Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
“… So will you be willing to cooperate with us, Mrs. James?”
Laura jumped. Oh, no. She had spaced off again. No wonder Tom complained. “Er—sorry. Could you just go over that again?” Actually, now she realized she had got some of the officer’s words. Something about D.I. Snow’s belief that the drugs were for the Canadian market and thinking it likely that Darren had gone into hiding from whoever put him up to the failed attempt. Therefore they probably believed she was still carrying their stash. So if she would just be willing to walk around Victoria carrying a similar briefcase (they would need the original as evidence)—
“No way. You’re not using my wife as a lure for your criminals. Where’s the American consulate? We don’t have to put up with this. My wife is an innocent bystander, and we’re going home tomorrow. You have your drugs.”
“Of course, Mr. James, you can call your consulate in Vancouver or your attorney or anyone you want to, but as drug traffic is such a major international problem and American-Canadian cross-border cooperation is so close, I expect you will be advised to assist us all you can.”
Tom started to protest, but the detective continued. “Also, as the drugs were found in your wife’s possession, I would strongly advise you to consider voluntarily changing your return reservations.”
Tom’s chair scraped against the floor as he jerked to his feet. “Are you threatening us with extradition? Or arrest? Now see here—”
“Tom.” Laura put her hand on his arm. “I’m sure they can sort out their drug problem. But I’m worried about Darren. And what this will mean to Kyle and Glenda. Why would some ring of professionals enlist a mere schoolboy for a job like this?”
Young Sgt. Monaghan gave a winning grin. He seemed much more willing to answer Laura’s questions than his superior. “Because they wouldn’t want us to know drugs were involved at all. Some young delinquent snatching a bag for a lark wouldn’t be a cause for a major investigation.”
Laura flared. “Darren is not a delinquent! I want to know who put him up to this—and—” Something had been bothering her ever since Darren’s phone call. “—How did they know where we were planning to go today so Darren could ask to go along?” She looked at Tom. “At first I thought you must have said something to Kyle. But, of course, you haven’t talked to him since we made those plans.”
Laura shivered. “Someone knows more about us than I like to think. Someone must be listening in on our conversations.” Her face flamed red. Considering that they seemed to spend most of their time discussing—or fighting about—the most intimate details of their marriage, the idea of their room being bugged was unthinkable. But that wasn’t the most important issue right now. “Don’t you see, Tom—if Darren was put up to that amateur bit of purse snatching by some—some drug baron or something—he must be in real danger now.” She turned to the detective. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Laura—”
“Tom, we can’t run out on our friends. I have to help.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll see about getting an open-end return.” But he didn’t look happy.
They agreed that tomorrow Laura should continue with the research schedule she had originally set for this afternoon. It seemed likely that whoever was supposed to receive the drugs knew Tom and Laura were about to leave Canada. That must have been what triggered the clumsy overt attempt. If they didn’t know she had discovered the drugs, they would certainly try another snatch in the next 24 hours.
Laura glanced in her rearview mirror and gave a quick sigh of relief. Yes, the police were still right behind her. She had been at this for several hours now, and all was going fine. She hoped Tom’s work was going as well. He had wanted to accompany her, but D.I. Snow insisted she go alone. Just as well, because later she had heard Tom making an appointment for this afternoon. Besides, she was safer now than if she had refused the set-up. Really she was. After all, how many visitors to the city got their own personal police escort? But then—how many needed it? She pulled in at a newsstand to buy one of the essentials for getting a feel for a city—a local newspaper. She stuffed her purchase in the look-alike briefcase, trying to make the action look natural before she walked on down the street to Marks & Spencer’s.
Don’t look over your shoulder. Don’t look. You have to act natural.
But no matter how many times Laura told herself that she couldn’t get over the impulse to look.
Am I being followed? Will I recognize my stalker?
