Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell

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      Hollis had felt like that when a plane she’d been on had managed to land safely after its landing gear failed to lock into place. Feelings of absolute relief and profound gratitude along with a determination never to take life for granted.

      “What does Danson do when he fingers these criminals?” Hollis said.

      “Thank god he’s smart enough not to play superhero. He reports them to the appropriate authorities. Twice, when nothing happened, he contacted the Star, and it did an exposé.”

      “Are many people aware that he does this?”

      “I hope there isn’t a single person, but I suspect many people know. That’s one reason I’m worried.” Candace hesitated and, glanced at Elizabeth as if seeking confirmation that what she was about to say was important. “Since he left, I’ve had calls asking for him. When I say he doesn’t live here, the callers—there are different ones—hang up without identifying themselves. It’s frightening me.”

      “Do you ask who they are?”

      “Yes, they won’t say.” She shuddered. “Then there are the calls where someone breathes heavily—I’ve had those too. I’m convinced they aren’t random, that someone wants to scare me, to stop me from searching for my brother.” Again her gaze focused on the toddler. “I’m afraid for Elizabeth. Her daycare is secure, but I’ve warned them to be extra careful, not to allow her to leave with anyone but me.”

      If there had been more calls, and they did relate to Danson’s disappearance, it was another reason to worry and to take the problem seriously. “Is it happening more often than usual?”

      “Maybe I’m exaggerating the number, but it has been happening. The breathers upset me the most.”

      “Creepy. Have you reported them to the police or thought about getting an unlisted number?”

      “I have, but what about Danson? What if he needs help, and when he calls the number, is no longer in service? No, I couldn’t do that.”

      “Would your mother know where he is or what he’s doing?”

      “Poppy!” Candace’s eyebrows rose. “As I said, Poppy lacks the maternal gene and the ‘worry’ gene. She figures things will work out, and for her they usually do. Right now it’s even more unlikely that she knows anything or has talked to Danson about anything serious.”

      “Why is that?”

      “Something’s preoccupying her or maybe them. Alberto, an Argentinean, is Poppy’s business partner. I’m sure he’d like to be more than that, but Poppy has had a long-term relationship with someone. We’ve never met him, and she’s been careful not to mention his name. Recently I’ve had the sense that something has happened to him or to their relationship, because she’s seemed sad. From a lifetime of experience, I can tell you Poppy doesn’t spill the beans until she’s good and ready. Worrying about Danson isn’t on her agenda at the moment. When I tried to talk to her about him, she fluttered her hands dismissively and said, ‘Danson will be fine.’” She paused. “Families. Always something.”

      “I only have my mother, who’s an accountant determined to save the environment. She’s in Halifax. Although we talk once a week, if she isn’t off on an ecological tour, it’s a tenuous connection. She’s obsessive about her causes and isn’t interested in my life. I’d give anything to have a close family. I envy you.”

      Candace’s eyes widened. “You’re right. Because I’m always worrying about Poppy, Danson or Elizabeth, I sometimes forget how much I love them. Poppy and Alberto are coming to dinner tonight. Join us and see what information you can winkle out of them.”

      “Tell me about Alberto.”

      “I don’t know much. Spanish is his first language, and he isn’t that fluent in English.” She grinned. “Poppy talks for both of them. She and Alberto own and run a dance studio on Queen Street west and compete professionally in ballroom dancing. They specialize in Latin American dances, particularly the tango. That’s another reason she isn’t worrying about Danson. She and Alberto are flying to Vancouver this coming week for a major dance competition.

      “They’re business partners. They don’t live together because Poppy adores Siamese cats. Certainly the current two, Bubbles and Smokey, run the show. Alberto’s allergic to cats. He can’t spend five minutes in Poppy’s apartment without grabbing for his inhaler. Poppy would not give them up. She once said her cats provided continuity and kept her anchored to reality.”

      When she heard the cats’ names, Elizabeth shouted, “Bubbles, go see Bubbles?” When no one responded, her voice rose and became more insistent.

      Candace stopped talking, bent down to Elizabeth’s eye level and smiled at her. “No sweetie, not today. Poppy’s coming up for dinner, but she’s not bringing them. You have MacTee—you don’t need the cats.” She looked up at Hollis. “Use your detecting skills and find out what the hell is going on with Poppy. She loves an audience. Not surprising, considering what she did for years.”

      People and the details of their lives fascinated Hollis. She supposed that was why she’d taught social history, the story of ordinary people. In intimate conversations, she’d found that there was a confessional pattern. Individuals wound their way into a tale, always aware if the listener lost interest or found intimate details shocking. She found that revelations grew increasingly significant if she didn’t comment but listened attentively. Some Americans surprised her, because they readily revealed the most private details on the shortest of acquaintances.

      “What did Poppy do before?” Hollis asked.

      “Right now she not only dances in competitions herself but also designs and sews costumes for other ballroom dancers.” A faint smile twitched at the corners of Candace’s lips. “Not for those with whom she competes. There’s a strict code the dresses must conform to, or the wearer is disqualified.” She twirled a strand of Elizabeth’s fine hair around her finger. “But these are second careers.” Her eyes danced.

      A big revelation was coming.

      “What was the first?”

      “Exotic dancer,” Candace said with raised eyebrows. “Bet you weren’t expecting to hear that.” She grimaced. “Thirty years ago, I don’t think it was quite so awful—more like old-fashioned burlesque.” Her eyebrows rose, “At least that’s what I choose to believe. I do know lap-dancing wasn’t allowed.”

      Hollis stretched her mind around the idea. You seldom thought about parents’ younger lives.

      “Poppy also creates outfits for people for special occasions—Mardi Gras, Hallowe’en, fancy dress balls. She’s talented. If the arrival and departure of UPS trucks is any indication, she does a steady business.”

      “Is the dance studio profitable?”

      “Something must be. She lives well. Three or four years ago she made a great fuss about buying an expensive fireproof safe. Said she needed to protect her valuables. When I asked what that meant, she winked and said it was better for me not to know.” Candace shrugged. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s something I don’t want to hear.”

      Hollis revised her view of Candace’s mother. Who thinks that a friend’s middle-aged mother has been an exotic СКАЧАТЬ