12.

Anne returned to The Blue Peter that evening. She had left Jacqui at her desk, analyzing the humour of Stephen Leacock stories for an English project. Anne had suggested that topic after a satirical line from Nonsense Novels popped into her head.

“It goes something like this,” she had said. “‘Lord Ronald said nothing; he flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse, and rode madly off in all directions.’”

After Anne left the house, Jacqui was still giggling at the theatrical manner with which her mother delivered that line but, by the time Anne arrived at The Blue Peter, the humour of it all had vanished from her mind and, strangely, she felt like a twelve-year-old sitting with the “big people,” even though all of those who gathered around the large, round-tabled booth were friends or long-time acquaintances.

Ben Solomon and his wife Sarah had been first to arrive. Brenda Malone and her husband, Dashiell, Dit’s brother, came in with Urban Nolan and Eli Seares, two eccentric bachelors who made up what Anne called the “geek squad” at Malone Electronics. Mary Anne MacAdam hovered over the group and popped in and out of conversations between her restaurant duties and staff crises. Anne just curled up in the midst of them all, feet drawn up beneath her on the leather upholstery and a half-empty glass of Cabernet in front of her.

Laughter and chatter swelled and fell away and, during a subdued moment, Mary Anne nudged Anne.

“You seem out of sorts,” she said. “Not feeling well?”

“It’s been one of those days,” Anne said, “and I’m not convinced it’s over yet.” Then she added quietly, “Why are we here anyway? What’s going on?”

“Dit wanted us to meet.”

“But why? What’s up?”

“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say that he has a new friend and wants to show her off. At least, that’s what I hope we’re here for. He needs a serious upgrade to his social life. All work and no play, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmmph,” said Anne.

“Speaking of which…,” Mary Anne said and bent her thumb toward the door.

Dit pushed through the foyer doors. He had strong, kind features, a muscular build, and brown curly hair. He wore dark trousers with a sharp crease and a cream-coloured sweater that showed off his lingering summer tan. A woman walked next to him, her arm linked loosely under his. She wore high heels and a low-cut, peacock blue dress with one shoulder strap. It shimmered under the dim overhead lights. She carried a white knit shawl.

She’s beautiful, Anne thought and straightened up. The sneakers on her feet dangled near the floor. She glanced at Dit. She gave her over-stretched sweater a few subtle tugs to imply some shape, but it had no effect whatsoever.

“She’s gorgeous,” said Ben.

“She’s kinda cute,” said Anne. “I guess,” she added.

Sarah jabbed Ben in the ribs. “You look like an owl,” she said. “Stop staring.” Then Sarah turned to Anne. “Let me know if he starts drooling, and I’ll take him home and lock him in the basement until the next lunar cycle.”

“Of course, you must realize that it’s against the law to lock up a cop,” he said, “…unless it’s Saturday night…and bondage gets your motor running…” Ben quickly shifted into the lyrics of a Steppenwolf song and began to sing softly to Sarah, “head out on that highway…lookin’ for adventure…in whatever comes our way…yeah darlin’ gonna make it happen…take the world in a love embrace…”

Sarah’s face turned red.

“Stop it! Stop it!” she growled under her breath. She forced a smile and at the same time poked Ben sharply under the table.

“What? What!” protested Ben.

Anne laughed. Tears came to her eyes.

“Everyone, this is Gwen Fowler. Gwen, this is Ben ‘Easy Rider’ Solomon and his long, long-suffering wife, Sarah. You know Brenda and Dash. Urban and Eli are my electronics gurus. Mary Anne owns and operates this wonderful establishment and keeps our favourite table reserved, and, next to her, is Anne Brown, fondly named Wilhelmina A. Darby by her parents…”

“The detective?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Anne.

“…but as a detective, she now goes by the name of Billy Darby.”

“You work under a pseudonym?” asked Gwen.

“I do.”

“But why? Wil… Anne’s such a lovely name.”

“I guess the simple answer…if there is one…is I inherited my uncle’s agency after he died last year. His name was Bill Darby. He had a heart attack. It was unexpected. It became awkward to explain to new clients who asked for him that Bill Darby was dead, and that I was taking care of business. Then I’d have to explain who I was and so on. It just became too…awkward…like now.”

“I’m sorry…didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, some people think my name change is as odd as a top-hat on a dinosaur. I won’t name names, but it rhymes with Dit.”

“Rings a bell,” said Dit. “I probably know the guy.”

Anne ignored the comment and went on.

“My birth name was Wilhelmina Anne Darby. It became the endless source of torment in middle school. Later I shortened it to Willy…then Billy. So Billy Darby, the woman detective, was born. End of story.”

“Sorry again.”

“What’s in a name? A rose by any…,” Dit mused.

“You’re no rose, and you’re not Romeo and, as long as you’ve brought up the subject of odd names, let’s look at yours. What kind of name is ‘Dit’ anyway? It doesn’t even have enough letters for a real name.”

“The Malones may be an economical gang, for all that, but they’ve managed to provide me with half the entire Morse code in my good name.”

“Actually,” interrupted Gwen, “‘Dit’ isn’t his real name.”

Anne looked blank. So did Sam and Sarah and Mary Anne.

“I knew that,” said Dashiell with a smirk.

“It’s ‘Diarmuid,’” she said, pronouncing it again more slowly, “DEEar-mut.”

“That’s even more pathetic than Wil-hel-MEE-na,” said Anne. “My condolences. And how did Diarmuid become Dit?” she asked.

An embarrassed grin swept across his face.

“I couldn’t pronounce ‘Diarmuid’ when I was young. “‘Dit’ came out, and ‘Dit’ stuck.”

“And Gwen,” asked Sarah, “how did you uncover this delightful family secret?”

“It was on his wrist bracelet in the hospital. I was one of his caregivers on the spinal trauma ward.”

“So you’re a nurse?”

“I’m a nurse practitioner.” Gwen noticed some blank looks again and added, “It’s two steps above an RN and a giant step below doctor.”

“Impressive. And how long are you visiting?”

Gwen looked questioningly at Dit. He nodded back in return. Then he pulled himself up on his crutches, stood, and smiled.

“The short answer is…forever. Gwen and I are getting married.”