Scammed (9 page)

Meanwhile, Greg, thanks for everything you've done, and for being
so understanding. I hope that when you've got the time, you'll pay your
useless old sis a visit up here in Nanaimo. We haven't seen each other
much lately, but I do miss you.

Love, Jill

• • •

When he'd finished writing the letter on the computer, working on it till it seemed just right, he found some notepaper and a pen, and copied it out laboriously, using a round hand he'd been taught in grade school and had hardly used since. When it was complete, he reread it several times, trying to imagine himself a stranger looking at this thing for the first time. Was all the necessary information clear enough? Was it sufficiently woven into the text to look believable? The one thing he wasn't certain about was his reference to the house's location. Should he have included the street number? If the mail thieves were the villains who had conned his parents, they'd have the address anyway, and that would prove the connection. Of course, should it be a different set of criminals, he was in trouble. But, so sure was he, he was willing to risk it. All the other information in the letter—save the existence of the safe and the money—was accurate, right up to his sister's name. He'd included that, plus some feeling of the true family situation, in an attempt to make the letter seem more real. Jill wasn't ill and didn't live in Nanaimo, but they probably wouldn't check on that. Nanaimo, however, was where he intended to mail the letter, first thing tomorrow.

Satisfied, he placed the note in an envelope, addressing it to himself in the same round hand. He sealed it, put on a stamp and laid it on the kitchen table, ready to go. He freshened his drink, returning to stare in satisfaction at the tasty morsel of bait, so judiciously fashioned. He had to admit it looked good, truly authentic, and it struck him that this was a work of considerable craft and imagination. He'd always thought of himself as a pedestrian sort of fellow, short on creativity, the antithesis of the artistic personality. Yet what he'd produced was, in its way, as clever as anything his father had made. Also, this had a very practical—not to mention just—purpose. Would the old man have been capable of coming up with such a trick? He wasn't sure. When forced to acknowledge unpleasant realities, all Walter Lothian had ever exhibited was rage—the thing that ultimately had been his undoing.

But he had sure had good taste in whisky.

I
t was Thursday morning when Greg drove the 110 kilometres north to Nanaimo. Originally a mining town, Nanaimo had in recent years blossomed into a vibrant community, with modern shops, condos and parks clustered around a beautiful harbour. A bypass highway had restored relative tranquility to the town centre, and Greg reached it without effort by late morning to do his mailing.

Afterward, he had a feeling of anticlimax. The letter wouldn't reach Victoria until the next day, and, assuming the fake forwarding address was somewhere in that city, delivery wouldn't be until Monday. If it was read promptly and the bait swallowed, the earliest a response could be expected was later that day. In Greg's present mood, it seemed like an eternity until then.

Driving south again on the Trans-Canada, a highway that seemed to get busier every year, he began to realize that he was actually fortunate to have a few days to get his act together. Though he'd selected a good location and created admirable bait, he did not as yet have a real trap, or even a concrete plan. To set these up was going to take all the time he had.

Reaching Duncan, midway in the journey home, he considered taking a detour to his parents' house, then decided against it. The first priority was to get things settled in Victoria. He reached the city in the early afternoon, not going home, but straight to his office.

His boss, George Allrod, the senior partner in the accountancy firm, was a pleasant, mild man, a few years short of retirement. Greg had always got along well with him; in fact, the last time they'd talked, just prior to the beginning of the troubles, George had hinted at the imminent offer of a partnership. That was all very fine, but what Greg wanted right now was some more time off.

“Of course, take whatever you need,” George said, in answer to Greg's request. “You're one of my best people, Greg, and I'm happy to help any way I can. It's because of what happened with your family, I take it?”

“That's right.”

“I'm so sorry about that. An awful thing to have both parents pass so suddenly.”

“One led to the other, I'm afraid.”

George nodded his graying head sympathetically. “Yes, so I'd heard. It's terribly sad. Sometimes, it seems, people feel they just can't carry on without their partner. Hard for those who are left behind though. How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be . . . you know.”

“I understand. But, come to think of it . . .”

“What?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Tell me.”

“In the short time we've been talking, I've been feeling a little surprised.”

“By what?”

“
You
, in fact. I know our line of work is supposed to a bit sober, and I guess we are, compared to some professions, anyway. And you've always been a sort of poster boy for that idea.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. Ever since I've known you, you've been so reserved. But now, today, despite your loss, or maybe because of it, you seem—how can I put it?—somehow more
alive
than I can remember.”

“Really?”

George laughed in sudden embarrassment. “But what do I know, eh? I'm just rattling on. All that matters is that you have the sympathy of everyone here. So, as I said, take whatever time you need. And we'll look forward to seeing you back as soon as you're ready.”

From work, Greg headed home to Oak Bay. Entering his apartment, he encountered the now-familiar sensation of being a stranger, and this time he had an extra thought: perhaps he wouldn't renew that lease after all. But he was too preoccupied to take the notion further than that. His purpose in returning was only to pick up some clothes in preparation for a longer stay in the house by the river.

While he was packing, the conversation with his boss kept coming back into his mind. That last observation George had made: Greg wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or insulted. Certainly the new feeling, now a constant companion, of strange and dangerous things happening just out of sight, was enough to keep anyone pretty damned alert. If this came across as extra aliveness, so be it. He'd make sure to use the sensation to hone his concentration, not to mention patience and cunning, for the task ahead.

“Alive?” he muttered grimly, as he packed the last of his things and headed to the car. “George, you don't know the half of it.”

• • •

He arrived back at the old house in the late afternoon. In consternation, he saw smoke coming from the studio chimney, then he remembered Lucy Lynley. He'd told her to continue using the place, so she must have taken him at his word. To his further surprise, he found that the thought of the young woman working away in the domain his father had once ruled felt mysteriously pleasant.

