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  “I’ll email you with Tuesday’s plan,” he called.

  Go right ahead, I thought. I watched the night closing in around his retreating back. He cut a dapper figure with his blazer tossed over his shoulder, hooked by his thumb. The night had suddenly become very chilly. It felt about fifteen degrees. I did up the buttons on my jacket. His footsteps echoed in the sudden quiet of the street. For downtown Toronto it was remarkably desolate after the crowd in Starbucks. Where was everyone? I shivered and felt the cool night air on my face. Time to get home.

  When I turned around, I slammed right into a tall man wearing a grey hoodie. Where had he come from? Why hadn’t I heard him? I’d had no idea anyone was that close to me. Panic coursed through my veins. He pinned me against a recessed doorway and when I looked up I saw it was the gaunt face of Jack England, the crime writer from the Toronto Times, his coal black eyes burning. I struggled to take a step back with a sharp intake of breath.

  “You gave me a start. Jack, right? Jack England from the Times?” His eyes were dark and flashing as his hands pressed hard against my shoulders. Fear curdled in my throat. Should I scream? But I knew the guy.

  Suddenly he let me go and grabbed my elbow hard, turned me around, and forced me back the way Todd had left, west along Bloor Street, away from the safety of my car behind the church on the corner. I shrugged my arm, trying to shake him off. He was a strong guy considering he was as thin as a spaghetti noodle. His fingers were like steel pincers. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let me go.”

  His fingers dug deeper into the flesh on my arm. “I need to know,” he growled. “I need to find out what you’re up to.” He frog-marched me down the street and into a deserted construction site on the north side of Bloor, my feet barely touching the ground. I was terrified.

  9.

  JACK BACKED ME UP AGAINST a grimy brick wall half way into the construction zone and trapped me between his arms. His breath brushed against my cheek, the garlic from his last meal making me nauseous. The gritty wall scraped against my jacket and a pebble caught under the heel of my shoe as I shifted my feet, trying not to lose my balance. The odour of urine swirled around me. Where exactly was I? I was totally disoriented. What had happened to the safety of staid Yorkville?

  “You promise you won’t run?” Jack snarled into my ear. I nodded. I wanted to know what was going on. Jack took a step back, letting his arms fall to his sides. He looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to dash away.

  I brushed off my jacket where he had gripped my elbow. “What the hell do you think you are doing? You could have picked up the phone and called me, like a civilized human being.”

  “I need to know what you are up to at work.”

  “Me? Up to? I’m up to a snapdragon show. Back off, asshole.” I shoved him with the palm of my hand and he staggered backwards underneath some scaffolding. Somewhere a cat meowed. With this small success, I felt empowered and gave him a punctuating shove in the centre of his chest with my forefinger. The back of my mind registered that his pecs felt much more muscular than they appeared.

  “I mean it, stay away from me,” I said.

  He moved forward, leaning his six-foot frame over me and putting his face right next to mine. “Don’t fuck with me, Robin. Why are you meeting with Radcliffe?”

  “You following me? Stalking me? That’s a pretty serious charge, you know. Get away from me.” I stabbed him again in the chest with my finger.

  He jabbed me right back in the shoulder. “Tell me what you were doing with him.” He pushed me again.

  I lost my balance and staggered backwards. Someone walked by on the sidewalk and I could see them looking in to the site, watching what was going on. “I’ll scream,” I warned.

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, saw that we had company and took another step back. He held his hands up, palms up, surrendering. “Calm down. I’m sorry I frightened you. But what are you doing seeing that guy? I was following him, not you.”

  “Why are you following him? I think I have a right to know, considering I was out on a date with him.”

  “A date? You’re crazy. Don’t be fooled by that guy, MacFarland. He’s dangerous.”

  “Yeah, right. In case you didn’t notice, he’s a Harvard-goody-two-shoes-Ralph-Lauren-clone. Hardly dangerous.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “Just a date, huh? How’d you hook up with him? I saw you at that ceremony. Then?”

