Toby Malleson, director of marketing, walked into Tamsin Longstaff’s office at Prairie Theatre Centre at 10:05 the following morning and closed the door behind him. That was a bad sign. Tamsin sighed.
“What’s happening about Gerald?” Toby asked, standing in front of the closed door, his arms folded. Toby was elegant. He ironed his shirts. Today he was dressed in various shades of cream and taupe with a crimson tie. His head was shaved, he sported a faint, dark stubble, and he was frowning. “His absence was noticed, Tamsin. I’ve got calls and messages from all over wanting to know why he wasn’t there last night.”
Tamsin took off her reading glasses and swivelled her chair around to face him. She was going to have to deal with this, like it or not. “The reviews are okay?”
“Yeah. Well, better than okay. They’ll do. What do I say about Gerald?” Toby was not to be distracted. “Have you talked to the police yet?”
“Sit down, Toby,” Tamsin replied with the calm demeanour of a woman well used to putting out brush fires. In their business, they happened daily, although this one was bigger than usual. She had left the post-show party shortly after midnight and made it back into the office before eight, hoping for news about their missing artistic director. There hadn’t been a word.
“Don’t worry,” she said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “There will be a perfectly good explanation, you’ll see. He’ll show up in time to start rehearsals on Tuesday. He’s bound to.”
“Tuesday?” Toby sat down as instructed, on the other side of Tamsin’s desk. “This is Friday, Tamsin. He’s been gone almost thirty-six hours now and you’re talking Tuesday? He could be dead in a ditch somewhere. Mugged. Maybe he’s had a heart attack and he’s lying in a hospital bed somewhere. Suffering from amnesia.” His voice had risen. Toby had initially studied theatre. He could be a bit of a ham.
Tamsin shook her head. Close up you could tell that she was closer to sixty than forty, although she did a good job of concealing it. She was never seen without lipstick, her hair was a natural-looking brown with highlights, cut in a flattering layered bob, and her nails were perfect scarlet ovals. Her staff sometimes wondered how she managed to type at lightning speed without chipping them, but she did.
“Calm down, Toby, please. And listen. Gerald is probably perfectly safe. He’s just gone away for a few days.”
“Gone away?” Toby sat back, looking puzzled. “At the beginning of the season? You’ve got to be kidding! People want to talk to him about the new play. And the actors for Macbeth will start arriving on the weekend. They’ll all want to speak to him. Where’s he gone to?”
Tamsin wished she hadn’t been awake half the night asking herself the same questions. “I don’t know,” she replied. “And yes, there’s work to do. You’re not the only one picking up the pieces, Toby. We’d all best get on with it.” She put on her glasses again and turned towards her computer.
“Whoa!” Toby snapped. “What do I tell CBC? They’re screaming for an interview. And they’re not the only ones. You’re not calling the police because you know he’s gone away? Did he tell you? Is he on vacation? Taking a few days off before he has to go into the rehearsal hall and direct Budgie in the Scottish play? You’ve spoken to her, right? What’s she got to say about this?”
“It’s Budgie that told me,” Tamsin explained patiently. She rocked back in her chair, giving up any hope of getting back to the grant proposal she was working on. “She says he’s done it before. Taken off like this. Twice, actually. First time he went off to Mexico with a twenty-one-year-old straight out of theatre school. Second time it was a weekend in Muskoka with a marketing intern. Budgie suspects a student from U of M this time. A girl that was in that summer course he taught for them. It’s what he does when he’s under stress, she says. It’s a safety valve. He’ll come back.”
“So that’s what I tell the media? Our AD has taken off to some spot unknown to let off steam with some kid less than half his age before he has to direct a play with his wife in it?” Toby rolled his eyes. “Did you tell the board that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Tamsin replied. “And you’ll keep all that to yourself, thank you.” She looked at Toby over the top of her glasses and thawed a little. “Come on, Toby, you know what to do. Be vague. Make something up. He’s had to go away for personal reasons. Family. Private stuff. Imply that some relative’s dying or something. Stall. It’s no big deal. They’ll all have lost interest by tomorrow.”
“Has anyone tried to get hold of the student?”
