Cut to the Chase (7 page)

“As if I cared,” Poppy continued. “Anyway, I refused to replace them with real ones, because I knew, absolutely knew, that they'd die. Darling Danson said he'd help me buy real ones and look after them. He's been as good as his word.” She frowned. “My poor plants—without Danson around to attend to them.”

She focused on Candace. “But why would you suggest that Danson would take it? Do you have a copy of the Globe?”

Candace shook her head. “The recycling pickup was Wednesday. Sorry. “

“Darling, it isn't that important, but I am worried about my plants.”

Looking at Candace's fists and white knuckles, Hollis feared her friend would launch an attack on her mother. Instead, Candace slumped back and sighed. “Poppy, the plants are in self-watering containers. They'll be fine, but if it will make you happy, I'll come and tend them.”

Poppy clearly expected those close to her to bail her out of difficulties. Candace had performed the role since she was seven and continued to do so.

“Thank you, darling.”

Given the exchange and Danson's disappearance shortly after his visit to Poppy's apartment chances were good the paper was significant, Hollis thought. Did she have Saturday's paper? Not likely. She'd dragged out a clear green plastic bag for recycling and was sure the paper was gone. Even if they found a copy, how would they know what they were searching for unless Poppy 'fessed up, and that seemed unlikely.

Poppy shrugged, slanted forward and peered down. “Elizabeth, darling, are those new shoes?”

Elizabeth stuck a foot out to allow Poppy to admire her shoe.

“It's time to eat before Elizabeth has a major meltdown,” Candace said.

In the dining room, Candace fastened a large plastic bib around Elizabeth's neck and anchored her in her high chair. MacTee settled underneath, ready to catch any morsels dropped or thrown his way.

The adults helped themselves. After Candace assured herself that everyone had what he or she needed, she said, “Poppy, what section of the paper did you save?”

Hollis smiled. Exactly what they needed to know.

Poppy waved a finger in front of her lips to indicate her mouth was full. Finally, she said, “The financial pages. Something triggered an idea for a contact for costumes. I can't remember what it was.” Poppy spoke rapidly without meeting her daughter's eyes.

Hollis glanced at Candace and assumed her friend's lifted eyebrows expressed doubt.

“Poppy, if it was important enough to ask us if we had copies, you must be able to be more specific. It has to be related to Danson.”

With another forkful halfway to her mouth, Poppy paused. “You can be so dramatic. Did I tell you we'll be away at the Vancouver dance competition next week? Candace, darling, if you could see to the cats, I'd appreciate it.”

Candace laid her fork on her plate. She stared at her mother as if confronting a rare and unfamiliar species. “I'll do it,” she said frostily.

Alberto pleaded the onset of a migraine and left soon after dinner. Elizabeth insisted Poppy supervise her bath and read her bedtime stories.

Candace and Hollis listened to gales of laughter while they cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher.

“She's terrific with Elizabeth—never worries about getting messy. Elizabeth loves her,” Candace said.

“Fascinating woman.”

How did you say to a friend that you thought her mother was a liar? Hollis ventured what she hoped was a diplomatic question. “Did you think she told us everything about the newspaper article?”

Candace blew a noisy raspberry. “No. She only tells you what she chooses. She didn't want to enlighten us, and she didn't.”

When Poppy rejoined them, she gathered her handbag and said, “Darling, I can't stay. Alberto and I have to rehearse for the competition. Tomorrow morning we've reserved our studio for ourselves, and we hired a cameraman to record our routine so we can study it.” She smiled at Hollis. “Delighted to finally talk to you. As an artist you must come down and see my art collection.”

“Love to,” Hollis said. The opportunity to pump Poppy had evaporated. How could they uncover the information she seemed to be withholding?

W
ith
her detecting supplies stashed in her bag, Hollis set off for Danson's. Lights shone from the apartments above and below his black windows. She hated entering unfamiliar unoccupied space at night. She'd once been trapped in a dark, deserted church with a murderer and knew this experience partially accounted for the phobia.

