Shadows on the Train (18 page)

“I didn't! I was just—”

But then Bowl Cut, very pale, began to pitch forward. I grabbed his arm. “You need Madge's first-aid kit. Under normal circumstances, I'd take you to the infirmary, but Nurse Ballantyne's infected with poison ivy. Besides,” I added, helping him past a mountain of towels, “I'd better not see Nurse Ballantyne again till I have a fully rehearsed, minimum-two-hour apology ready for all the trouble I've caused her.”

“With you around, there are no normal circumstances,” Bowl Cut said, with the ghost of a smile. “But before I pass out, perhaps I should properly introduce myself.” He handed me a business card.

“‘Jonathan Hector, Hector the Protector Insurance,” I read. “‘Specializing in insurance for historical valuables.'” I put the card down and stared at him. “Valuables such as…stamps?”

Jonathan Hector nodded. “I got into insurance of artifacts, of historical treasures, because history's my passion. Seven years ago, the King Edward the Eighth ‘blooper stamp,' as it's called, was stolen from Vancouver's Monarchy Forever! Museum. The stamp had been insured with my company for eighty thousand dollars. Sensing that the few existing copies of the blooper stamp would hugely increase in value, the museum's directors asked me to track down the stamp rather than pay them out the eighty grand. No matter how long it took, they said—and they'd finance my investigations.”

Jonathan pressed a hand towel against his head. “I found out that one Edwina Chewbley, with a record of petty thefts, had been a Monarchy Forever! Museum volunteer at the time the King Eddie disappeared. Seems Mrs. Chewbley was so sweet and dithering that no one worried about letting her hang around the exhibits unsupervised. She left the museum soon after the stamp disappeared.

“Then our friendly local card shark, Ardle McBean, won the stamp off Freddy. Fast-forward seven years. As soon as Ardle got out of prison, I approached him about returning the stamp. He was leery at first, but was starting to come round to do the right thing—and then Freddy ran him over. I tried to grab Ardle from the back, but too late.”

I shook my head, bewildered. “In Garden Park, when I got to Ardle, I thought he was pointing accusingly at you. But he was pointing at Freddy, vrooming away in the dented Buick. And you…”

“I was checking Ardle's heart rate,” Jonathan explained. “Ardle's eyes flickered open. He mumbled, ‘Watch over Mike Galloway's kid…' I promised him I would.

“Once I realized someone was calling nine-one-one for him, I got out of there. If the police found and questioned me, I'd have had to tell them the truth, and my cover would've been wrecked. Better, I thought, to quietly shadow you so I could both protect you and keep tracking down the stamp. I figured you must know where it was—without knowing you knew.”

“So many shadows,” I sighed. “Shadows—friendly and otherwise—hovering around me. And,” I added sadly, “shadows from the past.”

“Those past shadows are the ones we all have with us, in one form or another,” Jonathan replied kindly. “That's why we have passions in life, you with singing, me with history—to chase them away.”

We reached the door, and Jonathan stretched out a hand to the knob, as much to steady himself as to turn it. “I'm sorry I had to be so mysterious with you, Dinah. You know, rudely reaching through your kitchen window without explanation. And then my fisherman disguise, not to mention my endlessly cryptic remarks. It was part of my agreement with the Monarchy Forever! Museum. The directors feared that if anyone discovered I was after the King Edward stamp, all the collectors on the continent would descend like crows to an open garbage bag. The directors ordered me to stay mum no matter what.

“Also, I didn't want Ma Chewbley and her son to recognize me from seven years ago, when I'd been asking questions about the stamp. I knew from her screech she'd recognized me at your house that day. Hence my fisherman's disguise. And the need to keep out of sight on the Gold-and-Blue till absolutely necessary.”

“Mrs. Chewbley claimed she saw you boarding the Gold-and-Blue in Jasper,” I said thoughtfully. “But she described you as Bowl Cut, which you weren't, in fisherman mode. I bet she was making that up so I'd trust her.”

“No doubt. That sweet, dithery routine of Edwina's goes a long way. Oh, and my bowl-cut hairdo—not my regular look, I assure you. I'm appearing in a minor role as a Roundhead in a historical film I'm insuring called
Roundheads, Cavaliers and Werner the Talking Dog
.”