Now that she thought about it, she could see that someone had been there all along. So many little incidents that one never gave a thought to—the shadow behind the Queen Victoria statue, the face in the mirror at the castle, the hang-up phone calls—maybe they hadn’t been Marla—the houseboy who got the wrong room … If only she could recall in detail what any of them looked like …
Focus on your research. You really do need to get this done. You do your job and let the police do theirs.
That was another worry. More than wanting to look for her pursuer, Laura wanted to check to see that the police were there. She’d seen enough TV programs using the very scenario she was playing out in real life. And something always went wrong. The bad buys got to the cops first. The cops lost the person they were guarding … Laura gave herself a mental shake and sorted through her list. She had seen most of the essential service spots that might be important in setting a novel in a particular city: hospital, library, City Hall, department store, post office. Bank and pharmacy still to go. It would be so much more efficient just to hop in a cab and say, “Drive me.” But that would insulate her. She had to stay vulnerable.
She gave a quick look to be sure her stakeout saw her, then got back in her car. Next on her list was a drive through a residential section of Victoria to see how the people really lived. As she drove toward the outskirts of town she was once again impressed with the variegated cultural background of the area: names like Duncan and Nanaimo stood on the same signpost. Still driving, she jotted a note on the pad resting on the seat beside her.
The areas she drove through were nice, quiet neighborhoods—middle-class homes with well-kept lawns, younger children riding tricycles on the sidewalks while their older siblings were at school. And as everywhere on the island, Laura was impressed with the greenness—no wonder the early English settlers felt so at home here.
As her wanderings took her farther from town the homes became newer, some individually built among their more established neighbors, others built in groups on the order of a subdivision. Because of Tom’s work she was always interested in new home construction. She made a quick note to tell him about her observations here. She was always glad when she could talk to Tom about his interests.
A movement of traffic behind her caught her attention. She had been so absorbed in her work she had momentarily forgotten the ulterior motive to all this. But one look in her mirror told her she was still being followed. She was heaving a sigh of relief when the chilling thought struck her. That
was
the police in that little gray car, wasn’t it? How could she be certain which lot was on her tail?
Suddenly the quiet of the peaceful neighborhood struck her as ominous. She wanted people around her. Besides, she’d seen enough of the residential area.
Next corner, turn right and head back to town. But drive normally. Don’t speed through this school zone.
In the next street, though, something distracted her interest from the little car behind her. In spite of his jealousy over the attention she gave her fictional characters, Tom was truly first in her thoughts. And here was something Tom should see: a three or four block area with brick and wrought iron fence enclosing a partially finished housing development—just the sort of project Marsden and James liked to promote. Some homes appeared to be ready for occupancy, others had only the foundations poured. And everything a beehive of activity with workers, supervisors, and truckloads of equipment. But something was wrong.
She pulled over to the curb near one of the half-completed homes and watched, trying to figure out what was amiss. The supervisor in a dark gray business suit and yellow hard hat referred to notes on his clipboard as he gave orders to several workers loading two-by-fours onto a pickup. When one of the men climbed into the driver’s seat and drove off, it clicked in Laura’s mind. The whole scene was like watching a movie with the VCR running backward. They weren’t constructing homes, they were deconstructing.
Now she looked more closely. Supervisors on a construction job shouldn’t be wearing three-piece suits. These men looked like bank executives. The trucks weren’t from lumberyards; the inscriptions on their sides said Saanich Storage. And across the street a signboard was being hammered into place by a grim-faced workman. Thinking of Tom’s interest, she jotted down the pertinent information: Property offered by First Provincial Bank of Victoria, Wm. Eaton, Vice Pres., and the phone number.
Laura’s stomach began telling her it was teatime. Amazing how quickly one’s system could become acclimated to a new routine. What for the first few days was a charming novelty had now become a necessity. She could no longer get through the afternoon without a pick-me-up of scones and tea. She glanced at her guidebook. “The Cottage Tearoom, relaxed and cozy atmosphere away from the bustle of downtown business.” That sounded just right. Besides, she noted, it was near Antique Row, which was another spot in that slightly off-the-beaten-track part of town that she hadn’t visited yet. She shook her head; one could never really cover all the attractions Victoria offered.
