A Year Less a Day (32 page)

The first pharmacist to whom Trina had shown the box had clearly been disinterested. “I have no idea where they came from,” he'd told her. “And without the label you'll never find out.” But the white-coated man in a second drugstore has other ideas.

“You're in luck,” he says as he turns the small box in his hand, “Zofran aren't usually sold in blister-packs. You probably won't find more than a couple of places in Vancouver who sell them like this. Here,” he says,
reaching under the counter for a typed list of all the pharmacies in the area, “all you need is a phone.”

It takes Trina an hour to check all the drugstores on the list, and she discovers that the pharmacist had been correct. Assuming that the Zofran were purchased in the Vancouver area, there were only two possible sources, both miles apart, but they will have to wait—she has patients to take care of, and she needs a coffee.

Trina Button may be banned from the Corner Coffee Shoppe, but she still peeks nostalgically in the windows as she passes. The cream cakes and cholesterol dreams are back, but the customers are not, and the café has slid downhill since Ruth's flab-fighting days.

Cindy is still there, standing on a table to wipe the dust off a lampshade, and she gives Trina a brave smile and a nervous thumbs-up. Dave, the bum-pinching telephone engineer, seems to be the only customer, and he lies back in his chair pretending to read the morning paper as he tries to see up Cindy's skirt and snatch a glimpse of her panties. There could be a few other diners keeping out of the spotlight in the back, but Trina does-n't notice them as she gives Cindy a wave and walks on.

The crossworders have now set up shop permanently in Donut Delight, following an abortive return to their old haunt in January, when Gwenda Jackson had harassed them away by constantly bleating about people stretching coffees and stealing pencils from the cash desk. It's mid-morning; Darcey, Maureen, and Matt have only a couple of intractable clues left when Trina barges in.

“‘QINDARKA'—74-down,” she says without even checking the clue.

“How do you know?” demands Darcey.

“It's the only eight-letter word in the English language that begins with a Q which isn't followed by a U,” she says, as if it's the sort of thing everyone knows.

“Hi Trina,” calls Raven as the lanky woman brings a tray of donuts from the kitchen. “How's Ruth?”

“She's much better,” answers Trina, then she queries, “Are you working here now, Raven?”

Raven puts down her tray and wanders over. “I've had to give up being a channel,” she admits with a drawn face. “Serethusa's let me down so much that I don't trust her anymore. I mean, look what I did to Ruth. She was so happy when I told her that Jordan would be all right, then he turned up on the other side.”

“Yeah. And you were wrong about my accident as well,” reminds Trina.

“I said ‘bus' ... Oh, never mind. Do you want a coffee?”

“Yeah. To go, please. If I don't get a move-on I'll be up to my neck in exploding colostomy bags.”

“Trina!” rebukes Darcey as she looks up from the puzzle. “This is a café you know.”

“Cobblers,” says Trina, pointing to 72-across, then she grabs her coffee and makes for the door.

Raven's parting admonition to Trina to “Watch out for traffic,” comes just in time as she steps onto the narrow sidewalk and feels the wind blast as Tom's sun-blistered Toyota skims by her. “Hey!” Trina yells, almost dropping her coffee in alarm, but the conman's mind is mired in concern, and he doesn't notice her.

Tom is headed for an appointment with his boss, and a few minutes later he finds a space and hobbles across a parking lot toward Mort, who is sitting in his car overlooking the port, while smiling wryly at the approaching figure. Tom has licked his wounds for a day or so, and he crawls painfully into the BMW's front passenger seat in submission, saying, “Josh said you wanted to see me, Mort?”

Mort says nothing and lets the tension build as he stares ahead to watch a slab-sided leviathan of a ship being loaded with containers.

“D'ye know how I got this?” Mort snorts eventually, sticking the stump of his right arm in Tom's face. “'Cos I screwed up bad. Now,” he adds menacingly, “unless you want this to happen to you, you'd better stop that Button bitch from asking anymore questions—know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but ...”

“I mean,” Mort carries on as if Tom hasn't spoken, “look at it from my point of view, Tom. You give Jackson's bit of slack my ten grand, she gives it to her old man, and he gives it back to me. I mean—what sort of f'kin business is that? Know what I mean?”

