And even if they had, Glenn and I weren’t married. We weren’t living together. We were dating! Seeing each other. We’d made no commitment to each other. Our relationship was so new that we hadn’t defined it yet.
(Yet, wasn’t that exactly what Glenn had asked me to do? A little guilt crept in and I deliberately decided to ignore it.)
Given his mood there was no way I was going to let Glenn talk to Rob. I was going to get the information on Kate and I was going to be the one to call Glenn with it. And I knew where to find it.
Despite my repeated claim about not having anything to do with Butler Hotels I knew a lot about how they were run. The privacy and safety of their guests was handled the same way at every hotel in the chain. No one came or went from the property without being checked through security. Somewhere, on some computer, there would be a list of all the people allowed on the island — complete with a photo of their face and their personal information. All I had to do was find that list.
I found a map of Soursop in a folder of information on the table in my front hall. It showed where the roads were, the many villas and blocks of hotel rooms, the beach bars (there were four of them), the helipad, the docks (there was a big marina on the west side of the island), the tennis courts, the dive shop, the spa, the gym, the movie theatre (what did they need a movie theatre for? I’d already read that each room had a flat-screen TV with satellite reception), and the Internet café. The island was much wider than I’d thought and the road system looked as if it had been designed by a crayon-wielding child in the middle of a major sugar rush; brightly coloured roads squiggled, swooped, and zigzagged all over the island. If I took the blue crayon line, turned right at the red one, and then left on the orange one I’d hopefully end up in front of the main building.
As I drove along, taking only two wrong turns, I quickly learned how to tell the difference between hotel employees and television or movie personnel. Both groups wore a uniform, of sorts, but only the Butler employees had my second initial embroidered on their shirts. The television and movie people, who seemed to travel in small packs, wore a uniform of a T-shirt or loud Hawaiian shirt with jeans or shorts. No one, working for either employer, looked at me as I drove past them. They glanced at me, but quickly turned their gaze when I looked at them.
One person seemed out of place, not fitting into either group. She was dressed entirely in thin white crinkled cotton. With each step forward her pencil thin legs pushed against her wide-legged pants. The tunic top that she wore hung loosely over her torso. Even her hands were covered up, with white gloves. On her head sat a white sunhat with a brim wide enough to protect three people from the sun’s rays. I couldn’t see her hair, she had it wrapped up in a white scarf under her hat. The lenses of her sunglasses were Jackie Kennedy Onassis big and black and John Lennon round. She walked so slowly that it almost looked as if she was hovering just above the paved road, floating along at a ghostly pace. In her right gloved hand she held a thick stack of papers which were held together on one side by two brass studs. I slowed down as I passed her and looked hard at the papers. All I could see was the top sheet — Rebecca’s Story. It wasn’t a title I recognized. Maybe it was the title of the movie they were going to shoot? She was so covered up that I couldn’t tell if she was Ariel Downes. She didn’t turn to look at me. In my rear-view mirror I saw that she didn’t stop to say hello to anyone she passed, nor did they stop to talk to her. If that was Ariel Downes she was doing a great Greta Garbo impersonation — everything about her silently screamed I want to be alone.
I parked under a large Flamboyant Tree in the small parking lot in front of the main building. Looking up to admire its vibrant green leaves and brilliant red-orange flowers I noticed something strange — a little red light in the V of its trunk. It was above the lens of a carefully camouflaged camera that had been wedged into the V. Big Brother (or, in my case, Little Brother) really was watching everything, everywhere. It gave me the creeps.
When I entered the lobby Little Brother himself was standing at the front desk talking to Ted, both of them surrounded by a television crew.
“… she’s not answering, Mr. Butler. Do you want me to send someone down to her cottage?” Ted picked up a cordless phone from behind the counter.
“No, she’s probably swimming or running or doing something physical. Ria likes that crap. Just leave her a message that I’m looking for her.”
Ted spotted me. “I think you can tell her that yourself. She’s right here!” He sounded oh so happy to see me.
James turned around and smiled. “Hey! I came over earlier than I thought. Feel like an early lunch?”
“Okay,” I said with noticeable uncertainty. James sure noticed it, he looked hurt. “But can you give me a few minutes? I have to … do something.” Hopefully, it would only take me a few minutes. If I’d read Ted right he’d move extra fast to impress a Butler.
“Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be out by the pool.”
James walked away. I smiled at Ted. Ted smiled back. He really did have a sexy smile. I stared at his shiny white teeth while I silently rehearsed the performance I was about to give.
“May I help you with something?”
James was out of earshot but the television crew had shifted positions to include me in their shot.
“Can you guys hold off for a minute?” I looked directly into one of the two cameras and used my friendly-but-in-charge hotel owner voice. “This discussion isn’t part of your show.” It seemed to do the trick, they lowered their equipment. “I need to see the guest registration information.”
Ted knew the rules, only hotel management was allowed to access that information. I wasn’t management, but I was a Butler. Sometimes the name came in handy. It opened doors.
“May I ask why?” He looked nervous, he was blinking too fast.