The studio door was ajar. He entered quietly to discover Lucy hard at work, her back turned, at the far end of the studio. Only after he was in the room did he realize that she was unaware of him. He gave a cough, whereupon she shrieked and dropped her paintbrush. She whirled to face him, then gave her friendly laugh and blushed. “Sorry—I didn't know anyone was here.”

“No,
I'm
sorry,” Greg replied. “I only just arrived. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“That's okay,” Lucy retrieved the brush and began to clean it off. “I should be finishing up anyway.”

“Please don't leave on my account. I said you were welcome to use the studio anytime.” This was true, but even as he spoke, he knew that soon her visits would have to be curtailed. From next Monday, the property must appear to be unoccupied, according to his plan to turn it into a trap. So he was going to have to come up with a plausible story.

“Thanks,” Lucy was saying, “but I must be getting back to Mum.”

“Okay, whatever you think.” He watched as she finished cleaning up. The painting she'd been working on was different from the one his mother had brought him to see, what seemed an age ago. He'd liked that one, but this was better, again an airy landscape, but with more strength and authority in the brushwork. More startling, however, was the discovery that he understood this. He heard himself saying, “I'm going to be staying at the house for a while.”

“Oh, good,” Lucy replied casually. “Then perhaps we'll see more of you.” She finished her cleaning, wiped her hands and paused at the door. “Listen, if you're not busy, why not come over tomorrow evening for supper? I know Mum would love to see you again.”

It was in his mind to refuse. Then he realized that it would be as good a time as any to gently persuade Lucy to make herself scarce for a while; he'd have to think up a good excuse, but this gave him a day to think about it. “Thank you,” he said. “If you're sure it's not too much trouble.”

They continued making polite conversation, and then she left briskly. Catching himself wishing that the departure had not been quite so abrupt, he thought,
This is ridiculous; she's just a neighbour. Get
it together, for God's sake.

He fetched his bag from the car and went into the house, in search of a shot of Glenfiddich.

N
ext morning, after breakfast, Greg walked the property, trying to see it from the perspective of an intruder. The first thing any respectable thief would do, he imagined, would be to thoroughly check the place out. The only way the house could be found was by the street address. (The number on the gatepost was partially obscured by greenery: one detail that needed immediate attention.) This part of Riverbottom Road was quite lonely, and no houses were visible from the gate. It would be easy to park unobtrusively nearby and walk in. For Greg, therefore, the first priority was to decide on a spot for surveillance. He chose a garden shed a short distance from the house, with a window that gave a good view of all approaches and enough room inside to set up a long-term operation.

The location of the house was a double-edged sword; isolation gave what seemed like safe access for a burglar, but it also made it easy to quietly close the trap behind him. Once the house was entered, all Greg needed to do was phone the police from his place of concealment and the thief could be apprehended before he knew what was happening.

For the rest of the morning, Greg wandered the house and the property, going over details, examining all angles. If the robber arrived at night—the most likely scenario—the darkness could be a real problem; even in the close proximity of the garden shed, he might miss a stealthy approach. If the front courtyard light was left on, its usual state, it might make an intruder nervous, but it would also show that the courtyard was empty of vehicles, a usually reliable indicator of unoccupied houses. The Prius, of course, would be well hidden.

But even with sufficient light, it would still be well nigh impossible for one person to pay undivided attention to the house over a prolonged vigil. Some sort of alarm was required to give an alert, night or day. Greg had a solid, practical streak, so after mulling over the problem for a while, he arrived at a solution, low-tech but workable. The Canadian Tire store in Duncan provided all the materials, and by the end of the day, Greg had his warning device. It consisted of a spring-loaded switch attached to a tree in a part of the driveway that could not be avoided by anyone coming in from the road. A well-concealed wire ran through the woods to a small, battery-powered buzzer in the garden shed. The switch on the tree was kept in the “off” position by a near-invisible thread, stretched under tension across the driveway at mid-calf level. If that thread was broken, the switch was automatically activated and the buzzer came on in the shed. Voila!

Greg tested his device several times; it worked perfectly. His satisfaction was such that when he at last finished up and went inside, he found himself chuckling. It was early evening, time for a well-deserved whisky. He was just starting to pour when he remembered his supper invitation from Lucy.

• • •

As he approached along the river path, a black shape shot out of the woods, nearly bowling him over. Lucy's Lab, Hatch—he surprised himself by recalling the name—was as enthusiastic as ever, licking and nuzzling and falling over him all the way to the Lynleys' door. Lucy chuckled when she saw them together. “Hello. I might have known. Down, Hatch. He seems to like you. I hope the idiot hasn't mauled you too badly. Come in.”

Greg entered, followed by Hatch, who was allowed in this time. Delicious cooking smells wafted on the air as he followed Lucy through the house, making him realize that he hadn't eaten a proper sit-down meal in days. In the living room, Shirl Lynley was propped comfortably, a glass of wine beside her, looking, he thought, less frail than before. She greeted Greg warmly, telling her daughter to pour him wine, which she was already doing. Soon, with Shirl surveying him benignly, and Lucy popping in and out from the kitchen as she completed dinner preparations, Greg was almost able to forget the dark purposes that had been consuming him.

Supper was a simple but well-cooked meal of roast chicken and vegetables, preceded by squash soup and followed by a fruit crumble, both homemade. Lucy opened another bottle of wine, topping up Greg's glass when it was emptied, which seemed to happen quite frequently. He was surprised; a single glass of wine had traditionally been quite enough for him. His recent introduction to whisky appeared to be bringing about some changes. But he didn't care. He felt good. And when, after supper, Shirl Lynley said goodnight and was helped to bed, he was even happier to be left alone with her daughter.