That was then, and this was now. She locked her truck, squared her shoulders and marched into the building. Inside, she unlocked Danson's downstairs door and climbed the broad, once-grand mahogany stairs as if she carried heavy iron bars that increased in weight with each step she took. When she faced his apartment door and slid the key into the lock, her stomach contracted, and her throat dried. She swallowed convulsively but without releasing any saliva. The taste of hard, metallic fear filled her throat.

How could she overcome this paralyzing dread? If she propped the door open, the other tenants would hear her scream. What if they didn't come? What if they thought it was on a neighbour's TV and cranked up the sound on their own set?

Scream—what was wrong with her? She'd searched the apartment hours earlier and seen nothing to frighten her and no evidence that anyone else had been there. Silly, silly, silly, she scolded and ordered herself to get a grip.

One deep, calming breath and she opened the door.

Then she retreated to the hall, removed a hefty pad of printing paper from her bag and wedged the door open.

Briefly she contemplated ringing the other tenants' bells, asking if they knew where Danson was and telling them she would be in his apartment but decided against it. Later, if it became necessary, she'd interview them but not tonight.

Finally, after another steadying breath, she crept into the apartment and flicked on the three light switches just inside the door before she froze and listened. Silence. The bedroom and bathroom doors were closed. Had she shut them when she'd left?

If only she'd brought MacTee.

She really was being silly. Who had ever heard of a golden retriever protecting anyone?

She inched along the hall, flung the bathroom door open and hit the light switch. Earlier in the day she'd bunched the shower curtain back, and it remained just as she'd left it, an empty white room. No one lurked here.

The closed bedroom door came next. She tiptoed to the door, carefully rotated the knob and banged the door open. Nothing moved. The only sound was her breathing and her thudding heart. No one there. She flipped lights on as she progressed from room to room. Nothing. She was alone, totally alone.

Once her heart had resumed its normal rhythm, she started her search in Gregory's room, confident some item would have his surname, his employer's name and a contact number to confirm that he was who he said he was.

An old-fashioned maple bed, matching dresser and straight chair, inexpensive white particleboard desk and bedside table furnished the room. Yet another lacrosse poster adorned the walls. A laptop, boom-box and a stack of CDs sat on the desk, a shaving kit rested atop the bureau and several paperbacks, one splayed open, spine up, lay on the bedside table.

What did this tell her?

She'd been through this with Danson's belongings. Guys didn't leave without their shaving kits. Furthermore, businessmen seldom parked their laptops at home, certainly not in a temporary pad like this. They might have a desktop at home, but laptops were for travel, for bringing work home from the office. Wherever he'd gone, Gregory hadn't intended to stay. No, not quite true. He could have a razor, shaving cream and toothbrush at a lover's or relative's place. It was peculiar that both he and Danson had left at approximately the same time.

She unzipped the cheap black pseudo-leather case. Not much inside the main compartment besides the essentials for keeping oneself clean and healthy: toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste, Noxzema shaving cream, nail clippers, comb, Advil and an unopened package of condoms. No medical prescription with his name on the label.

The side pocket's contents told a different story. She'd been building a picture of an innocuous young man, but the tin foil, spoon, matches, hypodermic needle and a baggie of white powder erased that image. Gregory used cocaine, maybe crack, maybe heroin—this equipment belonged to a heavy, not a recreational, drug user. An even more unsettling question—why hadn't he taken his paraphernalia with him?

Had Danson known? Was he too a drug user? How would Candace react if she found out that he was an addict? Like most family members confronted with unpleasant realities, Candace wouldn't want to believe it. Fortunately, no evidence supported this idea this far. Back to Gregory.

She dragged the wooden chair to the desk, sat down and found she needed a password to open the computer. Her disappointment was mixed with suspicion. Computers revealed so much about their owners, particularly e-mails and saved files. Few people employed passwords for personal computers. If you had something to hide or weren't who you claimed to be, of course you'd guard your information. Was this why Gregory's required a password?