  I was secretly pleased. England had noticed me at the convention.

  “You were there too,” I said accusingly. “You’re a crime writer, what were you doing there in the first place?”

  “Same thing your friend Cindy was doing.”

  “Don’t be an ass, she covers environment too, not only crime. The lake is environment.”

  “Maybe I do, too.”

  “What are you? Six? C’mon, stop the parrot game, why were you following him?”

  Jack abruptly turned on his heel and slithered away. When he reached the wire gate to the opening of the construction site he shouted over his shoulder, “Consider yourself warned, Ro-BIN.” When he said “BIN” he kicked the side of the dumpster at the entrance to the site.

  Nice, I thought, really nice. And mature as well. He really did act like he was six years old. Not to be outdone however, I shouted “Same to you, Jack-OFF” to his retreating back. Wasn’t I the clever one?

  He turned around and grinned, as if to say, “Good one!” and then took off, bustling west along Bloor Street in the same direction as Todd.

  With my heart pounding in my fingertips I walked as coolly as I could away from the scaffolding and piles of gravel. I stood in the street lights on Bloor, saw where I was, and headed east towards the parking garage where I’d left my car. I pulled my jacket tight across my chest and hunched over as I scurried along. A woman in a hurry. My car was right where I’d left it, inside the entrance on the first floor of the garage. I pressed the button on my key fob and the lights came on as the doors unlocked with a reassuring thunk. I dove into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel, breathing hard. That England was a creep.

  Good thing I didn’t marry him, ha ha.

  With damp fingers I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot. The date wasn’t that bad, I thought, but then I corrected myself. That kid had warned me about Todd and now Jack had too. What did they sense that I didn’t? Is this why I had ended up in a bad, okay abusive, marriage with Trevor? I was blind to cruelty? To danger?

  And ultimately, is this why I drank? To keep from seeing the truth? Or, to help me cope with it? And what was that pain in my chest? I placed a hand over my heart as I stopped at a red light. It was beginning to drizzle and the fine drops formed a translucent gauze over my windshield, bending the red light into rivulets of cherry blood. I looked at my hand, seeking an answer. Was it an emotional ache? Was it fear? Of what?

  I was fat enough for a heart attack. Maybe I was going to die.

  My trip home was a blur interrupted by the steady staccato beat of my wipers. When I finally unlocked my front door, I stood in the hall and caught my breath. In the peaceful silence everything slowed down. I reassured myself that, yes, my world was normal. The thump of Lucky’s feet on the hardwood floor above me as he jumped off the bed was followed by the scratching of nails on the smooth surface as he raced down the stairs to the first floor. I absent-mindedly patted him behind the ears while tossing my keys in the tray beside the door. I was on auto-pilot, my mind drumming with the mystery of it all, my body churned up from Jack’s confrontation.

  I poured myself a large glass of wine. Of course I did. Thank heavens that naturopath hadn’t called me back.

  I sat down in the wing-back chair in the corner of the kitchen and mulled over the events of the evening. What was going on? Why was Jack following Todd? I glanced at my watch. Shortly after nine-thirty. I picked up the
phone and dialed Cindy. When she answered I said without preamble, “Jack England is following Todd Radcliffe around.”

  “Who?” mumbled Cindy.

  I’d woken her up.

  “Todd Radcliffe, the guy from Everwave.”

  “Oh him. How was your date?” She yawned.

  “Sorry if I woke you up, but do you have any idea why this is going on?”

  “What’s going on?”

  I clenched my lips together. It had been a mistake to call Cindy. I’d forgotten that she went to bed early so she could go for a run before work. “Why England is following Radcliffe?”

  “No idea. Why, what happened?” Cindy was slowly coming to, her journalistic instincts taking over.

  But I was fed up with her. “Nothing.”

  Silence ticked down the line. Cindy was hurt. I guessed it was justified. I had now snubbed her and she was the one who had been woken up. “Okay-y-y-y.”