“But I didn't know he owed you the money, Mort; honest,” whines Tom. “She told me he was dying.”

“He wuz, you f'kin prat. He wuz dying. He wuz dying to get away from her, the fat cow, and his bitching mother, and he wuz supposed to pay me to make him die—know what I mean?”

“You didn't tell me ...” Tom starts but Mort holds up his amputated arm in warning.

“See that?” says Mort, using the stump to point at a container rig entering the dock area, and they watch as the huge truck is manoeuvred alongside the berthed ship in the port below them.

“Yeah,” says Tom.

“That container is stuffed chock-full of the finest British Columbian product that money can buy—know what I mean?”

“Yeah, Mort.”

“Good. Well there's another twenty just like that one. And the last f'kin thing I need is for any nosy stupid bitch to make waves with the law—know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but ...”

“Good. So, how are you gonna stop the Button woman from lousing up my entire f'kin organization?”

It is mid-afternoon by the time Trina has finished her rounds, and she is completely unaware of the danger she is facing as she heads off to interrogate the pharmacists at the two potential drugstores. Tom is on the tail of her Volkswagen in his beat-up Toyota, but he's still smarting from his previous confrontation with her, so he has devised what he believes to be a safer approach, and once he is certain that she is headed away from her home, he spins back.

Trina's house appears deserted as Tom drives by, then he parks around the block while he writes a note with a felt-tipped pen on a ragged piece of paper.

Trina's driveway is clear when Tom returns on foot a few minutes later, but he thinks of himself as a pro, so he also checks the garage, and even scrutinizes the neighbours' windows for signs of life, before pulling on a pair of surgical gloves and slipping around the side of the house.

Ruth is in Trina's kitchen, with its spectacular garden outlook, and is preparing dinner for the Buttons—oyster paella for the adults; spaghetti Bolognese for the teens, but she has other plans for herself; Mike Phillips is taking her out to dinner—again.

“I've got something very serious I want to ask you,” he had said when he'd phoned earlier, and her heart had momentarily skipped, though something in his tone suggested that it wasn't necessarily good news.

Ruth sniffs and licks at the tears dribbling down her cheeks as she chops onions for the pasta sauce, then, when she looks up to wipe her eyes, she catches a movement
in the garden through the mist of tears. “What the hell ...” she starts, and stares in disbelief as Tom takes a final furtive look around before grabbing the guinea pig out of its cage.

“That's Tom ...” she muses, then she dashes for the phone as something solid slams into the wooden back door and makes her jump.

It has taken Trina nearly an hour to find one of the pharmacies that may have sold Zofran in blister-packs, and she has just managed to beat a slow-footed pickup driver into a parking space when her cell-phone rings.

“Trina Button ...” she starts, but is cut off by Ruth's wail.

“Trina,” she screams. “It's me. You've got to come home now.”

“But I'm ...”

“Now Trina, please,” she cries. “Tom's trying to break in.”

“Oh, man!” Trina moans, then yells, “I'll call the police,” as she steps on the gas and dings the fender of a parked car. “Stupid place to park,” she screams, as she scorches away with one hand on the wheel and the other on her phone, dialling 911.

The police arrive first, and Ruth still has a carving knife in her hand as she answers the front door to a couple of uniformed officers with guns drawn.

“Mrs. Button?” queries one of the officers, trying to look past her into the hallway.

“No, I'm Ruth Jackson,” explains Ruth, but does-n't realize that the guns are trained on her.

“Put the weapon down, ma'am,” says one of the officers, a lumpy female.

“It's just a kitchen knife ...” Ruth starts, but the woman isn't listening and keeps up the pressure.

“I said ‘Put the weapon down.' This is your last chance.”

“OK, OK,” says Ruth, but she's frozen with fear and doesn't move.

“Intruder is armed with a knife,” the male officer calls into his radio, and Ruth goes cold as she relives the recent past.

“Please don't shoot,” she pleads as the guns hold steady. “You've got it wrong. I didn't kill my husband.”

“Put the weapon down now,” spits the female officer. “Put it down.”