The almost-empty top desk drawer held three Bic ballpoint pens, a yellow legal pad, envelopes, a few paper clips and a calculator. The other drawers were empty except for traces of ancient dust. No bills, no receipts, no address book—nothing to identify Gregory. Granted, he'd moved in recently, but putting herself in the same situation, she would have had address stickers in with the envelopes, extra chequebooks—personalized items you used frequently.

Perhaps his clothes would reveal more. Brand name dress shirts, golf shirts, a tweed sports jacket, grey flannels, chinos and jeans hung in the cupboard. On the floor, black oxfords, brown loafers and worn Nikes. Everything was standard issue, brand-name clothing. She rummaged through the pockets and came up with crumpled tissues, a half-empty package of Lifesavers, a match folder with a gas company logo.

Again—nothing useful. Gregory, the mystery man.

What methods would the police use to identify him? They wouldn't learn anything from his clothes, but they'd have the expertise to bypass his computer's password and log in. No doubt this was the motherlode, and they'd come up with a wealth of information. Gregory would remain a mystery to her unless she found information about him in Danson's computer files.

The big question—would Danson's computer require a password? She'd been about to open it the other day when Elizabeth and Candace had arrived. She should have followed up immediately—locating Danson was her priority.

In the living room she sat down in front of Danson's open computer. Disappointment engulfed her. Again she needed a password. Futility marked her evening's work. She snapped down the lid, unplugged the computer's cable and packed it in the case she found under the desk. Her last hope was that Candace, who knew many details of Danson's life, would have the password. She probably shouldn't remove it from the apartment, but since they only suspected Danson was in trouble, it wasn't a crime.

If Candace provided the magic word, Hollis would zip through the information in Danson's computer. If his electronic life was as well-organized as his paper files, she calculated that she could race through the data. She'd transfer whatever struck her as relevant to her own computer. She didn't allow herself to hope she'd uncover the reason for his disappearance, but it was a possibility. Either way, it would be a matter of hours before she returned it to his apartment.

Computer bag in hand, she felt the knot in her shoulders relax as the heavy front door clicked shut behind her. If she returned, she'd visit during the day. Back at her own building, Hollis parked and glanced upward. Lights glimmered in the second floor windows. Not too late to talk to Candace.

Before she had time to knock, Candace's door flew open. “Did you find anything?” Candace said. She was holding her breath and stiffening her body as if she expected a blow.

“Nothing earth-shattering,” Hollis lied, but the hallway wasn't the place to deliver bad news.

Candace breathed again. She peered at Hollis and braced her hands on either side of the door frame. “I can tell by your expression that you did. What was it?”

“Let me in and I'll tell you,” Hollis said.

They moved to the kitchen, where Candace, operating on automatic, plugged in the kettle ready to prepare the ever-soothing cuppa. “What was on Danson's computer? Did you get any leads? What about Gregory? What's his last name? Who does he work for?”

Hollis raised both hands, palms toward Candace, to fend off the barrage.

“Whoa. One question at a time. First, I brought Danson's computer with me. It needs a password, and I figured you might know it. If you do, I'll go through his files and e-mails tomorrow.”

“I do, but should you have done that? What if he comes home and thinks there's been a break-in? What if...” Candace stopped as Hollis again extended her arm, palm raised.

“Relax. I'll skim quickly and forward anything important to my computer. If all goes well, I'll have it back in twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn't have taken it, but as far as we know, Danson's absence is innocent. We'll work from that premise until we learn otherwise.”

Candace stepped back. “I suppose you're right.” As she poured the pale, pleasant smelling camomile tea into flowered blue china mugs, she spoke over her shoulder. “Did you discover any more about Gregory?”

Hollis waited until Candace swung around and handed her a cup. “Gregory is more and more of a mystery man. There was nothing, absolutely nothing with his surname on it, nothing to say where he worked or where to get a hold of him. Surprisingly, his laptop was there, but I couldn't open it without a password.” How to phrase what she was going to say next? A statement, nonjudgmental and factual, would be best. “I did find out something important about him. Gregory's a drug user, the heavy stuff. He stored what I guess was cocaine, although it could have been heroin in his shaving kit. Given that drug-users generally keep their supply with them, the fact that it was in the apartment is bad news.”