“So that's the battle you meant,” I said. “A movie one.” I tried to look excited for him, but privately I found Werner the Talking Dog movies silly. So much
barking
.

Jonathan sighed and twisted the knob, holding the door open for me. “All this trouble, and now the stamp's gone, lost in a southern Ontario field of blue corn.”

In response I stuck out my tongue at him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Best King of All

Toronto! Pantelli, Talbot and I craned out the window to see the CN Tower. At one thousand, eight hundred and fifteen feet high, the Tower is the world's tallest freestanding structure.

We agreed that the Tower resembled a long ballpoint pen with a hula hoop about two-thirds of the way up. Part of the hoop was actually the observation deck, with a floor made of glass. Awesome. We all intended to take barf bags up.

Laugh-cough from the other end of the cell phone I was holding. I'd been describing the tower to Ardle, who'd recovered enough to sit up in his hospital bed.

“Don't talk about barfin', Miss Carnegie Hall,” he begged. “I bin through enough o' that after unsteady Freddy pancaked me with his Buick. Hey, you say the stamp is safe?”

“It was safe all along. When Freddy yelled at me to hand it over, I faked a cough and stuck it under my tongue.”

“Whoa, Nellie! Mike 'ud be proud o' ya.
I'm
proud o' ya. Heck, you'd be a great con artist, Miss Carnegie Hall. Why, you an' I could—”

“Never mind, Ardle,” I said disapprovingly. What was it with people trying to recruit me to the underworld all of a sudden? “Besides, Jonathan says he has a job waiting for you—as a security guard. On the theory that it takes a thief to catch a thief, you'd be ideal at knowing when valuables, in a museum, say, are in danger.”

“A
museum
?” echoed Ardle, horrified. “What a rotten way fer a guy to become honest. Though, I gotta say, it can't be as tough as cuttin' out smokes has bin.”

“I'm not sympathizing with you about that,” I said firmly. “It's time you stopped resembling Pigpen.”

To someone beside him, Ardle protested, “Aw, lady, not orange juice…I tell ya, this healthy, moral livin' 'ull be the end o' old Ardle.”

Mother came on. Let's just say her voice was not fraught with good humor. “Dinah, before I list the many,
many
things you've done to deserve a lifetime's grounding, I want to know who Calvin Blimburg is.”

“Calvin—? He phoned
you
?” I clapped my hand to my head. I must've given the mysterious Calvin our home number instead of Madge's cell one.

“Yes, this Mr. Blimburg is a counselor with Alcoholics Anonymous. He helps people get rid of their addiction problem. He said you left a strange, threatening message on his voice mail.”

“Oh, wow. Oh, wow.” I shut my eyes and felt tears oozing out from between the lids. Dad had been phoning AA. He'd been seeking help.

Mother wailed, “Dinah, I was so embarrassed! I can't have you phoning strangers and—”

“Mother,” I gulped, “I love you so much. I have something really nice to tell you about Dad, but I want to wait till I see you. Will that be okay?”

“Something nice about—Mike?” Mother's voice became young and warm, the way it must've sounded when she and Dad sat in their Commercial Drive café, talking about the possibilities ahead of them. “Well…all right. Yes, that'll be okay.”

The Gold-and-Blue slid into the city. Talbot told me more about Edward the Eighth and what happened after he quit his throne.

I was still thinking about this when, on exiting the train, I collided with Madge.

“
Ow
, Dinah!”

On the Union Station platform, porters jostled to help Madge down.

“Here, allow
me
, miss!”

“No, allow
me
—to give you a hand and my life's devotion.”

At the next set of train doors down from us, a beaming, head-bandaged Jonathan Hector appeared, with a small steel briefcase chained to his wrist. Inside: the King Edward the Eighth stamp.

Three armed guards, with
Hector The Protector
Insurance
in bold red letters on the backs of their white uniforms, were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Jonathan.

I waved at him. “I told Ardle about the security guard job,” I called. “He was—well, mildly enthusiastic.”

“There might be a job for you too, Dinah. A singing role in
Cavaliers, Roundheads and Werner the Talking Dog
. I'll speak to the director about it.”