I switched to my friendly voice. “It’s sort of personal. Can we talk in there?” I pointed to the closed door behind the front desk which hopefully led to the front desk manager’s office. Even though they’d pointed their cameras away from me I couldn’t be sure that the television crew had turned their microphones off.
“Certainly, Miss Butler. Right this way.” Ted held open the swinging gate at the side of the reception desk and I followed him into the office.
It was a standard, boring, beige-and-brown office with file cabinets, a desk, and chair. Ted closed the door and looked at me expectantly.
“This is kind of embarrassing,” I started. Ted’s shoulders relaxed a bit. I didn’t like the storyline I’d come up with but it was all I could think of — mention female troubles and most men of a certain age would bend over backwards to get you to stop talking. “On top of the night sweats, hot flashes, and mood swings, I’m having more and more old-age moments, as I call them, and I’ve just had a big one. I saw someone I know I should know on one of the television crews when I was driving down here. He shouted hello and, I feel like an idiot admitting this, I can’t for the life of me remember his name. I just want to scroll through the guest photos to put a name to his face and then I won’t feel like I’m a dotty old lady when I bump into him again.”
Ted laughed, an annoyingly condescending laugh. “We all have those moments.”
It was a good thing he hadn’t added “deary” to the end of that sentence! I would have kicked him in the shin with all the velocity that my non-geriatric legs could muster.
He walked over to the desk, put his hand on the mouse, and started clicking.
I quietly slipped into the chair and watched the screen.
After a few clicks, the screen filled with rows and columns of little headshots. Underneath each one was the name of the person. The names were in alphabetical order. Finding Kate Bond would be easy.
“Let me know if you see him,” Ted started to scroll down the page painfully slowly (probably because he doubted I’d be able to focus quickly through my cataracts), but stopped at Agnelli when we both heard someone yelli
ng in the lobby.
“… I don’t pay you fuckers to sit around contemplating the lint in your belly buttons! Why aren’t you shooting? Where’s Ted?” The door to the office burst open and Dan came marching in. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
Ted jumped to attention. “We’re just …”
“It’s hotel business.” My hotel owner voice lost some of its confidence after being confronted so suddenly.
“And it takes two of you to do it? We’re making a show here and footage of a closed door isn’t something I need a lot of. Do the hotel shit on your own time.”
Ted looked torn, not knowing whether to stay and help the old lady (who might be an owner of the hotel he wanted to work at) or go with Dan (who was one of the bosses of the television show he was working on).
“I can handle this, Ted. It’ll only take me a minute.”
“Are you sure?”
“She said she’d handle it, didn’t she? So get back out here and do something screen worthy! I hear you had a poultry problem at Ariel’s villa. Have you called maintenance to nail up the loose board?”
“Not yet.”
“Now might be a good time to do it, don’t you think? And show some anger, some frustration, when you’re talking to them. Their screw up upset the star you’re supposed to be making happy, it made you look bad. You want that board fixed immediately!” Dan pointed to the front desk.
Once Ted and Dan were out of the room I pulled the chair in closer to the desk and quickly scrolled through the few remaining As to the Bs and Bond. As I double clicked on Kate’s name I could hear Ted acting very upset as he spoke to someone on the phone. He wasn’t a bad actor. If I’d been the one at the other end of that call I’d have believed he was really upset. I wondered if he found it as interesting as I did that Dan, who hadn’t even been on the island when it happened, knew all about the chickens and the loose board.
The next screen to pop up was a full page with Kate’s information. Her photo filled the right side of the screen; her personal information was listed on the left.
She looked so young. If I hadn’t seen her birth date I would have guessed her to be a teenager, not twenty-four years old. She had shoulder-length brunette hair and wore too much makeup. Her lips didn’t need the heavy coating of lipstick she’d put on; she had a beautiful smile — the kind that made you want to smile back at it.
My lipstick-free lips curved down into a frown, though, when I saw the person listed after her — Maria Butler. I opened my information page and saw myself staring back at me. When had my picture been taken? I was wearing the same T-shirt, so maybe they took a frame from the video that had been shot of my arrival? James was listed as my immediate family contact, and he was identified as my brother. But they got my mailing address wrong; they’d used the address of the head office in Sydney. They had my marital status right, though: Divorced. I closed my file down.
While the printer spewed out Kate’s information, I decided to look up one more person and scrolled up the Bs. There wasn’t a picture or even a listing for Albert Black. The only way I was going to get more information on him would be through James, and I doubted he’d be eager to open up about whatever Albert was transporting to the island.
With the page of Kate’s information safely tucked in my pocket, I closed the computer program down and went back out to the front desk, mouthing thank you to Ted and giving him a thumbs-up signal as I closed the office door behind me.
“See that you do!” He shouted into the phone just before slamming it down. “Did you find what you were looking for, Miss Butler?” He asked me in a very calm and friendly voice.
I wasn’t sure which voice was coming from Ted the person, not Ted the actor. “I sure did. Thanks.”
“Who was it?” Ted threw me a curveball I hadn’t been expecting.
I blurted out the first name that came to my mind. “Rob Churcher. He’s worked for James for years. I can’t believe I forgot his name.”
