There was an Old Woman (12 page)

“—reliable, friendly, resourceful, talented. I get the picture. Unfortunately, I have to give them all that spelled out in detail. It takes longer, I know, but it's the insurance companies. They want all the
i'
s dotted and the
t'
s crossed, if you know what I mean. Do you have her employment file handy? It'd help if you could refer to it. Notice, I'm not asking to see it myself.”

“Only take a minute,” he said, getting up and leaving the room. For a horrible moment, I thought that when he returned it would be with Cath Bracken herself. I didn't have a plan of action to cover that. I'd have to brazen it out.

The woodwork in the office was white, the walls were a light blue with stripes like you see in shirting material. The effect was blue and restful. There was plenty of light coming in through the window and the big brass light on Orv's desk was turned off. Wishart silently came back into the room.

“Here it is, Mr. Cooperman.”

“Ben, please. Call me Ben. Let's get the personal statistics first.” Wishart returned to his chair which welcomed him back with a resounding poooof! of pleasure. “Is ‘Catherine Bracken' a stage name?”

“Not according to this. Born 12 January 1965, in Toronto's Wellington Memorial Hospital.” I made a note. He went on giving me details of education and past employment. If I'd wanted baptismal records, vaccination, or high-school marks, he was all for passing the information along.

“Now we come to the hard part,” I said. “I don't know why they have to know this, but they want to. What is her marital status?”

“Unmarried.”

“Okay. ‘Unmarried.' Does she have what they used to call a ‘common-law' relationship with anyone?”

“Hey! What is this, Ben? What kind of bank wants that kind of information?”

“Just one of the routine questions they gave me. If you don't know, I'll leave it blank. Look,” I said, smiling, “like I said, if there's a problem, I can go through the usual channels. It all comes out the same.”

Orv thought a moment, then spread his hands on the desk. I read this as an invitation to continue. “Does she own her house or is she renting?”

“Renting, as far as I know, Ben.” Orv was noticeably tiring of this interrogation. I was going to have to cut it short.

“Next of kin?” I asked.

“None. She's an orphan. No relatives at all.”

“I
see,”
I said, making a note. Orv looked worried, as though he had just given her a less than passing grade. I began putting my notes away in my pocket. “Well,” I said, “that just about covers it. I don't think she'll have any trouble. I shouldn't think so anyway.”

“Do you know if this is for a loan or a mortgage?”

“Sorry. They don't tell me these things. Any more than they tell a bird dog the recipe for roast duck, eh?”

Orv laughed and got up. I extended my wounded hand to him again and he added insult to injury, but with less vehemence. I got up and allowed him to show me the way to the stairs.

“I'm glad you could help me out like this, Mr. Wishart,” I said, getting a start on the stairs.

“‘Orv,' please, Ben.” He hit the steps just behind me. I felt a little awkward being a step or two ahead of him. They were
his
stairs, after all. At the bottom of the staircase, the receptionist was not at her desk. If fact, she was busy trying to hold up the fainting form of an old woman in a black coat with a silver fox collar.

“Mother!” Orv called, before he had quite reached the bottom step. “What a nice surprise to see you here.” He moved around the woman and took some of the weight and responsibility from the receptionist. I recognized the redoubtable Mrs. Gladys Ravenswood. From the look of her, she was on a tear of some kind.

“Orville, I think that you are about to preach to me and I won't have it. I don't need a reason for coming into my own office.”

“But, Mother, I said how nice it was to see you.”

“Yes, but I know what you meant. You want me to sit like Patience at home, and I'll not have it.” She didn't look up. “Jenny's just helping me. I felt faint for a moment, but I'm quite recovered.” She was exaggerating her recovery from where I stood.

“But what brings you downtown?” Orv asked, trying to soften the question.

“Does there have to be a reason, Orville? I don't like the line you're taking with me. I'm not an invalid and I'm not mentally incompetent. Don't crowd me, please.”

“But, Mother. I worry about you.”

