A Bodyguard to Remember (6 page)

“I didn’t make the connection at first either. You were out of context.” She grimaced. “Doesn’t augur well for me making a detective, does it?”

Constable Sarcelle tended to be around while I was sleeping and therefore didn’t talk to me much. Campbell always brought me coffee and she played gin, which helped pass the time. She and Kallas endeared themselves to me by being patient with Hope’s questions.

Seth brought the kids in daily for a short visit after school. He went back to work, at least during public school hours. He had his teaching assistant take his afternoon seminar and he had his tutorials at home.

Hope and Boone went back to school, with police escort to and fro. At the end of the week, they collected email addresses from their classmates and cleared out their desks.

Zeke brought Mom down to visit a couple of times. The stroke left her legally blind and she didn’t travel well on her own. This was going to be hardest on her. Although she was relatively independent in her apartment, I was her chief way to get out and about. Zeke promised to visit and take Mom for a drive now and then. He took me coming to his defence very seriously. Also, Seth said that Sarah agreed to check in on her regularly. I wasn’t sure if Sarah was a really good person or a glutton for punishment. My mother persisted in referring to her as the ‘other woman’.

I got one good piece of news. Amazingly good news, actually. While they were uprooting my life, the government was taking over paying the utilities for my duplex, so our bank account would have a chance to build up. When Mom heard this, she decided that she could live with my absence.

“Milk ’em for all you can,” she told me, ignoring the fact that Zeke was in the room. “Don’t worry about me. Maybe I’ll join that seniors’ program they keep bugging me about—just while you’re away.”

Friday morning, with Kallas and a hospital administrator as witnesses, I signed papers that gave Merrick temporary power of attorney over my financial affairs. He took all our identification, my credit cards, and bankcards. In return, he gave us new identities. We were now Prudence, Hope, and Boone Brier. I had a Master Card in that name to cover expenses. Now all we needed was a home.

“The fish!” I hit myself on the forehead. “I completely forgot the fish.”

“I’ve been taking care of them,” Zeke assured me. “But maybe the kids can take them. The fish aren’t good for my allergies.”

I gave him an odd look. I’d grown up with dogs but Boone was allergic to fur and Hope couldn’t handle feathers. I’d never heard of anyone being allergic to beta fish.

“We can take the fish,” said Merrick.

“How about clothes, books, and toys?” I asked.

Zeke shook his head. “I’m not ready to release anything yet.”

“Have the kids make a list of what they most want with them and maybe Zeke can clear those items first,” Merrick suggested. “I can bring them when he’s done with them.”

“What are you doing with it all?” I asked. “I mean, did the guy even go upstairs?”

“We don’t know,” said Zeke, throwing up his hands. If Merrick was a Vulcan, Zeke was the über-human—brilliant but emotional. Dr. McCoy in temperament if not looks. “We don’t know how long he was at your house. He could have gone anywhere. Since we can’t find anything that he had contact with at Starbucks, we have to assume he hid something at the house and was interrupted.”

“In our closets, our clothes? In boxes in the basement?” I sighed. “It doesn’t make much sense to me. I pity him if he tried to hide something in the basement. But since you are rooting through all our belongings, feel free to shred old financial documents and ancient junk mail.”

When my mother had to sell her house, she made me fill up my basement with the stuff she didn’t have time to sort through. The plan was we’d go through it together bit by bit. That didn’t happen, but I checked a few of the boxes myself to confirm what I already knew. My mother didn’t throw anything out.

“You can also get rid of dust bunnies and broken toys,” I continued. “Just don’t touch the file boxes on the shelf in my closet. And let me know if you find the box with my old
Star Trek
comics.”

“We have to touch the contents of the crates,” Merrick pointed out. “We have to go through everything.”

I sighed again. My life was out of control.

“Okay,” I said. “Zeke, you go through those crates. They have long-hand stories I wrote in University when I was supposed to be taking lecture notes. There’s some pretty weird stuff there, but I want to keep it.”

“Why him and not me?” Merrick asked. His tone suggesting that he was playing at being hurt. His eyes said he was only half-playing. I got that melting feeling again and suppressed it.