“But didn't you say they're about to start filming?” I yelled back. “It might be a little late to—”

“Not when you consider that I'm giving them a special discount on their insurance.” Jonathan was winking. Then he stepped down to join the guards, and they moved off in the crowd.

I prodded Madge in the back. “There are fire regulations about blocking exits.” Suitcase-laden people were crowding up behind me, including Talbot with his guitar and Pantelli with his toilet-paper box full of leaf samples.

With a haughty sniff, Madge permitted herself to be helped down to the platform. I peered round to see why she'd hesitated for so long.

Jack!

He stood glaring at her. She was glaring back. Ah, I thought. A showdown over the other woman, Veronica LaFlamme.

The
way
he was glaring at Madge, though. It was a mixture of exasperation—and utter adoration. A tiny doubt entered my mind. Could I have been wrong? But no, those e-mails spoke for themselves.

Jack shouted at Madge, “What's the idea, telling me our engagement's off? Since I got your phone message, I haven't been able to work, eat or sleep. I changed my flight to a red-eye just so I could arrive early at this station and
pace
. In fact, I'm ready to start pulling pillars down with my bare hands just so I can make my pacing path clearer.”

“What a disturbed young man,” a woman murmured behind me. “It wasn't bad enough that
barf
hurled through my window at me early this morning, just when I was trying to snap a picture of blue corn!” She hurried past Jack.

Madge replied to Jack with cold dignity, “I
tried
to reach you, Jack. But you were always unavailable. With that LaFlamme woman, I suppose.”

Jack looked bewildered. “I was deep in a forest, out of e-mail range, with a conservationist group. We were trying to track down a possible spotted owl sighting. The one time you got through to me by cell, the connection broke.”

Then Jack paused, rewinding her comments. “The ‘LaFlamme woman'?
Veronica
LaFlamme?”

“I see you've conveniently remembered,” Madge returned. Her eyes brightened with tears. So he wasn't even denying it! On Madge's behalf, I scowled at him.

Talbot and Pantelli waited on either side of me. I could see Talbot was uncomfortable being in on a private quarrel. I didn't have to glance at Pantelli to know
his
reaction: delight. He came from a big family whose members were always arguing—and enjoying themselves hugely while at it.

Pantelli now inquired cheerfully of Madge and Jack, “You two breaking up?” Setting down his suitcase and leaf-sample box, he began shot-putting peanuts into his mouth.

Jack stepped closer to Madge and proceeded to glare eyeball-to-eyeball at her. “Do you know who Veronica LaFlamme is, Madge?
Do
you? Here.” And out of his back jeans pocket he withdrew a folded-up newspaper. “I was planning to ask you about this civilly, over lunch, away from,” he cast a foul glance at Pantelli, “the small-fry set.”

He unfolded the newspaper, the previous day's
Vancouver Sun
. A photo of Jack was on the front; beside him beamed a short, fat, middle-aged woman with corkscrew curls. Underneath, the headline
Head of
Environmental Party Asks Young Activist to Run for City
Council in November Elections
.

My tiny doubt ballooned to whale size. “Uh-oh,” I murmured to Talbot and Pantelli.

“
That's
Veronica LaFlamme?” Madge squeaked. “And those secret meetings you were having with her—the news that you were going to break to me—”

Jack placed his hands on her shoulders and regarded her solemnly. “I wouldn't agree to run for council unless it was okay with you, Madge. It'll make our lives even busier at a time when we're still in school and about to get married, besides.”

Tears were spilling from Madge's blue eyes—but tears of happiness now. “Oh, Jack—I think you'd be a fabulous councilor, the best Vancouver could possibly have! I don't know how I could have thought that you would…It's just been so stressful, what with Mother and your sister telling me I had to do this and that for our wedding, cramming in more and more guests—more
tofu
…”

Jack tipped her chin up. “Nobody is going to tell anybody anything, because
you
are going to marry
me
. Nobody else is going to be involved. No out-of-control wedding, no twentieth cousins twice-removed from Tuktoyaktuk.”

“But—”

“As soon as we get back to Vancouver, Madge.”

And there, in Union Station, he kissed her. For a lo-o-o-n-n-n-g time.

Talbot, Pantelli and I edged away. “That's some smooch,” Pantelli observed. “Man, I could have finished the
Young
Dendrologist's Encyclopedia
by now.”