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“What were you looking for?”
“I had some directions drawn for me on a map. I must have taken a wrong turn. I tried to turn back when I realized my mistake, but there was nowhere for me to make a U-turn.”
That was semi-truthful, at least.
I’m bursting with questions, of course, but I realize I have to be very careful. I’m glad I don’t have anything linking me to the newspaper in my purse. I never do.
“Would you like me to call whoever it was you were looking for?”
“Uh no. They weren’t expecting me anyway. I was just looking at some property belonging to my aunt out here, but it’s not important.”
What I meant to say is ‘I can stay here awhile longer to snoop around, if it’s OK with you’. I sink back into the pillows and attempt to look woozy – which is not completely an act.
Jeffrey pours some hot water into the thermos flask and hands it to me. “Here, drink this.”
I take it, grateful for some fluids. Any fluids.
“I’ll bring you some food,” he says. “What would you like?”
I would like to meet Ethan Greene, if I may, thank you very much.
“Um, whatever you have would be nice.”
“Some bacon, eggs, sausages and toast?”
Ah, a man who understands my healthy appetites. My stomach suddenly lets out a rumble.
“Yes, please.”
I make sure that he exits the bedroom before I attempt to get out of bed. So much to do. Where do I begin? I swing my legs over the side, and realize that I’m in some sort of old-fashioned cotton nightgown.
But another giant tsunami of dizziness hits me and I fall back into the bed like a limp doll.
So much for exploring today.
5
It’s two whole days more before I can get up and walk about. I do not insist on seeing a doctor, even though I know it isn’t one of my better decisions. My sleuthing is paramount, my health comes . . . um, not even second, I guess. I might have more than a concussion. I might have intracranial bleeding that is causing intra-tentorial herniation, whatever that means.
But somehow, the possibility of me dying a crushing brain death is not as exciting as being in the same house as . . . possibly . . . David Kinney.
Drat. I have got to get my priorities straight.
Jeffrey feeds me and clothes me with my own clothes from my own suitcase. Apparently, he has climbed into the ravine and retrieved my battered suitcase from my trunk. Eyeing him from top to toe, I fully believe he can slay dragons.
“Um, were you a basketball player in a previous life, Jeffrey?” I ask him.
He smiles, and I can see gap teeth.
I like Jeffrey. He’s soundless and efficient and learned and crisp. But I have been stuck two days here in this room and I have yet to meet his boss.
“Where’s Mr. Greene?” I venture.
“Out of town on business.”
“What does he do?”
“Business.”
Like, duh.
“What kind of business?”
“Mr. Greene has many investments in his portfolio.” Jeffrey clams up, as if they are too numerous and complicated to count. Then, “Now that you are up and about, I should see to getting you safely home, Ms. Tremont.”
Erm, that’s not exactly what I had in plan.
“I don’t actually feel that well,” I say, pretending to sway a little. “I’m not in a hurry anyway. It’s a long way from home and it’s kind of my vacation.”
He raises an eyebrow. “In Kelowna?”
“My aunt – ”
“Ah yes, your aunt.”
I think he full well knows that I don’t have an aunt who owns property out here, and I’m a curiosity seeker like everybody else.
“Mr. Greene will be returning tomorrow,” he says pointedly.
“Would he mind if I were here?”
Jeffrey seems unperturbed. “We have hardly any guests, Ms. Tremont, so your guess on his reaction would be as good as mine.”
“I see. Well, I will try to get better as soon as I can for your sake, Jeffrey.”
“Indeed, Ms. Tremont.” He gives me a look that says ‘You’d better’.
*
As soon as Jeffrey leaves me alone, I scamper out of bed to explore. Jeffrey didn’t say I couldn’t, and so I pad out of the room. There’s a long corridor outside that leads to other rooms, albeit with closed doors, and a stairway at the end that winds downstairs. The corridor walls are decked with gorgeous pieces of art – so gorgeous that I have to stop to savor them for a while.
There are watercolor landscapes. Impressionist-like scenes, only set in modern environs. Still life. There isn’t any particular style but a mélange of styles that seem to harmonize and flow smoothly into one another. But then, I’m not an art critic.