  I relented, but only an inch. “England grabbed me after I met with Todd and shoved me into that construction zone beside the hotel on Bloor, wanting to know what I was up to.”

  Cindy was wide awake now. “He what?”

  I enunciated my words as if I were talking to a child. Still ticked off. “Grabbed me, told me to stay away from Todd, that he was dangerous.”

  More silence. But by now Cindy had been made aware of the error she made in her initial lack of interest. She gave me a peace offering. “That must have been frightening. Being dragged into that dark place.” Conciliatory now and trying to connect with me.

  My bristles flattened. “Yeah, not fun. But what am I missing here?”

  Cindy breathed a sigh of relief. The fight was over as soon as it had begun. “Leave it with me. I’ll find out what the buzz is and call you in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” A sharp click as I hung up. Sure she would. She probably wouldn’t even remember the call.

  I sat and drank some more wine in my so-called reading chair for a few hours, thinking about the situation, and periodically flicking through a mystery novel. Around midnight I began my nighttime routine of shutting down the house. Lucky was let out and in. I checked to see if the doors were locked. Cast a glance at the stove to make sure the burners were off. Turned out a few lights. And then, finally, lurched into the living room to shut down my computer.

  Curiosity about Todd got the best of me, so although it was past midnight, I decided to check out his profile again. I got on MeetYourMatch, entered my password, and typed “Mr. Sail Away” into its advanced search bar. Immediately his profile came up. I read it twice through, trying to discover something sinister about him, something that had tweaked England’s interest, but as far as I was concerned, it looked pretty innocuous and I shut the computer down. I used the banister to pull myself up the stairs to my bedroom. I was sozzled.

  Friday morning dawned clear and crisp; autumn was around the corner with only two more weeks to Labour Day weekend. I gobbled a couple of acetaminophen and waited for the day to look brighter before I left for work. Tonight I’d be having pizza and wine with Cindy and Diane. We’d hash this situation out. When I walked through the glass doors into the open concept editorial office floor, my cup of coffee sloshed over my hand. Great start to the day. Shirley’s door was closed and the blinds were drawn. Either she wasn’t in yet or she was and someone was with her. Doug?

  But no, Cindy’s editor, Douglas Ascot, was bent over Cindy’s desk. So, Shirley wasn’t in yet. Cindy and Doug were in deep conversation and checking her iPad. I wondered what they were looking at. Cindy suddenly tapped quickly on her keys and the two of them became riveted to her computer monitor. They had started a search.

  I heard my name being bandied about and moved in closer. What the hell was going on now? I stood at my desk, just a few feet away from Cindy’s, and could see over Doug’s shoulder. If I squinted my eyes I could see the Google search bar. They were Googling Everwave and the pointer was going up and down the various selections.

  “I don’t know his name,” Cindy was defensive.

  “Google this one,” he said, pointing halfway down the list.

  “No, that’s not it.”

  I moved closer. “Maybe I could help.”

  Cindy turned her head and looked at me over her shoulder, “Hi, what’s the name of the vice president of Everwave?”

  Doug looked at me doubtfully. How could I possibly know?

  “I was at the convention,” I said by way of an explanation. I tunneled through my memory banks and found a gold coin: the vice president’s compact bum. Horney. Right. Horner. “Van Horner. Richard? No, Paul. No, Richard. Yeah, Richard van Horner. Why?”

  Doug dismissed me, and turned back to the computer, entering this name into the Google search bar. “You’re right.” He sounded surprised. “We need to talk to him.” He was trying to sound casual. His toes were curled in his Birkenstocks.

  Who wears Birkenstocks? And what did Shirley see in him?

  “About what?” I persisted. As soon as the words were out my bravery faltered. Cindy saw the tiny flicker in my eye.

  She put me out of my misery. “Todd Radcliffe.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “Oh him.” I was nonchalant. I could pretend too. My hand waved in the air, oh so casually. “What do you need to know?”