“No, we haven’t.” Tamsin didn’t know who the girl was and hadn’t had time to find out. “Look, Toby, I’ve got a meeting at eleven and I’ve got to get this grant done. Do what you have to do.”
“Okay.” Toby pulled himself out of the chair and stepped towards the door. Then he turned. “What if you’re wrong?” he said. “What if Budgie’s got it all wrong? What if he really is in some kind of trouble?”
Tamsin mustered another smile. “Gerald?” she said. “Come on, you know how he is. He always lands on his feet.”
Budgie Torrance opened her eyes and peered at the bedside clock. 11:14. She’d gone out after the show last night, with some of the cast and crew. Late-night Italian food and a couple of drinks, then back to the hotel. Thick drapes kept the room dark and she’d hung the Do Not Disturb sign on her door. She switched on a light, pulled over some extra pillows, reached for her phone, then glanced though her messages. Gerald still hadn’t shown up. There was one from Tamsin. The board was asking awkward questions. Was she sure Gerald was okay? That he’d be back in time to start rehearsals on Tuesday?
Another was from Toby Malleson: “WTF, Budgie, the Free Press and radio stations are asking where G is. What do I say?” Another, from Larry Smith, the caretaker at their condo in Winnipeg, complained that Gerald hadn’t said he was going away. The cats had been meowing loudly so Larry had gone in to check. They were hungry. Gerald hadn’t left food and litter for them. And he hadn’t arranged with Larry to have them fed. That made her swing her legs out of the bed and sit up straight. Gerald might have taken off in a snit, but not take care of his cats? Never.
She padded to the washroom to pee. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t taken off her makeup last night before she fell into bed. She looked like an aging raccoon. She put a coffee pod into the machine and pressed the start button. Had she got it wrong? Was Gerald really in some kind of a fix? She had been so sure. She always knew when Gerald had a new conquest in his sights. She could see him start to preen. Sure sign. Took more trouble than usual over what he wore, brushed his hair a lot, had a certain gleam in his eye. She didn’t mind. She was used to it. It was kind of cute. Funny, almost.
They’d agreed years ago that they would pursue their own amatory interests. It worked for them. She had her own fun. They gave each other some slack. They’d been married close to thirty years and they had each other figured out. The kid from the university (she was pretty sure it was her. She’d watched the two of them together in the kitchen at a party in Thom Dyck’s house a few weeks back, the girl all big-eyed and adoring, him leaning in a bit too close) was no big deal.
The coffee was ready. She went to the little fridge where she kept necessary supplies, found a carton of milk, poured some into her mug and stirred. She took a sip and sat at a small, round table. “Still,” she thought.
She and Gerald had had a row on the phone last weekend, about Macbeth. She hadn’t wanted him to direct it himself. Maybe she shouldn’t have let him know that. But it was true. She’d wanted Nathan Simkin to do it. Budgie was dying to work with him. Nathan was young and would bring some fresh new ideas to the production, she was sure of that. But no, Gerald wanted the job for himself. Same old. It was bad enough that he’d chosen Macbeth, again. Been there, done that. She was itching to have a go at one of those big roles that had been written for and about men. She’d be a great Richard III, but no. Back to the lady, and it was going to be so old hat. He was yammering on about earth tones, organic shapes, all that old crap. She had seen the designs. Lady M in medieval drapes.
“No,” she had retorted. “This will not do.” She’d ranted on about how hackneyed it was, a cliché. She’d actually told him he was stupid. “She’s been married to Macbeth for maybe twenty years?” she’d said. “And in those days girls got married off when they were fourteen.” Budgie was the same age as her husband but she could get away with looking like she was much younger with the right look and some flattering lighting. “She’s still mad about the guy.” At least he’d had the sense to hire that cute Danny Foley to play Macbeth. That would help. But the nun-like headdress wrapped around her head would age her and make it more difficult to convince the audience that she was sexy.
Gerald had gone huffy on her. He did that sometimes. Tried to guilt her out. Muttered about how she didn’t share his vision.
“What vision, Gerald?” she had replied, dripping acid. “You haven’t dreamed up an original concept in years. Maybe you never have.” He’d hung up on her then. She hadn’t cared. She’d have a quiet word with Sadie Williams, the costume designer. Sadie would get it. She was smart. She’d make sure that Budgie looked presentable.
