“Eric, I thought mustards were either mild or hot. I’ll have to come back for the rest of this some other time. Right now Anna Abraham is expecting me to drop into her office in the History Department,” I lied. “Thanks a lot for the stuff on Hesperis. You never let me down.”
“Benny,” he said crossing towards me, “do you want to see a newspaper from 1942 about Japanese advances in New Guinea? I’ve got one here about the death of the Duke of Kent in Australia. It’s right here somewhere. It was in a plane crash; I think it has rosehips in it. I had one with the disappearance of Leslie Howard, but that got used up when I spilled coffee on the term paper of a B student.” I backed out the door. “Hey, Benny, I thought you wanted to learn something about this stuff?”
A few minutes later, I knocked on Anna Abraham’s door in the History Department. For several reasons, I thought it would be nice to see her. The very least of them was that it would correct the lie I’d told Eric while I was trying to get away from his tidal wave of information. I’d just given up knocking on her door when she walked into the corridor from the other end, struggling with an overstuffed briefcase.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she said.
“Cooperman’s the name,” I said, continuing in the same vein. “I’ve come to speak to you on a matter of some delicacy.”
“Serious as that, eh? We’d better go down to the cafeteria, then. I’ve got some time before my next class,” she said. I let Anna lead the way to the elevator. “Nearly called you last night,” I said, “but I was staying up late with a fibbing client.”
“At least she has some imagination. That’s something.”
In the cafeteria, Anna brought a tray of coffee and I cleaned off one of the cluttered white tables. She sat across from me and carefully set down two brimming cups. She caught me looking at her and smiled. I could never get enough of the way Anna looked. There were so many of her, all the different Annas I’d learned to recognize, like the school-marmish one with her dark hair pulled back away from her face, like the spoiled teenager who walked into my office a year ago looking like she’d just fallen off a motorcycle. She now brought me down to earth by giving me a demented cross-eyed grin, then let her eyes and mouth droop like an old bloodhound. That brought me around and I lifted my cup. “What brings you up the mountain, Benny? And so early!”
“I’ve come to check up on that Lord Macauley you’re always quoting. I think you have a weak spot for British aristocracy.”
“Thomas Babington is it? Well, I’ve been nuts about him since I was twelve. You’re too late, too late. You’ll have to settle for the dregs he is pleased to leave behind.”
“I’ll settle.”
“Why are you up here?”
“I’ve just been to see Eric Mailer, upstairs. He was looking at some seeds I found.” I told her about Irma Dowden and the death of her husband and the trail I’d been following all day yesterday.
“Was Eric much help?”
“Eric is a born teacher. He wanted me to learn all about the mustard family. I nearly didn’t get away from there. In another minute he’d have had me rolled up in one of his ancient newspapers and gasping out my last breath in one of his foul-smelling cabinets.”
“Poor baby.”
“This is terrible coffee.”
“It’s not so bad when you have a degree. With a PhD you can hardly taste the difference between this and the real thing.”
“Sorry I introduced the subject. You know education’s my weak spot. I want you to tell me why we can’t go out Friday night.”
“Friday night’s fine. It’s next Friday night that I’m busy. I told you that I’m the maid of honour at my friend Sherry’s wedding. That’s on Saturday. Friday night’s the rehearsal. You can come if you want.”
“Wait a minute. This Sherry, which Sherry is it?”
“The bride’s a old school friend. I can’t let her down.”
“Last name. That’s all I want. Save your excuses.”
“Sherry Forbes.”
“Ha! I thought so! In Grantham, coincidence doesn’t have to have a long arm. Anna, I love you!” I leaned over the table and nearly spilled both of our cups.
“Hey! There goes the last of my dignity, Cooperman!”
“On you, it looks wonderful.”
“Wait until you see it in pink organdy, kid. We’ll look like a page from Vogue of maybe ten years ago. That’s high fashion around here.” Anna checked her watch and wolfed down the first two-thirds of her coffee. “Gotta go, Cooperman. See you on Friday night unless you get a better offer. And I’m serious about the rehearsal next week. Come and see the Forbeses at play.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. All that and pink organdy too! I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“No organdy or orange blossoms at the rehearsal. Control yourself.”
I’d met Anna last year when I ended up working on a case for her father, who could buy and sell half of Grantham and not worry about having an overdraft. His family had made their money in the liquor business, but Jonah, Anna’s father, was more interested in collecting art than in making more money. Anna thought I was trying to rip off her old man. When she decided I wasn’t, she’s let me take her to a movie. That has blossomed into a relationship of sorts. I knew that I only knew about a quarter of what was going on in Anna’s life. She finished off her coffee in one gulp.
“You don’t have to work eighteen hours a day, you know.”
“Yeah, it’s not like marking papers.”
“That’s different. It’s not dangerous for one thing.”
“Neither is reading up on environmental concerns, unless I nod off with a lighted cigarette in my mouth.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re finally paying attention. If we don’t start taking the environment seriously, we’ll have to start scouting for a new planet to spoil. Everybody knows that the waste-disposal companies all get away with murder around here.”
Anna’s eyes were alive with what she was saying. She’d dropped the kidding manner she put on with me. I let her argument sink in, but I wasn’t blind to the contrast of her light skin against her dark hair.
Before I left, I asked Anna to see if she could find out who in the History Department was researching the past of Kinross Disposals. She said she’d try. She was looking terrific this morning. I went back out into the world feeling like a very lucky private investigator.
SEVEN
Ann once tried to explain to me that there is an important thread in American literature that has to do with “the fixer” coming into the community from outside and then moving off into the sunset after the work is done, leaving nothing but an echo behind him: “Who was that masked man?” Maybe Sam Spade and the Lone Ranger are brothers under the skin, but I don’t see how that affects me trying to make an honest buck up here north of the world’s longest undefended frontier. We don’t have that strain of vigilantism in Canada. Dirty Harry’s looking for work in Toronto, putting in time until the streets get meaner. He may not have to wait long, but in the interval, the traditions aren’t the same. Canadians are big consumers of law and order for one thing. Not spitting on the sidewalk or shooting the pigeons in the park is a sensible way to behave, a small enough price to pay for being allowed to stand aside from the mainstream of North American life. Maybe Anna thought I was part of the great American tradition. Maybe she saw a Canadian tradition with me in it. Most likely I was all that was left of her teenage crush on Nancy Drew.