends who comfort us when we fail and share with us when we
succeed…”

“… or more simply put,” she added, “here's to The Blue Peter.”