Chapter Eight
On the streetcar back to Kensington, Dame mourned a toonie-sized hole in the crotch of her favourite jeans. She could probably fix them, or maybe even buy herself a new pair with Ray’s retainer money. The truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time she had actually bought new clothes. In any case, she was going to have to choose her sleuthing pants a little more carefully in the future.
Dame checked her watch. It was already past three o’clock and she was starting to feel like she’d wasted the whole day. There had to be something else she could do to justify Dodge’s daily fee.
Soon enough, Dame found herself back at the Brickery. She knew she ran a risk showing her face and making herself recognizable to Aki’s known associates, but the day had stalled out on her, and she was hungry for something she could use. And also, just hungry.
When she walked in, there was a glass display case stuffed with enough sugar and carbs to keep her going a good while, but it was something more olfactory that commanded her attention. The air was saturated with the smell of good coffee. The Brickery had enough java options for the most discerning of addicts, and it took a significant percentage of Dame’s willpower not to order something strong and drown her sorrows. She did notice a fresh pot of decaf brewing, but even in her weakened condition, Dame wasn’t going to lower herself to that sad brand of methadone.
A bandanaed woman behind the counter — possibly Aki’s friend Val — leaned on pink, meaty arms dusted with flour. “What’ll you have?”
Dame smiled and looked at the display case, and then the chalkboard menu. “What’s good?”
The woman took a moment, either to consider the question, or to let Dame know it wasn’t one worth considering. “It’s all good.”
“I’ll try a couple of those Boston Creams, then.”
As the woman tonged the donuts into a crackling paper sack, Dame glanced at a bulletin board covered in ads for rock shows and spin classes. One caught her eye.
PUMP & DUMP
Kid friendly bitch sessions.
Wednesdays 4:30 to 5:30
Alexandra Park Community Centre
New moms welcome.
The bottom of the poster was fringed with tear-away phone numbers. Next to each number was a name: Aki. Dame took one of the paper tabs between her finger and thumb and gave it a thoughtful tug.
“One of our bakers helps run that,” Maybe-Val said, handing her the bag of donuts. “Sometimes we donate our day-olds.”
“Interesting.”
“Are you a new mom?”
Dame’s smile froze on her face. She felt her head nod up and down.
“Well, maybe you should check it out.”
“Thanks.” Dame tore the tab free of the poster. “I just might.”
That evening, when she had finished sewing up the hole in her jeans, Dame did something she hadn’t done in months — she went on Facebook. Sure enough, when she signed in, her home page was flying a lot of angry-looking red flags. Notifications and messages ran into the high double digits. Meera Banerjee. Adam Hoffman. Rachel Suarez. Some of the names seemed like characters from a story she’d finished reading a long time ago. She ignored the messages and plugged Aki’s name into the search field. She found three Akiko Miyamotos, but only one located in Toronto. When she clicked on the local Aki, her privacy settings were high, and the only posted images were stock photography — flowers and sunsets — none of it too recent. She ran the same name through Twitter and Instagram and Snapchat without any luck.
Dame cast a wider net to see what Google had to say about Ray’s wife but came up with almost five hundred thousand search results. A mess of names and faces. Digging through all of it would take hours. Days maybe. But then, even before she could click on the first link, her phone buzzed. It was Meera.
“Hey!” She sounded out of breath. “Any chance you’re following the news?”
“No. Why?”
“You remember that old high school I worked on years ago? In Bloordale?”
“Loyalist Collegiate?” Dame was unsettled by the coincidence.
“Yeah. It’s currently on fire.”
“What do you see?” the detective asked his daughter.
The kid looked around the Skyview Restaurant. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to see?”
The detective waved down the waitress, and a moment later, she appeared at their table, hair pulled back into a bun, notepad peeking out of an immaculate apron. “Can I start you two off with something to drink?”
“Two coffees, please,” he said.
The waitress looked at the thirteen-year-old girl and kept smiling. “Two?”
“Yeah,” the kid said. “I’m trying to stunt my growth.”
The waitress laughed. “Okay, then. Two coffees. Did you need some more time to order?”
The detective looked at the woman’s name tag. “Uh, Edith? Could you tell me what kind of pie I saw in that display case when we walked in?”
“That would be lemon meringue,” Edith said. “Baked this morning.”
The detective looked at his daughter. Her eyes were wide and she nodded her head.
“We’re going to think on it a bit.”
The kid sighed as Edith headed back behind the counter. “What’s there to think about? It’s lemon meringue.”
The detective took a pack of Dominions out of his coat pocket. “Hold on, partner.” He leaned back and lit one. A wreath of blue-green maple leaves circled the cigarette above his knuckle. “First, let’s play a game.”
The kid rolled her eyes.
“I want you to look around this restaurant and tell me one interesting thing about every person in it. If you can do that, you can have a piece of pie. Deal?”
She scanned the room. It was early still, and quiet. She counted six customers. Before she could agree to the terms, the waitress returned with their coffee.
The kid tilted her head. “Does that include her?”
The detective nodded.
“Okay,” the kid said. “I can tell you that her name isn’t really ‘Edith.’”
The waitress froze. A white ceramic cup steamed in each hand.
“It’s not?”
“Uh, no. It’s not,” the woman confirmed. She smiled a baffled smile and set the cups down on the table. “My real name’s Linda. I forgot my name tag today, and the owner gets mad if we don’t wear one.”
“How did you know?” the detective asked his daughter.
“I came here once before. With Rosie.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Edith — the real Edith — was our waitress.”
“Well, now that my secret’s out,” the waitress said, “have you folks made a decision about that pie?”
The kid poured sugar into her cup. “Still thinking on it, Linda.”