“Don't ‘But, Mother!' me, Orville. I'm not ready for Webster and Powell yet, you know.” Webster and Powell were a firm of undertakers with an establishment on Ontario Street within easy reach of most of the big churches.

“At least come and sit down,” Orv said as he began to lead his mother-in-law away from the counter. He got her halfway to a chair in the waiting area, when she began to fall again. I caught an elbow on the other side of her along with a whiff of what her problem was, and helped Orv settle her into a chrome-rimmed black leather chair. When she lifted her head, she was looking at me. I couldn't tell whether it was brandy or rye on her breath, but there was a lot of it.

“Thank you, young man. What have you done with Orville and Jenny?”

“I'm right here, Mother,” said Orville through thin lips. “Would you like me to bring the car around?”

“And why would I want that? I just arrived.” She began to struggle with the arms of the chair. She was trying to get up.

“Mother, is there something I can help you with?”

“I have to urinate, Orville. I doubt if you would be of much use where I'm going. Come along, Jenny!” she called and, almost unassisted, walked until the receptionist caught her under one arm. Together they disappeared into the ladies'. For a moment, Orv and I watched the closed white door with the skirted silhouette on it.

“She's getting on,” he said, as much to himself as to me. There lingered behind her the perfume of strong drink. Neither of us commented on it.

“Apart from the Ravenswoods, Orv, do you have a lot of relatives around town?” I was trying hard to fill the silence and not doing a very good job of it.

“I have a brother in Oxford, Mississippi, and a few cousins on the North Shore, above Boston.”

“I didn't know you were an American.

“I'm not. I'm one hundred percent Canadian. I say ‘eh?' and everything.”

“Sorry. What I meant was—”

“Don't let it bother you, Benny. I was one of those draft-dodgers you used to read about. Only, I put down roots. You want to see my papers?”

“Orv, who put you on trial? I was just asking.” Was he nervous about me, I wondered, or was it the old woman. Maybe he was thinking, as I was, about our near meeting at Kingsway Hall a few days ago. The presence of Gladys Ravenswood, even behind a door, made it difficult to talk about. It was one of those mysteries that would have to be solved another day.

FOURTEEN

Once again I was at my post when Catherine Bracken came off duty after reading the evening news. She came carrying a large totebag, which she had been dragging around with her since I picked up her trail in Papertown just before noon. She'd led me the same merry chase she always did from the Wool Shoppe to the butcher, from the library to the
Beacon,
from lunch at the seafood restaurant Martha Tracy was talking about to her parking spot next to the CXAN mobile TV van. This was the point I usually had my dinner, so I'd gone to the Di for a snack and to reread a few chapters of a book by Bracken's literary friend, McStu. It sustained me through four courses. I'd only meant to eat two, but I got immersed, caught up, and I knew Catherine Bracken wasn't going anyplace as long as my watch was ticking properly. . I'd phoned my mother to tell her that I was working and wouldn't be there for my regular Friday dinner. I explained about all the work Julian Newby could throw in my direction. She sounded doubtful.

Bracken got into her car and started it up. I let her creep out of the lot and pull ahead. Yates Street is always quiet, so I let her get a few car-lengths ahead of me. I
kept a healthy distance between us for a long block, even though I had a good idea where she was going. In the next block she pulled ahead. I could live with that. I could even let her get out of sight and pick her up again on Welland Avenue. But when I came out on Ontario Street, she was nowhere in sight. Maybe I wasn't committed to the idea that what Bracken did with her free time was any business of Julian Newby or his client. But that kind of thinking is bad for business. Once I start getting soft-headed ideas, it's time to hang up my skates.

I was mentally trying to balance Bracken against Newby, while waiting for the light to change, when I heard a car horn honking at my back. I got mad and made a rude gesture without even turning around. The honking continued and the light was still as red as ever. If the driver wanted to make a left turn at this intersection he was going to have to wait until I made mine. There was plenty of room to turn right. Turning right on a red light is one of the four freedoms that Ontario pioneers had fought for. The horn kept honking.