“But I haven't ...”

“Put it down,” yells the man, and the knife clatters onto the ceramic tiles at Ruth's feet.

“Good. Now step away from the weapon and put your hands on your head.”

Trina's arrival brings a degree of sanity to the situation as she skids her Jetta to a halt with the aid of the parked police cruiser, and she runs up the driveway shouting, “Police brutality! Don't shoot. Don't shoot. You've got the wrong man.”

“Oh, for chrissake. Not you again!” exclaims the female, recognizing Trina from her imbroglio with Sergeant Brougham earlier in the day, and Trina whips out her tape recorder and presses ‘Record.'

“I think he's gone,” Ruth tells them shakily after Trina has smoothed things over. “I would have gone after him, but he looked so fierce.”

“Did you recognize him ma'am?” asks the female officer as she guides Ruth back to the kitchen.

“Yes. He's Tom something-or-other. Inspector Wilson knows his name.”

“Inspector Wilson?” queries the officer and Ruth regrets saying it as she finds herself explaining her recent spell of incarceration.

“And you think this is revenge for cutting his throat?” asks the male officer skeptically, but Ruth is absolutely positive.

“I knew he'd track me down eventually.”

“So, did he take anything?” asks the woman constable, moving on, and Ruth points to the empty cage in the garden. “Just the guinea pig.”

But Ruth is wrong. Tom hasn't stolen the furry little creature. It is still there, in the back garden, though not in its cage. It is now skewered by the slender blade of a stiletto and pinioned to the back door, where it hangs lifeless, like a child's stuffed toy on a coat hook. Tom's warning note is pinned against the door by the poor creature's body.

“Oh my God,” keens Ruth at the find, and Trina rushes to comfort her.

“Buddy has been watching too many
Godfather
movies,” says the constable as he prepares to withdraw the blade.

“Wait a minute,” yells Trina, letting go of Ruth to grab the policeman's hand. “He moved.”

“I don't think so,” says the officer as an unmarked cruiser screeches to a halt in the street and Mike Phillips comes running.

“Are you all right, Ruth?” Phillips says as he bundles the crying woman into his arms, but Trina won't release the uniformed officer's arm, shouting, “I think he's still alive. Call a vet.”

“It's dead. It's got a knife sticking ...” begins the constable, but Trina pulls rank and rounds on him. “Constable, I'm personally acquainted with your Sergeant Brougham. Now call a vet before I tell him what a jerk you are.”

“Sorry, ma'am,” says the officer. “But I'll get into trouble ...”

“DS Phillips, RCMP,” says the Mountie stepping forward. “Call for a vet, officer. I'll take responsibility.”

“Right Sergeant. If you say so,” he says and, as he radios his station, Mike Phillips carefully extracts the blade and releases the crucified animal while Trina begins mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“You're joking ...” laughs the constable, but he gets a black look from Phillips as Trina delicately massages the tiny body while gently blowing. Then she stops and shrieks, “Yes!” as she feels a tiny organ bumping away under her fingertips. “His heart's still beating,” she yells, heading for the kitchen. “Quick. Put the oven on, Ruth.”

“What?” exclaims the officer.

“We might need to warm him up.”

By the time a vet arrives, the little animal has pulled itself together without the need of heat, and is frantically scooting around the kitchen floor.

“It's a miracle,” says the smart young vet as she lifts the plucky little rodent and carefully examines him on the kitchen table. “The knife must have missed all the vital organs. I'll have to take him for an X-ray and observation, but he seems fine.”

Trina laughs in relief, but Ruth's mind is clouded by the thought of Tom's misspelled threat, scrawled in a pretty shade of salmon. “YOU'VE BIN WARNED. YOUR NEXT,” says the note, now in an evidence bag in the constable's hand, and Ruth turns to Trina.

“I ought to find somewhere else to live. I've caused you so much trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's me he's after, Trina. It's me who owes him the money.”

“Not after this you don't,” says the constable, flourishing the note. “Uttering a death threat should keep him locked up for quite awhile.”

“Maybe I should take Ruth on a little vacation for a few days, just until he's caught,” suggests Phillips, and Trina sees a twinkle in his eye.