I heaved a theatrical sigh.

“I’m just trying to preserve my reputation here, Sergeant.”

Zeke perked up.

“Is this the juicy fan fiction?”

“Something like.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, raising one hand and covering his heart with the other. “Your secret is safe with me.”

*    *    *

I spent the weekend in Toronto.

Merrick wanted me out of town, but Seth wanted the kids for the weekend to celebrate their birthday. I wanted out of the hospital—plus they needed my bed. Merrick came up with a plan that satisfied everyone and made me feel like I had drifted into a secret agent comic book.

I was transferred to Saint Michael’s Hospital and officially stayed there for three days while undergoing tests. The drive was horrible. Patient transfer vehicles—ambulances without the bells and whistles—are about as smooth a ride as a go-cart on a dirt road. I arrived feeling as sick as I was supposed to be.

My actual stay was only a couple of hours while the fiction of my admittance was taken care of and I waited for my escort. Once I was dressed in fresh clothes, an orderly led me through a maze of corridors—with detours set up because of ongoing renovations—to an ostomy out-patient clinic. From the orderly, I was passed to a nurse who handed me a pink sheet of paper and pointed toward a tall blond woman in the waiting room. She was dressed, as I was, in typical casual Friday office-wear.

“You okay, honey?” she asked, draping an arm around my shoulders.

“The hole is healing nicely,” I said, following my script even though I felt a bit foolish. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“That’s what sisters are for,” she said. “We step in where husbands fear to tread.”

I relaxed. Not only was that the proper response, but the woman delivered her line as if it were the most natural thing to say. One of us had to be comfortable with all this cloak and dagger work.

“Let’s go to Tim’s,” she said, guiding me out the door. “We can call David from there. You know he won’t relax until he knows you’re okay.”

I nodded and allowed myself to be led. We’d reached the end of our script and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

There was a Tim Hortons next door to the hospital. There almost always is, in my experience. If not a Tim Hortons, there’s a Starbucks, Second Cup or Timothy’s within or adjacent to every major hospital I’ve ever been in. And I could give you directions to all of them.

The line up was about what you’d expect in downtown Toronto.

“I’d let you grab us a seat,” my ‘sister’ whispered, “but I’ve been told to stick to you like glue. My name’s Lynn, by the way.”

Lynn let me buy the coffee, then hovered over a table until a couple of teenagers, who were nursing empty cups, decided to vacate.

“This place is a fish bowl,” she said as we settled in. “A noisy fish bowl. Not that I’m sure anyone is watching—but they could if they cared enough.”

She was warning me to keep up the pretense, although it might not be necessary. I figured that extended to my conversation with Merrick when I checked in.

“Hi sweetie,” I said, sounding more like I was talking to one of my kids than to a husband.

“Sweetie?” Merrick asked. “Are you worried someone is listening in?”

“Yes, honey. Everything went okay. Lynn and I are just stopping for a coffee at Tim’s.”

“Well done, Ms. Hartley. You’re getting into the spirit of going undercover. I doubt you were followed, but it pays to be cautious.”

“Whatever you say, honey-bun.”

Lynn rolled her eyes and held out her hand for the phone. She made much more natural sounding chit-chat, listened for a long stretch, then passed me back the phone.

“You’ll be picked up shortly and taken to your hotel,” he told me. “Just follow directions and call me when you’re alone in your room.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause then Merrick said, “You should say something affectionate and hang up now.”

“Okay, sweet-pea. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As I hung up, I groaned. I sounded way too much like a mother.

*    *    *

I expected an economy motel. I got a room at the Westin Harbour Castle. Evidently, I was occupying a room that was part of a block set aside for a conference. I was registered under the name of an environmental consultant from Saint John, New Brunswick, who had to cancel because of a family emergency. Sending a silent wish that Ms. Costello’s troubles would sort themselves out without too much angst, I settled into her room. As soon as I checked in with Merrick, I called my best friend since high school, Paula. Merrick said I could contact her, as long as I didn’t leave the hotel unescorted. He assured me that it probably was an unnecessary precaution, but he expected me to cooperate with his security arrangements regardless. These included calling Paula on my new, disposable cell phone and clearing our plans with him.