So she hadn’t been concerned about Gerald. Why would she? They’d had worse arguments before, way worse. He’d come around like he always did. But now he’d done a disappearing act. He hadn’t done one of those in years, before they ever came to Manitoba, when the jobs he’d had were much more precarious and life was more stressful. He’d settled comfortably into being AD at Prairie Theatre Centre. His contract was coming up for renewal this year. Was he worried about that? She didn’t know. She hadn’t been around much to be able to pay attention. She’d been away most of the summer, at the Shaw Festival in Ontario, then here, in Regina. She’d been in Winnipeg for a couple of weeks in August, but that was it.
Gerald had never missed the opening of a play at PTC before, far less the one that opened the season. He loved openings, working the crowd, the festive atmosphere, the excitement. Nevertheless, it was possible. He’d have known that Tamsin and Toby would cover for him and she, Budgie, wasn’t around to stop him. But go off and neglect to make sure that Tarquin and Delilah were provided for? That didn’t make sense. He adored those cats. Budgie looked at the bedside clock again. It was now 11:47. Winnipeg was an hour later than Regina. Gerald had been gone a day and a half. Should she call Tamsin and tell her to speak to the police? But what if he really was just off on some stupid dalliance and the press got hold of that? It would cause such an unnecessary scandal. She reached for the hotel phone and pressed the number for room service. She’d order breakfast first and have a shower, then she’d make up her mind.
The sun shone brightly down on Cullen Village. Margo Wishart looked out her window at the silvery lake, shimmering all the way to the horizon. The trees were golden and bronze, the air was still, not a hint of wind with winter on its breath. Not yet. Skeins of geese had been flying west all morning, honking their way towards harvested fields where they would forage all day before coming back to roost at the lakeshore before nightfall. By now, October, there were thousands of them. Someday soon the snow line would reach Cullen Village and they would take off, one big clamouring V after another, heading south. They wouldn’t be back until spring. But not today. Today was glorious. She should phone Sasha Rosenberg and suggest a dog walk. Margo was feeling guilty because she’d taken Roberta Axelsson to the theatre last night and prevailed upon Sasha to dog sit. Sasha had been good about it. “Not a problem,” she had said, taking the dog leash. “Enjoy yourself.”
Margo knew Sasha would have loved to go, but she had needed to make a choice. The invitation she had received was for herself and a guest. Only two tickets, and when she had called the box office to see if she could purchase a third, they were sold out. Opening night of the season, of course they were. She had wanted Roberta to meet the wardrobe staff, so she had made her decision. She reached for her phone. She would invite Sasha for lunch, to make amends.
“No big deal,” said Sasha. “But since you’re offering, how about we go to the café at The Locks? We can take the dogs with us and eat outside.”
Margo was surprised. “They do hot dogs, Sasha.” That was what the café was famous for. Sasha tried, sometimes, to keep kosher.
“And burgers,” Sasha retorted. “Fries.” They did, huge helpings of homemade potato fries. Sweet potato fries too, and poutine, the Canadian classic, fries with cheese curds and gravy. “Lenny can have a sausage.” Lenny was her basset hound. He ate everything. And so it was decided. An hour or so later, they set out in Margo’s car, both dogs in the back, past stubbled fields, dotted with large round hay bales, and regimented rows of sunflowers, their faces turned to the south, following the noonday sun.
The big Red River flowed north from Winnipeg, dammed before it entered the lake at its southernmost point. Locks at the side of the dam allowed boats to navigate their way to lower water and the pool formed at its foot was a great place to catch fish. Boats bobbed on the surface and pelicans gathered to swoop and dive into the water. Margo had brought along her camera. She might get some good shots.
The café at The Locks had been a fixture for decades. Day trippers liked to drive out from the city along the scenic road by the river. They’d stop to eat and walk along the shore to watch the birds and the people fishing. This was a Friday and the kids were in school. It wasn’t too busy. Margo and Sasha sat at a wooden picnic table in the warm fall sun and stuffed themselves on fried food. The dogs had their share too. A walk was definitely required before they headed home.