“He’s working with the other contestant and I believe they’re off island now.”
“I’m sure I’ll see him around. Thanks again.” I wanted to get out of camera range and started to walk away from the reception desk, but quickly spun on my heels to face Ted one last time. “I just remembered that I have some papers I need to send to head office.” Glenn would have loved knowing that I’d figuratively made his condo our head office. “Is there a scanner in the Internet café?”
“There are two of them, actually. Our guests require all the business services that they have at hand in their own offices and we pride ourselves on being prepared to meet their needs. If you need any IT assistance just pick up the phone on the desk by the door of the café and someone will come right away.” He’d obviously studied the Butler employee manual well.
“Okey-dokey.” I spun around with a spritely youthful skip and went in search of the café.
Glenn was on the phone with his editor asking for an extension when Ria’s email came in.
“No problem. You can work on something else and I know exactly what. You won’t believe this one! Somebody got hold of my social insurance number and used it to set up an account with Quebec Hydro in my name! Now there’s a debt collector hounding me and the wife and they’ve put a lien on my house — my real house, not some bogus place in Quebec. I’ve never even lived in Quebec!”
Bob’s story suggestion didn’t interest Glenn. “Identity theft is old news.”
“I might have something more current to work on. I have to check out a few leads, but there could be a story in it.” Glenn didn’t really believe that there was a story in Bobbie’s scam, not one that would sell papers anyway, but he definitely didn’t want to get saddled with a series on identity theft when he was right on the verge of blowing the white-collar story wide open.
“Story in what?”
“Some strange stuff’s happening on the set of a reality TV series and I’d like to check —”
“Forget it! It’s a fluff piece. Give it to someone in entertainment. In the meantime —”
“It might involve a murder and severed body parts.”
Bob went silent. Glenn could hear him breathing heavily. “You’ve got a week. If nothing pans out I want you on the identity-theft piece.”
He had a week to expose a scammer — either the white-collar slime or Bobbie. Glenn opened Ria’s email. Her words didn’t give him a warm and fuzzy feeling.
Here’s the info on Kate. R
He got more pleasure out of looking at Kate’s picture. She had a beautiful smile. He picked up the phone and dialled the number listed on her information sheet. Her voicemail kicked in after the fifth ring.
“Hi, I’m on location in the Caribbean for a couple of months so don’t hold your breath waiting for me to call you back. I’ll check my messages every so often, but my per diem won’t cover a lot of long distance calls so I’ll only call you back if it’s super important. Thanks. See you in the movies!”
Odd.
Glenn hung up at the beep and stared at her picture on his computer screen. She sounded so happy as she boasted about working on location, even throwing in the bit about her per diem. As a production assistant she probably didn’t get much of a per diem, just enough to cover her laundry expenses, meals, and a couple of phone calls home, but she’d sure sounded thrilled to have one.
If Kate had left the production over a week ago to come home, why hadn’t she changed her phone message? He felt the tingle of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. They only did that when he stumbled onto a story worth telling. Could be something. Might be nothing. It was worth taking the next step.
It was a nice day for a walk along the lakeshore anyway. Kate’s place was only about ten or twelve blocks west of his condo building. What Glenn hadn’t counted on, though, was the heat and humidity. His body liked the air conditioning in hi
s condo. It didn’t like the wall of thick heat that slammed into him as he walked past the Hockey Hall of Fame. He hoped there’d be a breeze off Lake Ontario and went two blocks farther south than he really had to. Queen’s Quay was packed with tourists and office workers out for a midday stroll. He weaved his way through and around them and gave up any hope of a breeze by the time he was walking past the CN Tower. The lake was mirror flat. Man, it was hot! He mentally quoted one of his favourite movie lines. Matthew Broderick said it in Biloxi Blues — “It’s like Africa hot.” Glenn had never been to Africa, but he figured it was always hot there. He’d never been to the British Virgin Islands, either. He hoped it was worse than Africa hot there.
Kate’s apartment was on the top floor of a building that used to house a coffin-making factory. It was in the west end of the city, down by the lakeshore, in an area that was in the process of changing from industrial to high-end condos and lofts. The meat packing plant at the end of her street had only closed down a few months ago. Good thing, too. On hot days the smell coming from that place had been horrific. Glenn worked a murder investigation in the plant right after being hired by the paper. It gave him the willies just being near the place again. Somewhere between the blood of the slaughtered animals and the blood of the slaughtered little girl he’d permanently lost his ability to control his stomach in gory situations, much to the amusement of his coworkers and his buddies on the homicide squad.
Kate’s building had yet to be upgraded and to call it gritty would be a compliment. It wasn’t air conditioned and Glenn was sweating like a not-yet-slaughtered pig by the time he finished walking up the four flights of stairs. Someone was watching Dr. Phil at full volume in the apartment next to Kate’s. He knocked on Kate’s door just as Dr. Phil asked “How’s that working for you?” Glenn was paying more attention to the softly spoken response to Dr. Phil’s question than he was to Kate’s door so when it opened it caught him off guard.