I got out of the Olds and walked back to the honker. “What the hell is this all about?” I asked as the driver rolled down the window.

“Suppose you tell me!” an angry Catherine Bracken shouted.

“Now wait a minute!” I blustered. “You're doing the honking. And if you noticed the light just changed.”

“To hell with the light, you know why I'm leaning on my horn. Why are you following me? You've been behind me for weeks!”

“What are you smoking, lady? Give me a break. If you've got head problems, see a shrink. But get off my case!” I was trying to sound both stupid and outraged.

“Deny! Deny! Deny! Sure, I know the policy. Don't ask me to buy it, though!”

“Look there's a car behind you and he's going to start honking himself. Goodbye!” I turned around and got back behind my wheel, trying to remember if I'd given anything away. How could she have seen me behind her? I'm a good shadow. Nobody's ever seen me. What was going on?

I started the motor again. (The car had stalled.) And soon I was headed north on Ontario Street. She was right behind me. I took three right-hand turns around Montecello Park. She was still in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over near the corner of Lake and Ontario. We got out of our cars at the same time. There were globes of mist glowing around the light standards in the park. There was a bite to the night air.

“Okay, what's this all about?” I thought that I'd try the aggressive, aggrieved approach.

“Don't play dumb. My eyes are twenty-twenty and I keep my rear-view mirror clean. You owe me an explanation!” She was wrapped up in her camel-hair coat, which made her look taller than I knew she was. Her long hair
was swinging freely as she shouted; her face had taken colour. I backed off a little.

“I still don't know what you're talking about. All I know is that first you started honking at me, then you followed me around three right-hand turns. You know how often that occurs in nature?” She suppressed a more friendly expression and went on with her questions.

“Who sent you? Who are you working for? Did Orv hire you? I have to know!”

“Look, lady, you've got me mixed up with a bad movie.”

“Not a chance. I'm still in my right mind. I'm not paranoid. I haven't started talking to the birdies yet!”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“And I'm still this side of Alzheimer's,” she shouted, running on, not listening.

“A man'd have to be out of his mind to follow you.” Then I pretended to do a double-take. “Hey! Aren't you the woman who reads the news on CXAN? I thought I'd seen you. Just wait till I tell the wife that I saw you!” I laid on the celebrity recognition bit to try to change the subject. She looked like she was buying it and backed towards her car.

“If I see you again within a car-length of me, I'm going to the cops! I'm not kidding. This is what they call harassment. And harassment is something I know all about!” she said, opening up her door. In a moment she realized that she had spoiled her exit by opening the front passenger door. She slammed it angrily and walked
around her BMW. I let her see my grin as she drove off with a screech of tires.

I killed the expression as soon as she was out of sight. As I started to the right door of the Olds, I pondered a few things. First of all, I had to admit that I was getting sloppy in my technique. When McStu drove up behind me that first night, I had called it a case of bad luck. It could have happened to Dick Tracy and to Sam Spade. But this, tonight, this was faulty technique. There was no way around it. I was going to have to be careful: all of the people I shadow aren't under five feet three.

Then there was the other thing: she thought that Orv Wishart had set me on her tail. She complained of harassment. Was this the general harassment that a good-looking TV anchor has to wade through or did she mean Wishart specifically? What was it that Robin O'Neil had said? He'd hinted that Catherine Bracken might owe her job to Orv and may be having to play games with him in order to keep it. It was certain that there was no “part” in the local media world that ranked quite as high as the job Bracken had landed and kept. Robin had hinted that she kept it in spite of bad performance. I can't remember seeing any spectacularly bad performances. Sure, she goofed on a word once in a while, but they all do. No, I was sure that she could have held the job on her own. She didn't need Wishart's influence any more, even if she had once upon a time. The question was, did she know that?

I was driving over the high-level bridge in the direction of the station. I had no business there, but I thought
that the ride might help clear my head. And I knew that this was one direction in which Bracken was unlikely to drive.