They strolled to the locks, the dogs on retractable leashes, long enough that they could explore, Margo’s camera slung around her neck. There were a few boats out on the water and some people were fishing on each shore. Big, white pelicans congregated on rocks that jutted out into the pool. Margo opened up her camera.
“Here, give me that leash,” said Sasha, taking it so that Margo’s hands were free. The dogs were ambling along, sniffing out unfamiliar territory. Cars were parked on the roadside at a spot just past the dam. There was a paved pathway and a guard rail. From here you could get a good view. Margo watched a bird swoop in to land on the water near others, roosting on the rocks. She snapped it just as the webbed feet spread out to land and the big, black tipped wings spread to break its flight. She got a good shot.
“Hey, guys!” she heard Sasha say. The dogs had wandered onto a small parking lot, stretching their long leashes. They seemed to be interested in a shiny red Audi. Bob was straining to reach the back of the car and Lenny was at the back fender, trying to get his front paws up on it, sniffing at the trunk. “Leave that!” Sasha pulled on the leashes. They resisted. “Wonder if someone left their catch in their car?”
“Maybe,” said Margo. She was more interested in watching another pelican hovering over the water, as if it was ready to dive.
“Lenny doesn’t go for dead fish.” Sasha was walking towards the dogs, reeling in the leashes. “Unless it’s rotten and he can roll in it.” Margo got the shot she wanted, covered the lens on her camera and walked closer to take Bob’s leash.
“Someone could have been hunting,” she said. “Maybe shot a deer?” This was hunting season. Geese and deer were favourite targets. “Nice car,” she commented. “Looks brand new.” They pulled the dogs back onto the pathway and began to walk back to where Margo’s Honda was parked in front of the café. “We’ve got time to get back to the village and take these two to the dog beach. They need to get some real exercise. Run off those wieners.” A section of beach at Cullen Village had been designated dog friendly. Bob and Lenny could romp along the sand, off leash. Bob loved to swim. Lenny did not.
The rest of that beautiful afternoon unfolded as it should. Towards its end, Sasha walked her hound back home and Margo put on the kettle in her house by the lakeshore. She took out her phone. It wasn’t long past four. There was still time to call Carla Hansen at the theatre. Margo hadn’t seen her to thank her properly for giving her the complimentary tickets after the play ended. Carla answered. She was in the costume room, cutting fabric, she said.
“I’m interrupting you,” said Margo.
“That’s okay,” Carla replied “It’s been a crazy afternoon. The police have been here. Tamsin finally called them. About Gerald not showing up. They’d like us all to stop what we’re doing and let them search everywhere but we can’t. Tamsin ended up yelling at a sergeant. We all heard her. Tamsin never yells. She must be really worried. Anyway, Gerald’s definitely not been seen since he left after the dress rehearsal on Wednesday night. He must have walked out the back, towards the condo. There’s no camera on the back door. Hardly anybody uses it. You know they live in that restored warehouse just across the back lane? Him and Budgie?” Margo didn’t.
“The police aren’t saying anything but a couple of our techies went over there this morning, just to check in with the caretaker and see if he knew anything. He’s been feeding the cats. Can’t believe Gerald went off and left them. Purebred Persians. They’re his babies. He’s nuts about them. Anyway, his car’s gone, so they’re going to look for it. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Budgie bought it for him for his sixtieth. An Audi. It’s red.”
Margo was about to sip her tea. It didn’t make it to her lips.
“I have to go, Carla,” she said, already wondering who to call. “See you Tuesday. And thanks again for the tickets.” Margo hung up and scrolled through her contact list, looking for the number for the RCMP detachment at Fiskar Bay, just north of Cullen Village.
Constable Ken Roach answered her call. Sergeant Gilchrist wasn’t available, he said. What was this about? Margo remembered Constable Roach, from the murder case earlier that year. He was stern, terse and authoritative. She didn’t want to talk to him.
“I’ll call back tomorrow,” she said, and hung up. Then she called Roberta Axelsson. Roberta had Corporal Roxanne Calloway’s cell phone number. She’d been given it by Roxanne in February, when Roxanne was investigating that old murder case out of Fiskar Bay and it had looked as if Roberta might be in danger. Margo would get the number from Roberta and call Roxanne directly. Roxanne was in the RCMP’s Major Crimes Unit. She could take care of this.