  But now I had gone too far. Cindy knew Doug would not tolerate this unruliness. Standing up for myself was one thing, probing where I shouldn’t go was another. Cindy’s eyes darkened, giving me a warning. But I disregarded the furrowed brow, the tenseness around my friend’s mouth, because I was galloping towards forbidden information with the determination of a fox hunter. Cindy wanted to protect me before I fell off that particular horse. She gave her head a determinedly negative twitch.

  Finally I cottoned on to the seriousness of her message and raised an eyebrow. What was this? A warning? Should I back off? It wasn’t my business? I took a step back and looked elsewhere, pretending to be no longer interested. Yeah right.

  But Doug turned Cindy into a fool and answered me. “Everything. We need to know where he lived. Where he worked before Everwave. Who he was seeing. Where his children go to school. The name of his goldfish.”

  Relief fueled Cindy’s laugh. It was too loud.

  I copied the new humourous tone. I could get good at this game of hide and seek, flushing out information as if it were nothing important. “Key info about anyone, the fish angle. Why would you need to know even that?”

  Doug stood up his full height and cleared his voice. His mouth turned down like a circus clown’s. “Because my pretty little Robin bird, the man is dead.”

  The news severed me from reality. I felt like I was in the third person, watching myself watching Doug, watching me. What had he said? Todd was dead? How could that be? I saw Doug looking at me carefully. I could feel the blood draining from my face and wondered if my freckles were standing out in a blotchy starkness. Robin bird? This struck me as funny and I wrestled with the giddiness that was bubbling in my chest. Do not laugh, Robin. Do not. Cindy held her head down, and, in contrast to me who had stopped breathing, her chest rose and fell in a fast rhythm. She was staring at the computer screen. Hiding from me.

  I looked at the back of Cindy’s head accusingly. My friend kept this from me? After my date? After my phone call to her last night? Why hadn’t she texted? This was the sort of information that needed to fly through the ether.

  Doug saw my pronouncement of Cindy’s guilty betrayal and said, “Oh no, Cindy didn’t know either. Not until right now. The second I told you. I was saving the news flash. Just to see.”

  As if on cue, Cindy’s eyes raised up to mine, troubled and full of worry, their dark pupils even darker and leading into a cave that I did not know.

  “Was he murdered?” I guessed. I wasn’t going to capitulate and ask “see what?”

&nbs
p; “Why would you ask that? Why would you guess murder and not a heart attack? Or suicide?” Doug was evaluating me.

  I was flustered. “He was in good shape. Fit. Active. Didn’t drink.”

  “I’ve heard the police have no idea. There’s no clue. And how do you know all this?” Doug was beginning to have the same dark look as Cindy. What was going on?

  “We went out. Just once.” Would “just once” get rid of the look in Doug’s eye? It was starting to scare me.

  “When?” His voice was clipped. This was not a game now. This was cutting to the chase.

  “Last night,” I whispered.

  He turned to Cindy. “You knew this. You knew this and you didn’t tell me?”

  Cindy swung one leg over her knee, as if crossing them would give her immunity from a lie. “Don’t be ridiculous, Doug.” He grunted. “I just found out. When you told us. Hardly time to keep something from you, was there? Be reasonable.”

  “This looks very bad.” He had dismissed his accusation and moved on to the next problem.

  “Why does it look bad?” I was so naïve.

  Doug gazed at me as if I had the IQ of a shag carpet.

  “You were the last person to be with him, then.” Cindy was prodding me along, trying to get me to see the light.

  But no light dawned on me. I smiled, “Yeah, I guess I was. But wait, no, not if he was murdered. That person was the last one to be with him.”

  Cindy stood up and grabbed her purse. She looked as if she were getting ready to leave. “Robin, I’m going to give you a crime reporter’s hot tip. The last person known to be with a murder victim is probably, statistically, the person who murdered the person. So, that would be you.”

  I absorbed this information, the wheels turning in my head. “But no, the last person with Todd Radcliffe was probably Jack England. Besides, how was his death discovered?”