“I’m not going to be putting her in danger, am I?”

“I doubt they’ll have looked too deeply into your background,” he assured me. “Besides, everything at this end suggests that you were hurt worse than you were. There will be a security presence at Saint Michael’s to support the fiction that you are there and I’ve arranged an escort for you and Ms. Berns.”

They might not have checked into my background, but Merrick had.

Minutes after we disconnected, I called him back.

“Merrick, can I go swimming in the morning?” Without thinking, I addressed him by his last name. When he didn’t answer immediately, I wondered if I had offended him.

“What do you think?”

“No?”

“Correct. Good night, Hartley.”

*   *    *

Mother Nature blessed us with one of those sunny, mild days when you could be fooled into thinking that spring was around the corner when a snowstorm was more likely. Despite an uncomfortable night, once I saw how blue the sky was, how the sunlight sparkled on Lake Ontario, I was raring to go. Paula couldn’t show up soon enough. When she did arrive, I rushed her out the door, introducing our ‘dates’ on the fly.

“Geoff, Tom, this is my oldest friend, Paula,” I said, grabbing my coat and purse. “Paula, meet Tom and Geoff.”

I had to grab her sleeve and pull her out of the room with me. Her first reaction was to stare, slack-jawed.

Geoff and Tom fit the description of tall, dark, and handsome. Geoff had the kind of colouring that could pass for Middle Eastern, North African or, as I believe was the case, multi-racial Canadian. Tom had Sicilian swarthiness. Geoff’s teeth were blindingly white and practically gleamed when he smiled—which he did a lot. Tom had huge brown eyes with eyelashes most women would kill for.

“Professional bodyguards?” Paula asked, leaning into me.

“Off-duty police officers,” I replied. “Can’t leave home without ’em.”

“Off-duty?”

“Officially. Unofficially, it’s complicated.”

At Geoff’s suggestion, we walked along the harbour front to a Second Cup coffee shop in a converted boathouse. This gave Paula a chance to let her hair down . . . literally.

Paula is an attractive woman. Black Irish on her mother’s side. God’s gift to women on her father’s side. I never took to him but he had full lips and blue eyes to die for and Paula inherited both along with her mother’s good bone structure and curvy figure. A bit severe looking, sometimes. Paula’s a schoolteacher and when her hair is up, as it often is, she looks schoolmarmish. Take that hair down and let the chestnut waves loose . . . well you’ve seen the shampoo commercials. That’s Paula.

The effect on Tom was everything she could have wanted. Geoff and I exchanged amused glances and we effectively paired off for the day.

After coffee, we ambled along the boardwalk. One of the piers had been turned into a shopping centre. Paula and I checked out the boutiques until Geoff suggested that we move on before we blew our cover.

“No one is going to believe that two guys would stick with their dates in a place like this when they could grab a beer at the bar over there,” he nodded toward the bistro-bar at the waterfront end of the building.

Paula batted her baby-blues at Tom, who sheepishly agreed with his partner.

The boardwalk terminated at the Marine Division of the Toronto Police. With only a little wheedling, I persuaded the guys to arrange a tour for us. Paula was only mildly interested, but I took lots of pictures and tried to soak up all the information I could. The boats would captivate Boone and the police lore would fascinate Hope. When she’d had enough, Paula suggested it was time for lunch and we backtracked to one of the restaurants overlooking the harbour. Up until then, Paula went along with the double-date pretense, hanging onto Tom’s arm and flirting non-stop. As soon as our meals were ordered, Paula turned her attention to me.

“Talk,” she said. “You found a body in your living room, then what?”

I looked around, wondering if anyone beyond our table picked up on that proactive query.

“No one’s listening,” she assured me. “Except us, of course.”

One glance at Geoff and Tom confirmed that they were as curious as Paula.

“It was horrible but not that interesting,” I said, giving a stoic shrug. “Mostly, I had to wait around and repeat over and over where I had been that day. Let’s talk about your new play.”

“Uh-uh. Not that I’m complaining,” she said, beaming a charming smile to Tom, “but how does a stranger getting killed in your living room lead to armed escorts?”