There were no parking places along Fort Street, so she turned onto a quiet side street. Still no open spots. She slipped around a corner. Oh, there—people were parking on one side of the wide alleyway that divided the block. She turned onto the graveled passage and found a spot near a vacant lot. This was perfect, she could simply cross the empty lot and come out two doors from the tea shop. She tucked her books and precious notes under the seat, grabbed her briefcase, and stepped out.
“’Ere now, that bag looks awful ’eavy. We’ll just give you a bit of ’elp by carryin’ it for ya.”
Laura spun around. Her first reaction was to laugh. What were those men doing with tea cozies over their faces?
The laugh turned to a scream when she saw the length of metal pipe in the closest one’s hand. She didn’t mean to resist. Her stepping backward was sheer instinct.
The blow seared across the back of her head.
Whither is thy beloved gone
,
O thou fairest among women? whither is thy beloved turned aside? that we may seek him with thee.
My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies
.
“Laura? I’m here. Can you hear me?”
Tom’s voice. Fuzzy and far off. Her beloved, calling her from his garden. “Yes, I’m coming. We’ll gather the lilies together.” But her voice was too weak to form the words. Besides, it was all dark in the garden. And it hurt to move.
Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me …
Sometime later she surfaced again. This time the room was quiet, only a soft light glowed in one corner of the room. The pain in her head was still excruciating, but at least she could think. She had gotten out of the car—three men in tea cozies. No, ski masks—the briefcase … They got the drugs! No, no, the police already had them. That was it, the police were supposed to have been there first. What happened?
Did they get there in time to get the men? Could she identify them? A voice maybe? One of them had spoken—a youngish voice, straining to sound tough.
“Oh, are you awake?”
No, that wasn’t the voice. It was younger, a little British sounding.
“How are you, Laura?”
Tom! It was Tom. Laura opened her eyes. “Hi.” She attempted a faint smile.
“Good, you’re awake. Can you sip a little water? The nurse said—” Laura started to shake her head, but it hurt too much.
It was easier just to open her mouth obediently and accept the straw Tom was holding to her lips. The sip was all she could manage. “Good girl. Now go back to sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.” He brushed her forehead with his lips. “I love you.” Had she said that, or had Tom? Or had she dreamed it?
Thou that dwellest in the gardens, thy companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it. Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices
.
The next time she opened her eyes she felt really awake. The pain in her head had settled down to a dull ache that left room for other thoughts. Laura looked across the room to the big chair in the corner. Tom sat there. Asleep. The pale light fell across his face, highlighting his hair. Even in the dimness she could tell he was uncharacteristically rumpled.
The stab in her heart was far more severe than the pain in her head. She longed to reach out and caress his tousled blond hair. She remembered now—she had been on her way to have tea. So this must be the next morning.
Did Tom sit with me all night?
She had heard his voice at some time as she drifted in and out of consciousness. “Tom, I love you.” But her voice was too weak to penetrate his slumbers …
“Good morning, Mrs. James. Would you care for a bit of a wash? Breakfast will be coming in a few minutes.”
This time the light was bright at the window. But the chair in the corner was empty. Laura looked at the whitecapped nurse. “Yes, fine.” Anything they wanted to do with her was all right. She just wanted to see Tom. Where was he? Had she dreamed him sitting in her room?
The warm cloth on her hands and face was marvelously reviving. “I’m just going to roll you up a bit now. The doctor said you could have some tea and a nice soft egg if you felt up to it.”
There was nothing in the world Laura felt less up to than a “nice soft egg,” but the tea and toast were welcomed by her empty stomach. She was just finishing her toast when the nurse returned with a plump little man she introduced as Dr. Jenkins. He adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses and peered into Laura’s eyes with a small light, then looked down her throat and felt cautiously over her head with gentle fingers. In spite of his care, though, the process made her wince.